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[artficlly]

⤷ call me art .ᐟˎˊ˗ twenty-five, she/her. 18+ content, mdni .ᐟ works have triggering themes or include smut, please proceed with caution. full warning lists on each fic. i don't have a taglist, if you want to be notified when i post updates to series or upload new one-shots please follow @artficlly-archive and turn on post notifications. masterlists linked below.

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[artficlly]

─ house of the evening bloom avatar: the last airbender au

monster hunter!zuko x vampire!courtesan!reader you've spent decades trapped inside the house of the evening bloom, a vampire pleasure house ruled by the cruel lord kage. escape is impossible, but when a warden arrives in ba sing se hunting monsters, instead of running in fear, you see an opportunity. all you have to do is get him into your bed first. ⤷ word count: 22.8k

─ tags 18+ content minors dni: adult zuko, smut, p in v sex, spit kink, spit swallowing, fingers in mouth, finger sucking, mouth covering, faking orgasm, exhibitionism (lowk dubcon?), dirty talk, rough sex, hair pulling, blood drinking, blood drinking as an aphrodisiac, kissing, mention of death, mention of parricide, violence, suicidal!reader, torture, psychological torture, starvation, noncon sex work, noncon vampirism, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of hazing, swearing, mentions of drugs and alcohol, violence, age gap ig, reader is sometimes referred to as 'spider lily', ancient japan inspired setting with some chinese and european influence but set in the atlab world, lmk if i missed anything.

─ authors note this fic is if blue eyed samurai and the witcher had a baby. please let me know if you enjoyed, this took me over two months to write im not even joking. big thank you to @firingstars for helping me workshop the dirty talk and to @pinksplace for reading the first half to reassure me <3 ⤷ main masterlist | follow @artficlly-archive for post notifications

It was said that deep within the Pleasure District lay a garden unlike any other in the Earth Kingdom.

The garden in question was maintained by Lord Kage, the Red Prince of the Pleasure District, and like all great collectors, he was known for his discerning eye. Rumours claimed he spent vast sums in search of the perfect additions to his collection—beautiful blooms, delicate blooms, rare blooms—flowers worthy of being cultivated beneath his care. City-goers whispered that he had agents in every corner of the world, that they tirelessly wandered the streets and marketplaces, the festivals and temple grounds, all in search of the next perfect flower to capture their master’s attention.

Most laughed the stories off as little more than idle gossip or folklore spun to frighten badly behaved children, while others were perceptive enough to change the subject. Lord Kage was wealthy and well-connected enough that no officials ever questioned his unchanging appearance over the decades. He was powerful enough that no magistrate or imperial official dared investigate his affairs. Lord Kage paid his taxes, entertained the right nobles, and kept Ba Sing Se’s elite well supplied with pleasures they could never publicly admit to enjoying.

Despite Lord Kage’s vast wealth, everyone understood that neither riches nor influence could silence the whispers of high society or the common folk. Those whispers spoke of the grand crimson manor tucked between neighbouring pleasure houses at the far end of the Pleasure Mile, with its lantern-lit balconies and silk-draped rooms. They spoke of the flowers that inhabited its halls, none of which ever appeared to wilt. Much like a peach pear, one could savour its sweet flesh and get lost in the ghost stories murmured in the dark over campfires. However, if one wasn’t cautious enough and bit too deeply, they risked chipping a tooth on the pit at its centre, because in Ba Sing Se, everyone knew that wherever there were whispers, there was always a rotten truth at its core.

As a girl, like many others, you had been fascinated by those stories. After lessons, you and your friends would linger at the edge of the Pleasure District, peering down the streets you had been expressly forbidden from entering. You would stand on your tiptoes between the crowds, trying to catch a glimpse of the House of the Evening Bloom. From a distance, it had hardly looked sinister. Just another elegant manor of dark-polished wood and red-painted pillars, with curved, barrel-tiled roofs that glowed red beneath rows of lanterns when dusk settled over the city. You used to dare each other to sneak as closely as possible, to witness those fabled unwilting flowers. Were they truly as beautiful as society claimed, and did they only bloom at night? You had imagined rare orchids hidden behind the shoji, night-blooming jasmine unfurling beneath moonlight, exotic peonies brought from distant corners of the world.

But you’d never once imagined the flowers were girls.

Girls who had once been just as young and foolish as you, girls with painted lips and empty smiles, girls given the names of flowers in place of their own.

Girls who never grew old.

Girls who thirsted for blood.

And above all, you had never imagined that one day Lord Kage’s attention would settle upon you. Or, that over a century later, you would no longer remember the sound of your true name, only the one he had given you. Because what were you, if not just another unwilting flower in the garden of the House of the Evening Bloom?

There was a rumour, floating like a petal in the wind—a whisper passed from flower to flower, that the Blue Spirit had been sighted in Ba Sing Se.

Although none of you were permitted to step outside the confines of the House of the Evening Bloom, lest you be dragged back screaming, you were all keenly aware of the happenings beyond its walls. Men liked to talk in pleasure houses; they would boast over cups of sake or baijiu, eager to impress whichever flower they had chosen to entertain them for the evening. Merchants bragged of their adventures and riches, generals recounted tales of military victories, and government officials often spoke too candidly of politics after enough wine. It made the flowers, and likely every other courtesan lining the Pleasure Mile, remarkably well-informed despite never truly participating in the world they heard so much about.

You and the others received little compensation for your work—silks and jewels, a place to hide from the sun, a steady supply of blood to stave off the gnawing hunger. Gold was meaningless when every coin you earned ultimately found its way back into Lord Kage’s coffers. No, information held far greater value within the House. Over the decades, the flowers had begun trading whispers amongst themselves. A noble's scandal for details of a political appointment, rumours of war bartered for stories of a distant province she would never see again. It was a pathetic sort of currency when viewed from the outside, but one many of you clung to all the same. The gossip symbolised the world beyond the lacquered gates that still existed, a reminder to stay grounded as the time ticked by and the House remained unchanged year after year.

So, when one patron mentioned the Blue Spirit, the flowers listened. When another repeated a similar tale several nights later, you all remembered. When a third swore he had seen the masked hunter himself stalking the lower ring of the ring, the rumour spread through the House like wildfire.

Tales of the Blue Spirit varied depending on who recounted them. Some claimed the Blue Spirit was merely a man. Others insisted he was something far older, a spirit sent to punish creatures that had overstayed their welcome in the mortal realm—and that was why he wore the blue oni mask, to conceal a face beyond comprehension. Entire covens were reportedly wiped out beneath his blades—century-old demons and beasts, powerful enough to command cities and armies, reduced to little more than cautionary tales and ash. One merchant—though thoroughly drunk and petrified—swore that he had witnessed the fabled man emerge from the Foggy Swamp one evening, with the severed head of a Jorōgumo attached at his hip. Because when it came to the Blue Spirit, details changed, but the outcome never did. He brought death to those deemed monstrosities by the mortal world.

He was a Warden—a monster hunter.

Unsurprisingly, the House of the Evening Bloom had grown restless in response to the talk of his presence in Ba Sing Se. What had once been mere whispers suddenly felt tangible enough to taste. The thought of the masked Warden climbing the manor steps, twin blades in hand, should have frightened you.

It certainly frightened Madame Yoru.

The Mother of Blossoms maintained the same cold composure she always had, but you had noticed there was a strain beneath it these days. Courtesans were snapped at for the slightest mistake, servants hurried from room to room with their heads bowed in the hope of not incurring her wrath, and even the most favoured flowers appeared careful not to linger too long in her presence. If Madame Yoru was worried, then perhaps there was some truth to the rumours after all…thatthought had settled over you with a sick sort of clarity, and you had allowed yourself one dangerous thing: hope.

Though, unfortunately, it was difficult to entertain such thoughts with Madame Yoru’s nails currently digging into your jaw. The Mother of Blossoms stood before you in a haze of crimson silk and gold jewellery, her sharply painted lips stretched into a smile that had never quite reached her eyes. She was beautiful and elegant, yet monstrous. Just after you had readied yourself to enter the parlour to begin a night’s work, she had cornered you in the hallway with a particularly murderous look and forced your face up to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes swept over your face with open disapproval.

“You’re becoming a poor investment,” she tutted.

You remained silent—you had learnt there was little point in arguing.

“You were once one of Lord Kage’s favourites,” she continued. “Men crossed the Earth Kingdom itself to spend an evening in your company. Lately, however… you appear determined to waste his generosity.”

The word generosity almost made you laugh the moment it slipped from her tongue. As if sensing your wayward thoughts, Madame Yoru’s grip tightened.

“You mope, you sulk, you spend every free moment hiding away in your rooms as though sorrow were a particularly attractive accessory.” She paused with a sneer, assessing your reaction for any sign of defiance. “Men do not pay for melancholy, Spider Lily. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madame,” you uttered in response.

“Good.” Her thumb brushed across your cheek with mock affection.

“You are wilting, my dear girl.” She murmured, and that callous, predatory smile of hers had returned. “And all of Ba Sing Se knows that the flowers here do not wilt.”

Your gaze lowered as Madame Yoru leaned in closer, breath cold against your ear. “If you fail to earn your keep tonight, then perhaps another few months in the box will remind you to be grateful.”

For a long moment, everything fell silent. The noise that had wafted down from the parlour—chatter, laughter, the shuffle of footsteps and the clink of cups—faded away, replaced by a sudden, piercing ringing that filled your ears as a sob clawed its way up your throat. Absolute, indescribable terror seized you so suddenly, so violently, that a wave of vertigo washed over you. It wasn’t a gentle lapping at your ankles, but a tidal wave—powerful and large enough that the impact knocked the breath from your lungs and caused you to lose your footing, your body being thrown and spun wildly in the imaginary current. If you were still human, you would’ve emptied the contents of your stomach onto the floor. But in that moment, you couldn’t even find the words. Could get a breath past the lump in your throat, not blink away the tears stringing at the corners of your eyes—

No.

No, no, no, no.

You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it, no, you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it again. They wouldn’t send you back, right? You wouldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it—

Madame Yoru had always been frighteningly perceptive when it came to her flowers, and she caught your reaction at once. The widening of your glassy eyes, the visible tremor that rattled through your body as you gaped at her, still speechless, rooted in place and defenceless—

You couldn’t do it. They couldn’t send you back. You couldn’t do it again—

Madame Yoru hummed, satisfied, wearing the look of someone who had found the knife and knew exactly how to twist it. Only when she had satiated herself on watching you come apart into a thousand tiny pieces, did she finally release your jaw.

“Run along, Spider Lily.” She gave your cheek a little pat, though with the ferocity with which she executed it, it felt closer to a slap. “Best find a client before it’s too late.”

It was the sting across your cheek that finally pulled you from your spiralling thoughts. Your feet carried you down the corridor before your mind could catch up, silk whispering around your ankles as much as your own consciousness as you walked.

You couldn’t go back.

The thought repeated itself over and over, drowning out everything else, that tidal wave of panic returning every time you thought you’d wrenched yourself from the waters.

You couldn’t do it again. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back again—

You would smile, let them touch you, and take whatever they desired. You would perform. You would endure every humiliating moment of it if it meant avoiding the alternative. Because all the flowers knew that the House would never dare beat them. A misplaced blow could split skin and damage a face, leaving a mark no amount of powder could fully conceal, and the Red Prince did not tolerate damage to his property. He had perfected other methods of breaking in his flowers and keeping them broken.

You couldn’t go back there, not again—

You forced the thought away before it could fully form and willed your hands to stop shaking. The world around you blurred into crimson silk, polished wood and the warm glow of lantern light as you stumbled forward. You only became fully aware of your surroundings again when the grand doors of the parlour stood open before you. With Madame Yoru’s threat still echoing through your skull, you stepped inside.

The House of the Evening Bloom was designed to impress. The parlour occupied the very heart of the manor, rising through two lavish storeys, with the high ceiling above hidden behind silk banners and hanging lanterns. Black-and-red-painted pillars rose to support balconies that encircled the upper levels, allowing wealthy patrons to observe the entertainment below from private vantage points. Performers played soft melodies from raised platforms while servants drifted through the crowds carrying trays. The air smelt of oudh incense—potent enough to disguise the scent of predators.

At the centre of the room, sat the flowers. The display platform rose in broad tiers, forming a pyramid of embroidered cushions and low-backed seats. From a distance, it resembled a carefully arranged bouquet, every flower positioned to best display her beauty for prospective buyers. To outsiders, the hierarchy likely appeared backwards. The women seated closest to the floor on the lowest tiers of the display belonged to the most sought-after courtesans. They were the favourites; they occupied the lowest rows because they were the easiest to reach. Patrons entering the parlour naturally gravitated towards them first, and those women had spent decades ensuring it remained that way. They laughed loudly, flirted shamelessly, and guarded their positions by tearing one another apart whenever an opportunity presented itself. Many had been in the House long enough that they scarcely remembered life beyond its walls. The higher tiers belonged to everyone else—the timid and overlooked, the freshly broken, the ones men admired from afar but rarely approached. In recent years, you had found yourself preferring the solitude of the top; it was far more peaceful than the dogfight down below, even if the Mother of Blossom’s threat hung around your throat like a noose.

You climbed the platform in silence.

You couldn’t go back.

Layers of crimson silk flowed around your legs, embroidered with golden spider lilies that shimmered in the lantern light. Golden and tortoiseshell ornaments adorned your carefully arranged hair, delicate chains and ivory-carved blossoms brushing your shoulders with every step. Settling onto your cushion, you scanned the room.

You wouldn’t go back.

Below, the evening had already begun. The men laughed over their cups of sake, baijiu and wine. Flowers smiled and entertained, weaving between servants and guards as they pulled clients into private rooms.

The performance was underway.

And as you folded your hands neatly in your lap, and fixed a pleasant smile upon your face, you allowed only one thought to echo through your mind.

You had to be chosen tonight.

After an hour of observing from atop the display, a disturbance near the entrance diverted your attention from the creeping dread that still lingered despite your best efforts. Ordinarily, you would not have cared. The House of the Evening Bloom was never truly quiet. Patrons drifted in and out throughout the evening, servants hurried along, and every so often, a drunken noble would become convinced that his wealth entitled him to more attention than he had paid for. Such disruptions were common enough that they rarely merited more than a fleeting glance from the flowers.

This disturbance, however, carried an alarming scent.

Your attention shifted immediately. The man standing near the entrance looked entirely unlike the usual clientele who frequented the House. There was no silk draped across his shoulders, no expensive rings embellishing his hands, nor the carefully cultivated confidence of a noble accustomed to buying whatever caught his eye. In fact, he looked as though he had spent the past month on the road. Dust stubbornly clung to his boots and the hem of his clothing. A worn pair of dao swords were strapped across his back, with a small saddlebag thrown over his shoulder. His dark hair had fallen loose from whatever effort was made to tie it back, framing a face marked by an old, marbled burn scar that extended across one eye and down his cheek.

Despite his scar, or perhaps because of it, he was handsome. Beautiful, even.

Not in the polished way of wealthy men, but in the manner of a blade that had seen years of use. There was something undeniably striking about him, from the broad set of his shoulders to the strong, calloused hands hanging at his sides. He possessed the lean, powerful build of someone accustomed to surviving by skill rather than privilege, a man who carried every possession he owned upon his back and trusted only his swords.

Most importantly, he smelt… dangerous.

It was faint beneath the oudh incense and lotus perfume that saturated the parlour, hidden beneath road dust, sweat, and woodsmoke, yet your senses recognised it immediately. Judging by the way heads began to turn throughout the room, you were not the only one. One by one, the flowers detected it, then the guards, then the servants. The mortal patrons remained blissfully unaware, continuing their conversations and laughter without interruption, oblivious to the silent ripple that had spread through the House of the Evening Bloom. Yet beneath the music and chortling, an unspoken understanding had settled over every undead creature present.

A Warden had entered the room.

Beneath the aroma of travel and humanity, something far more familiar lingered—the scent of death. Not the rich scent of fresh bloodshed, nor the stale odour of a battlefield long abandoned. It was something deeper than that. Something that seemed to soak itself into a person over the years, settling deep beneath the skin until it became impossible to wash away. You had encountered Wardens before; every flower in the House had. No matter how often they bathed, no matter how expensive the oils and balms they wore or how carefully they disguised themselves amongst ordinary travellers, they all carried that same scent eventually. It clung to them like a second shadow, marking them as surely as any uniform ever could. And this Waren was especially ripe with it.

“You’re not welcome here, friend.” Your gaze shifted towards the entrance, where two guards had stepped into his path before he could properly pass through the threshold into the parlour. “And Lord Kage isn’t receiving visitors tonight.”

A subtle tension settled across the room. The servants continued their work, carrying trays between tables. The musicians played on without interruption. Flowers laughed at jokes they had likely heard a hundred times before and poured sake for patrons eager to believe themselves charming. The performance continued, yet beneath it all, every eye remained fixed upon the stranger standing in the doorway.

It was never a good omen when a Warden appeared at the House of the Evening Bloom. Over the decades, dozens had attempted to destroy it—Lord Kage, being an impossibly old vampire, had naturally amassed some enemies along the way. Some foes came seeking glory; others sought coin. A handful simply believed themselves righteous and powerful enough to purge the Red Prince and his coven from the mortal realm. Most had perished before reaching the upper floors. But what unsettled you was not that this Warden had come—it was how causally he had done so. There was no attempt at stealth, no disguise beyond ordinary clothing, no effort to conceal the weapons strapped to his back or the purpose that seemed to radiate from him. He stood before the guards with calm patience, despite being a man willingly walking into a den of creatures powerful enough to reduce entire districts of the city to bloodless husks. His stoic expression never wavered. If he felt fear, he hid it remarkably well.

“I have business with him,” the stranger’s voice carried easily through the room, rough from disuse. His tone suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed, or perhaps even feared. Not because he demanded it, but because few people were foolish enough to argue with him once he had spoken.

“Business,” one of the guards scoffed. “What business?”

“Personal.”

The guards exchanged a look. “You’re not with the Crimson Ward.”

At that, the stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, “No.”

Several flowers perked up immediately—you weren’t the only one listening. The Crimson Ward were the only Wardens authorised to enter the House and sample its goods without scrutiny. Lord Kage employed and paid them generously to deal with troublesome do-gooders and fellow, overzealous Wardens alike. Most of the Crimson Ward had long since discovered that guarding a wealthy vampire lord was significantly easier and more profitable than hunting one. You knew for certain that the scarred man was not among their number; you would have remembered him otherwise.

“Then Lord Kage won’t see you.”

“He will.” The certainty in his voice made the guards hesitate. There was no arrogance in his tone, no bluster. He sounded as if he were merely stating a fact—whatever this man had come here for, he was completely convinced he would get it.

You found yourself leaning forward slightly.

Eventually, one of the guards sighed. That alone released some of the pressure rising in the room. “Your name?”

The Warden hesitated for half a breath. “Lee.”

A lie. You had spent a century listening to people deceive one another. The falsehood was obvious. Apparently, the guards recognised it as well. Their expressions soured, but after a moment of consideration, they stepped aside.

“We’ll send word.” There was no kindness in their tone, rather something closer to a snarl. “Indulge a little in the goods, won’t you? It’ll be some hours before Lord Kage can see you.”

Unbothered, the stranger inclined his head and entered, posting himself near one of the pillars at the entrance, appearing entirely unmoved and uninterested by the dazzling display of women before him. The reaction from the lower tiers was immediate—Peony was first from her seat, moving with the effortless confidence that had made her one of the House’s most sought-after flowers. Her crimson robes swept across the floor as she approached him with a smile that had ruined countless men.

“You’re certainly causing a stir,” she purred, a hand stroking down his dusty outershirt. You could only find yourself surprised that she had lowered her dignity enough even to consider looking at dirt, let alone touching it. The Warden looked at her politely enough, clearing his throat as he stepped away from her touch.

Undeterred, Peony continued. “If Lord Kage is occupied, perhaps I could help pass the time?”

“I’ll wait.” The answer arrived so quickly and with such finality that a small crease appeared between Peony’s brows.

Nearby, Orchid stifled a laugh, and moments later, she tried her own approach, only to receive a similarly disinterested response. Camellia followed shortly after. Then Jasmine. You watched the rotating exchange unfold with growing fascination. None of them managed to hold his attention for long, and the rejection irritated the lower tiers considerably. The stranger answered their questions cordially, offered little in return, and continued to scan the room. That, more than anything else, confirmed your suspicions.

While the flowers vied for his attention—the looks they exchanged were nothing less than feral, like a street dog guarding its next meal—his gaze continued to drift across the room. He studied the exits, the balconies, the guards stationed throughout the parlour, and the patrons occupying the surrounding tables, cataloguing each detail unabashedly. A Warden without question, a dangerous one at that. Perhaps—if you dared to consider it—an opportunity. The thought arrived unexpectedly, carrying all the recklessness that hope often brought. You should have dismissed it; any rational person would have. Yet before you could reconsider, before you could remind yourself of all the reasons why such an idea was foolish, you found yourself rising from your seat.

The movement immediately drew attention. Conversations faltered, and several nearby flowers turned to stare. Regular visitors to the House of the Evening Bloom had long since learned that Spider Lily rarely descended from the upper tiers to hunt. In recent years, you had become something of a fixture there, content to remain beyond reach. Most men admired you from afar, too intimidated by your melancholy to ever approach. The fact that you were moving now was shocking enough to silence an entire section of the parlour. You ignored them—ignoring people had become a particular skill you’d developed, along with making a man finish before he even had a chance to stick his cock inside of you. Gathering your skirts, you descended the platform. Whispers rippled down the display in your wake, but none were bold enough to stop you.

The soft rustling of silk followed every step. Gold and tortoiseshell ornaments chimed softly amidst your hair. Around you, conversations resumed in hesitant murmurs, though more than a few eyes continued to track your progress down the tiers. Your gaze never left the stranger, and as he noticed the whispers, he looked upwards—towards the display, towards you.

The change was immediate.

You’d spent decades studying people, studying men, learning the subtle shifts in expression and posture that revealed what words often concealed. You recognised it the moment it happened, the instant his attention focused on you and the room simply… disappeared from his awareness. The guards, the flowers, the patrons, the exits he had been so carefully cataloguing—all of it vanished, and all his eyes could do was remain fixed upon you.

Even from across the parlour, you watched as he inhaled sharply, a breath that seemed to shudder in his chest as he took you in entirely. His shoulders stiffened imperceptibly before relaxing again, and for the first time since entering the House, he looked almost uncertain about what to do with himself. It was almost amusing. Peony had practically draped herself across him and earned little more than polite indifference, yet now he stared as though he had forgotten what he was saying… or thinking, or perhaps where he even was.

You continued your descent, neither of you looking away. By the time your feet touched the parlour floor, the whole room felt strangely distant. Peony gave you a miffed expression that implied she had every intention of exchanging words with you once dawn broke. But none of it mattered—by the time you reached the Warden, your course had already been set.

Lord Kage rarely granted audiences to unknown visitors, particularly Wardens. Any meeting required trust, and trust within the House was established through a simple test. A Warden intending to kill the Red Prince rarely spent an evening in the company of one of his flowers. Those willing to drink sake, share a bed and permit themselves to be fed upon were generally considered safe enough to entertain—at least long enough to determine whether they posed a genuine threat.

You circled the stranger in a slow, lazy loop, close enough to smell the road dust and steel, close enough to confirm that beneath the scent of death lingered something warmer.

Human. He was entirely human.

Your gaze flicked briefly to the burn scar before returning to his eyes, observing how, for the first time since he entered the House, a sliver of emotion leaked through his stoic expression, his brows twitching ever-so-slightly.

“You smell of death, Warden.” You hummed, not even offering him a smile. “You need a bath.”

It wasn’t a request; the words left your mouth before you could reconsider them. Turning, you began walking towards your private room without waiting to see if he followed.

You already knew he would.

And sure enough, moments later, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you as the House of the Evening Bloom watched in stunned silence.

You closed the shoji behind you, shutting out the noise of the parlour echoing down the corridor. Your private entertaining room was mostly quiet, with only faint sounds from neighbouring rooms and the servants' corridor seeping through the walls. Like everything in the House of the Evening Bloom, the space was crafted for beauty. Tatami covered the floor, and silk wall hangings featuring cranes and plum blossoms decorated the walls. Embroidered cushions surrounded a low, polished table near the entrance, while a raised sleeping platform at the back was draped with sheer red silk curtains. Twisted wood carved into flowering branches outlined the edges. It was less of a bed and more of a stage upon which Lord Kage’s prized flowers were expected to bloom.

It was a quiet, feminine gasp that drew your attention, your head twisting fast enough that the dangling accessories in your hair clinked together. Beside the Warden stood a servant girl, a tray clasped to her chest. She was cowering in place, clearly startled as she had just bolted upright from her previous position seated at the low table. The Warden did not appear particularly surprised or bothered by her presence. He dumped the worn saddlebag that had been slung over his shoulder haphazardly at her feet, along with his dao swords. They landed heavily enough that the girl jolted—the poor thing looked as though she had seen a ghost. You suppressed a smile.

She was probably no older than seventeen when she was turned, maybe nineteen at most. Like most servants working for the House, her role didn't tell the whole story. Any patron who took a moment to look at the servants would see that everyone in the manor was unusually beautiful. In truth, she was a fledgling, a flower in training. Just another one of the many unfortunate souls still undergoing the long and often brutal process required before Lord Kage deemed them suitable for receiving clients—there was more to being a flower than simply perfecting the arts of pleasure. Newly turned vampires were dangerous creatures. Their hunger ruled them completely, and few possessed the restraint necessary to feed without killing. Before they could be trusted with patrons, they were subjected to years of training, punishment and correction until they learned precisely how much blood to take and when to stop. Lord Kage liked to call the experience of laying with a vampire a little death—ecstasy from the orgasm, but also the adrenaline of sacrificing the body to be fed on, with the trust that the taker would stop before the afterlife came knocking.

When Lord Kage or Madame Yoru weren’t tormenting the fledglings, it was the other flower’s turn to sink their fangs in. Perhaps that was why you’d become soft over the years, offering the fledglings some reprieve by letting them hide in your rooms. You’d once been the golden girl of the House of the Evening Bloom, the type to lash out, the one who ruled the bottom of the display like Peony or Orchid. You’d allowed them to turn you into the monster they wanted you to be. You weren’t sure what had been the turning point in your attitude—maybe the day you realised none of it had ever mattered, that you’d lived a fuller and freer life in the few decades you’d spent as a mortal than in any of the centuries you’d spent as an immortal. As a result, you had rarely entertained guests in recent years. Most evenings, the fledglings could slip into your room under the pretence of cleaning or preparing you for the night, stealing a few precious moments of peace away from the endless demands of the House.

Judging by this one’s expression, however, she had not expected her moment of peace to end so abruptly—particularly not with a Warden. You simply inclined your head at the girl, and she was quick to rush to your side, practically quivering behind you. You squared your shoulders, and with a practised smile, you turned to face your guest.

“Are you a sake or a baijiu man?” You inquired.

The question caught him slightly off guard. You got the impression that, despite his self-assurance, he wasn’t the type to frequent brothels. Now, out of the parlour and fully under the weight of your attention, you wondered if he expected you to pounce on him then and there? Or maybe he simply didn’t appreciate the art of building tension.

“Tea is fine.”

You arched a brow. Most men requested alcohol before anything else; it gave them the sense that they were more witty and important than they actually were. It gave them the confidence to perform under the scrutiny of an experienced, beautiful woman—or maybe simply the guts to let you plunge your fangs deep into their neck.

“What type?”

“Jasmine.”

That surprised you more than it should have; the answer felt strangely domestic coming from a man who smelled so strongly of bloodshed. Nonetheless, you masked your disbelief with a perfectly composed smile, inclining your head. You waited for the servant girl to move, but quickly realised she was still cowering behind you. Your gaze slowly shifted towards her as you glanced over your shoulder expectantly.

“You heard him, Petal. Have the kitchens prepare tea, and ask the boys to bring up water for a bath and a change of clothing—these are filthy.” You gave the Warden a pointed look, and he huffed in response.

The girl blinked.

“Oh. Yes, Miss,” she replied, bowing so swiftly that she almost lost her balance.

The Warden chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand along his sharp jaw, watching as she vanished through the shoji. “I thought the point of these places was to get your patrons undressed, not dress them up?”

You clasped your hands together, slinking forward with slow, graceful steps.

“It is,” you hummed, coming to a stop before him. “Doesn’t mean I can’t treat you a little, hm? Can’t have you wandering back onto the street in those, the Pleasure Mile will think we serve any ruffian who comes knocking at the door.”

“So, it’s all about appearances and money then?” He asked, his voice lowered now that you had drawn closer. His amber eyes surveyed your every move. “Eliteism… it runs rich with you vampires, doesn’t it?”

You grinned wide enough to show your fangs, testing him with your next words. “It isn’t always about money. You’re not only here because of the mercy of my master, but also on the account of your trade. You can pay in other ways if you have skills deemed useful enough—that is what the Crimson Ward does.”

He scoffed at that. It didn’t take a genius to understand he didn’t think favourably of his kin, likely taking issue with the fact that the Wardens had taken the easy route out by serving the Red Prince rather than killing him. His tongue darted out as he wet his bottom lip, his eyes trailing down the expanse of your silk robes, catching on each embroidered detail.

“I take it they call you Spider Lily?” He asked, the subtle irritation in his expression neutralising. “They’re embroidered on your robes.”

“Yes, very perceptive of you,” you dipped your head. “And what do they call you?”

“Lee.”

The lie arrived quickly this time, and you gave him a sly look. “Your real name, I mean.”

The Warden looked mildly inconvenienced—as if debating feeding you another lie was worth the gamble. A reluctant sort of resignation settled across his features as he must have decided you were far too perceptive to fool.

“It’s Zuko.”

“Zuko,” you drawled, testing the sound and taste of it on your tongue. “It suits you, it is handsome sounding.”

Stoic as ever, he didn’t so much as blink at your praise.

“What is yours?”

A laugh escaped you before you could control yourself, a palm flying to cover your mouth.

“My name?” You giggled. “Spirits—if you had asked me several decades ago, I might have had an answer.”

You twisted your wrist, your hand gesturing as if flicking the thought away. “In truth, I don’t even remember anymore.”

The lie slipped easily from your tongue, and if he didn’t believe you, he didn’t let it show. With a sigh, you felt the fleeting amusement drain from your body; instead, a quiet intensity settled as you met Zuko’s eyes.

“When they turned me into one of them, they remade me,” you uttered. “The girl I was before is dead. She has to be dead, because she never could have survived this place or these people. So I killed her, I tore her apart until she no longer existed. So understand when I say that even though I may smile like her, and speak in her voice, and wear her skin, inside I am something monstrous—”

You cut yourself off as the shoji slid open, servants flooding into the room. The serious look that had taken command of your features dissolved as you smiled in that artful way you had mastered, ushering in the two young men carrying a large, wooden bathing tub. More followed, emptying steaming buckets of water into the tub before retreating. When you glanced back at Zuko, he remained rooted to the spot. You could have sworn there was a crack in his stoic composure. Perhaps your eyes were simply fooled by the lantern light, but for a fleeting moment, as he watched your performance, a look of pity crossed his features.

By the time the servant girl re-entered, carrying a tray with jasmine tea carefully balanced in her hands, the bath was filled, and the other servants had excused themselves with quick bows. You watched as she placed the teapot and cups on the low table before stepping back with a bow of her own. However, unlike the others, she didn’t leave. She lingered, if only for a moment—just long enough to fully draw your attention. When you looked at her, meeting her gaze with the full weight of your eyes, she immediately lowered her eyes. Still, she remained in place, as though she had something she desperately wished to say.

“Run along now, Petal. You wouldn’t want the Madame to catch you gawking.”

The girl’s spine straightened, startled as though she had been caught stealing. Colour rushed to her cheeks, and she immediately dipped into a hurried bow. “Y-yes, Miss Spider Lily.”

She turned towards the door and made it all of about two steps before stopping in her tracks.

Your brow furrowed, “Petal?”

The servant girl hesitated, fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeves. The inner struggle she faced was evident on her face—initially, fear reigned. She took a few more steps until concern clouded her features, and the guilt weighing on her conscience eventually triumphed. Spinning around, she blurted out the words, probably before she had a chance to think better of them.

“Miss Spider Lily, be warned! I overheard the guards and Madame Yoru, they’ll be watching through the hole in the wall—!”

The words died abruptly on her tongue, and her eyes darted towards Zuko. Only then did she seem to remember that the Warden was still present, and mortification flooded her expression.

Between the private rooms, there was a narrow, dark corridor. It was intended solely for servants to move discreetly through the House. It saved the fledglings from weaving around temperamental flowers and clientele who often reached a point of blind lust that they would fuck anything that breathed. But it was not only a safety measure to protect patrons from the fledglings and their uncontrollable thirst, as it also served as an observation point. Each private room was not as private as one might think, as each one had a concealed hole somewhere within. It wasn’t a large hole, just large enough for one to hold a single eye up to the gap and spy without being noticed. One of Madame Yoru’s favourite activities was slipping into the hidden corridor, sliding open the shutter and checking that the flower within was blossoming to expectations.

“Oh,” you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Oh, dear.”

The poor girl looked ready to throw herself from the balcony. Crossing the room towards her, you reached out and gently cupped her cheek. “Thank you, sweet girl.”

You knew, deep down, she was only trying to do you a favour, out of whatever kindness was still left within her undead heart, even if she were simply stating the obvious. The tension left her shoulders immediately at your reassurance. Her gaze lifted to yours, and the look she gave you landed twisted and uncomfortable in your chest. You had seen it before, in Petal, in countless servants before her. An unspoken attachment formed between frightened young women trapped beneath the same roof. Perhaps it was because you listened when others didn’t. Perhaps it was because you remembered what it felt like to be new here and how easy it was to become cruel. Whatever the reason, Petal had attached herself to you years ago. You felt sorry for her, sorry for all of them—the girls who came before, the girls who would come after—each one believing themselves special enough to escape the fate waiting for them.

Your thumb brushed her cheek once. “Hush now, and go before you are missed.”

The girl nodded, and this time she obeyed. The shoji slid shut behind her, leaving you alone with the Warden. His interest seemed piqued by the unfolding events, and he watched expectantly as you let out a shuddering breath, silence settling over the room. For a breath, your thoughts drifted. You hoped, no, maybe you even prayed to the Spirits that no meddling ears had heard the girls' outburst. The House of the Evening Bloom was a dangerous place for those at the bottom of the pecking order. The slightest indication of betrayal or spilling House secrets in front of a client, a mysterious Warden no less… she would be doomed to the box.

A creeping sensation snaked over your skin—cold. So very cold, and dark… and quiet. It had been so quiet, so quiet that your own thoughts had sounded like the tolling of a bell against your skull. And your legs, oh your legs and your back, how they had ached and ached. The gnawing hunger had ached too, until the scent of iron and fear all blended into one, and you would press your lips against the tiny holes and scream and scream and beg—

The Warden cleared his throat.

“From what I have gathered, I won’t be able to meet your master until I lie with you and allow you to feed from me?”

His voice startled you enough that you realised that for a fleeting moment, you had allowed your mask to slip. Nevertheless, he was straight to the point, and you found yourself liking that. He certainly didn’t seem eager to dig into whatever haunted you. You shook off whatever strange, maternal feeling that had overtook you and spiralled into despair. You turned away, crossing the tatami towards the bathing tub, leaving those terrible thoughts far behind. Steam curled lazily from the water’s surface, filling the room with its warmth. You perched yourself lightly upon the wooden edge. While trailing your fingers through the water, you considered the question.

“You are correct,” the corners of your mouth faintly lifted. “All Wardens who pass through our doors must face this test.”

An empty reflection stared back at you as you disturbed the surface, ripples breaking up the shimmering surface.

“If it reassures you, being fed upon is not painful—most patrons become rather fond of it. It heightens the feelings of pleasure during sex; some say it’s the best way to experience orgasm.” You glanced up at him, catching the tail end of his eyes narrowing, as though he were attempting to determine whether you were mocking him. You held his gaze, expectant. He crept closer as he replied.

“What I have heard is that it is addictive. That all those merchants and noblemen out there are no better than those who frequent opium dens.”

His hand vaguely motioned back in the direction of the parlour, and your head tilted in thought.

“Well, yes. That has been said too. It’s a biological thing, I imagine, to make our prey relax. Some find themselves feeling a little lethargic afterwards, depending upon how much blood is taken. Is it not said that the calmer the animal at slaughter, the better the meat?”

The Warden didn’t appear to like that answer, a scowl hanging from his lips as you laughed airily. You pulled your fingers out of the water, then gave them a quick shake to get rid of the droplets.

“Part of our hunt is to become… irresistible,” you reminded him.

Then, apparent that he had nothing more to say, and having allowed the silence to linger just long enough, enough that it rattled you a little—silence bothered you now, much like the dark, it came with the taste of iron—you spoke a single word, regaining control of your own simmering sanity.

“Strip.”

Going off your prior assumptions that the Warden wasn’t one to frequent such places, you had anticipated resistance from him. A snarky remark, perhaps? He seemed fond of those. A challenge, even? At the very least, a flicker of hesitation? Rather, Zuko merely held your gaze before reaching for the ties of his outer shirt. There was a practical, matter-of-fact element to his movements, as though removing one’s clothes—in front of a probable enemy at that—was no different than sharpening a blade or cleaning mud from a pair of boots. Most men who entered your chambers either treated the act as a performance or approached it with nervous anticipation. Instead, he shrugged off the first layer, dumping it atop his saddle bag. Beneath it was a lighter layer, old, stubborn stains soaked into the fabric. Old blood, a mixture of his and others, dirt, sweat, rain… you caught it all in a single whiff. It certainly painted the picture of a man who lived one contract to the next. You watched silently as he grasped the collar, tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. And as you had expected, bare skin revealed all. There was obvious strength in his build, powerful arms and broad shoulders shaped by years of repetition—training, battle, survival. Your eyes drifted down his sculpted chest, lingering on the scars that marked portions of his skin. A rather large impact branded his midriff, similar in severity to the mark on his face, and joining it was a collection of scratches and gashes. Some were faded, nearly white with age, while others remained fresh. You wondered briefly how many creatures had left their mark upon him before he had buried a blade in their hearts.

You were so intrigued by the thought, in fact, that it took you a delayed second to realise that during your pondering, he had already loosened the tie of his pants. Before you had the mind to relish in the reveal, to coax or tease, to enjoy the drawn-out tension of it all, he was already standing completely naked before you. Your eyes drifted down, following the trail of coarse hair to where his cock hung between his muscular thighs. Larger than most, you would give him that—but—did he know how to use it? That was the real question. You found yourself studying him longer than necessary, long enough that he noticed. One dark eyebrow lifted as he watched you expectantly in return. The silent question amused you enough that your lips tugged into a smirk, and from your position perched on the edge of the tub, you motioned towards the steaming water.

“You’ll do.” You teased, which earned the smallest twitch of irritation from him—you considered that a victory. “Get in.”

Without protest, he stepped towards the bath. Steam curled around him as he lowered himself into the wooden tub, water sloshing softly against the sides. You grasped a washcloth, soaking it in the rising water as he settled himself. As he leaned back, sighing through his nose and resting his arms on either side of the tub, some of the tension left his posture. Though not all of it—even at rest, he carried the impression of a drawn bowstring. His amber eyes lifted through the steam to watch as you wrung out the rag. The scent of cypress soap mingled with his musk of death as you placed the cloth against his shoulder and began working away the grime accumulated from weeks on the road. Zuko seemed content to sit in the silence that had fallen between you, leaving only the occasional splash of water as you worked from one shoulder to the other, alternating between soaking and wringing out the cloth.

With a splayed hand, you leaned closer, the washcloth sweeping across his chest, past the line of the water to his sculpted abdomen. You were close now, close enough that your breath fanned across his cheek, close enough that the sleeves of your robes were soaked as your fingers paused just above his groin—

Zuko’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and your eyes snapped to his neck.

His blood smelled delicious.

You could sense it now that you were inches away, the subtle thrum of his heartbeat, the blood pumping through his veins… how many days had it been since you had a full meal? You hadn’t thought you were that hungry, but now, faced with his neck right there, you were ravenous—

“You don’t seem to be afraid of me.”

His observation startled you out of whatever bloodlust-induced trance you had found yourself in, your hands immediately finding his thigh as you swept the washcloth down his leg. You glanced up at him, only to find he had been watching your every movement intently.

“Should I be?” You asked, innocently.

His expression remained unreadable.

“No, I’m here to kill the Red Prince, and anyone who stands in my way.” His husky voice made you go unnaturally still for a beat. “If you stand aside, I will show you mercy.”

If he had expected your reaction to be more instinctual or guttural to his reveal of intentions, something more reasonable to such a threat, he didn’t show it. His heart remained beating steadily, his breath even. You slowly straightened your spine and looked down at him. A smile pulled faintly at the corner of your mouth, which then surfaced into a giggle.

Mercy.

If only he understood what mercy looked like to someone in your position.

“You’re rather blunt, aren’t you?” You murmured, the giggle still on your breath. As if anyone within the House of the Evening Bloom was not aware of his intentions. A Warden simply didn’t just show up to enjoy the goods—no, there was one of two reasons: one, to join the Crimson Ward, or two, to kill you all. “I can’t tell if you’re brave, or simply a fool.”

“Hmf,” the sound he made might have been a sign of amusement or annoyance. With him, it was difficult to tell.

The conversation lapsed again as you worked the washcloth down his arm. Water glistened against his skin, tracing the old scars and faded marks. There were more of them than you had initially realised, smaller nicks that hadn’t been immediately obvious in the low light. Your eyes eventually drifted upward, towards the awful scar encircling his left eye. Without really thinking, you reached forward. A single, damp finger trailed a wet line down the warped flesh.

“How did you get this—”

His reaction was immediate, his whole body flinching as his hand shot up, water splashing as he closed his grip around your wrist. You grasped the edge of the tub harder with your other hand, steadying yourself as you teetered from the sudden motion.

“My father had…” His head turned to face you, his mouth opening as he ran his tongue over his teeth, and then slowly released his hold. “...interesting ideas around how to best punish his children.”

The answer caught you off guard—you had expected something far more heroic, some grand tale of his journeys as a Warden. But as you had come to understand, it appeared Zuko was not one for boasts. You twisted your hand where it was still loosely encircled in his grip, pulling his arm towards you as you placed his palm face up in your lap.

“He did that to you while you were a child in his care?” You asked, head dipping as you focused on his hand. You swept the soapy washcloth down his forearm to his wrist, then across his palm, lacing your fingers with his as you worked the suds between each digit.

The thought of a parent doing such a thing to their child felt deeply wrong. The memory of your own father had faded over time, but what remained was gentle. A hand resting atop your head, ruffling your hair. Laughter around the dinner table. The sensation of being carried to bed, the feeling of safety as you were tucked under the blanket. Those were from earlier on, but the older you had grown, the murkier those happy memories became. You supposed your father had hurt you once, too. Not in a physical manner but rather… expectations that had crushed parts of your soul. Expectations that had strained and bittered your relationship. As you massaged the mound of his thumb, pushing your soft digits against the calluses of his palm, he spoke up once more.

“Does that surprise you?” He asked quietly, though there was thickness to his voice, like he was on the edge of letting a groan slip out. “That some of the worst monsters out there are human?”

Your eyes flickered upward, your fingers continuing to massage down his forearm to the crease of his elbow. You realised how beautiful his eyes were in the low light, like molten honey. His pupils dilated as he awaited your reply, the weight of his full attention solely resting on you. You had been human once. So had Peony, Orchid and the other flowers, Madame Yoru, too, and even Lord Kage himself. You didn’t know at which point you had slipped between human and monster, or if the monster had been within you all along. Maybe that was why all those who remained in the House of the Evening Bloom became the way they did in the end—hungry, spiteful, depraved—because you had all always been that way.

“No,” you uttered. You dropped his arm back into the water to wash the soap off. Slowly, you stood, circling the tub. A trail of water dripped from your sleeves onto the tatami as you perched on the opposite side. Your attention turned to his other arm, and you repeated the same process of carefully working soap between each finger. The task gave you something to focus on besides his distant expression.

“My father was a cruel man. He tried to make me cruel, too, but I was always… resistant to his teachings. He said, I was disrespectful and weak for always questioning him, so he challenged me to an Agni Kai.” Zuko continued, and your brows rose. A firebender—you supposed you should not have been surprised. Many Wardens were benders of some kind; the elements often came in handy when hunting particular beasts. Firebending, especially, since so few creatures possessed an immunity to flame itself. You dimly recalled ancient stories of some of the first Warden clans originating in the Fire Nation, before their trade and message spread beyond borders. “After I was defeated, he banished me. Said I couldn’t return home until I became a real man, brought pride to my ancestors and regained my honour.”

His gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, beyond the House of the Evening Bloom, likely beyond Ba Sing Se itself. “I became a Warden shortly after, like my Uncle, and have walked that path ever since.”

You considered his words, eyes cast down, as you pressed your thumb down his forearm, massaging the hard muscle just beneath the skin. “Well, most would say the path of a Warden is an honourable one.”

A scoff escaped him, though the sound held little amusement. His arm slipped away from your grip as he dipped it back under the water, washing the soap and grime away. “I wouldn’t say that for that Crimson Ward of yours.”

There was genuine disdain in his voice now, enough to make you glance up from the soapy water, a teasing lilt to your voice. “You really don’t like them, do you?”

“They’re an insult to our trade,” his jaw tightened. “Cowards are what they are.”

You found yourself curious despite everything; Wardens rarely spoke about one another—at least not in your experience. Yet something told you that if Lord Kage’s hired hunters and Zuko ever crossed paths, his blood would not be the one to follow shortly afterwards.

Your hand slid under the water once more, scrubbing the washcloth along his submerged thigh, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The lantern light danced across the water’s surface, casting shifting reflections over damp skin and wood alike. You found yourself studying him again as you swept your palm down past his knee, your chest dipping lower towards the water’s edge.

“Does your father know you are a Warden?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Zuko’s gaze lowered to the water, watching as you slowly rose, levelling your spine.

“Oh yes,” there was something dark settled behind his stoic, amber eyes. “Some years ago, I returned home. He was happy to receive me, saying I had become a true man during my banishment. That his judgement had been correct all those years ago.”

The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss. The water shifted quietly as he leaned back against the tub, elbows resting on the edge on either side of him. His broad chest expanded as he sighed. You placed the washcloth over the side of the tub with a quiet slap, water trickling down the wood into a puddle below. You found yourself reluctant to break the silence, yet curiosity won in the end.

“What did you do?” You asked softly, though the words were not accusatory.

The bathwater was beginning to grow lukewarm, the tendrils of steam that had drifted lazily between you now gone. It was the warmth of his body that made up the space between you, that and the weight of his gaze that had somehow grown more scathing than it had been previously.

“I did what any honourable Warden would do if they came across a monster,” he answered with absolute certainty and complete absence of regret or guilt. “I killed him.”

Absolute silence followed, and Zuko watched you from across the narrow gap separating you, waiting. Almost as if he was expecting something, though what exactly, you couldn’t say. Your expression remained carefully neutral, save for the slight crease between your brows as you studied him in return. His pupils were fully dilated now, swallowing almost all the amber in his eyes. Beneath the water, his heartbeat remained strong and steady, each pulse loud enough for your sharpened senses to detect. You could almost imagine seeing the faintest ripple spread across the surface with every thump of his heart against his ribs.

You were hungry, so very hungry, it had been days since your last feeding—

The distance between you suddenly felt even smaller, especially as Zuko leaned forward. Water sloshed against the sides of the tub as he shifted, one arm leaving the edge so his palm could brace against the rim. His gaze dipped briefly towards your mouth, lingering there for a moment that felt a little too long to be accidental before returning to your eyes. His hand snaked around your waist, damp fingers settling against the silk gathered at your side, and before you could fully process the gesture, he was drawing you closer.

One moment, you were watching him and the next, his mouth found yours.

Instinct took over, decades of training clicking into place as you half gasped, half moaned into his mouth, automatic and reactive. He swallowed your breath whole, groaning as your hands skimmed up his shoulders to the hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the damp strands with a tug. His head lulled back, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as your lips parted, then met again properly. His head slanted as he adjusted his grip on your waist, tugging you even closer. His tongue teased along your bottom lip before sweeping into your mouth, and for a fleeting moment, you met him halfway, allowing him to pull you under—

A thought struck you suddenly. You hadn’t heard the telltale sounds of Madame Yoru stalking down the hidden corridor, nor the quiet scrape of the shutter being slid open—

You pulled away abruptly, chest heaving from the effort. Your hand slipped from his hair, down his shoulders to his chest as you pushed back, putting a small but deliberate distance between the two of you as he tried to chase your lips.

“Patience, Warden,” You huffed, watching as he tried to calm his own breathing, one hand still gripping your waist. His expression was guarded, save for the faint narrowing of his eyes as he tried to determine why you had stopped. “You haven’t even had your tea yet.”

Gently, you removed his hand from your side, then rose from where you sat. He didn’t look the most pleased about it, but nevertheless, he relented to your authority. You motioned to the pile of clothes and towels the servants had left nearby before turning back to where the teapot sat on the low table. As you knelt upon one of the cushions, you heard the slosh of water behind you as he rose from the tub. The patter of water over the tatami followed as he stepped out, unhurriedly crossing the short distance to the pile. You kept your gaze averted, not out of bashfulness but rather not wanting to encourage any lingering lust that coursed through his veins before the right eyes were watching.

Your attention drifted to the clay teapot that had been quietly brewing all the while. Your fingers brushed against the warm surface, along the delicately painted cherry blossom petals that embellished its curve. As you gripped the handle and carefully poured the steaming liquid into the cup furthest from you, you could hear the rustle of fabric. By the time you lifted your gaze, placing the teapot back down, Zuko had half-heartedly dried himself off. The small towel hung low across his hips as he settled down onto one of the cushions across from you. He accepted his cup without thanks, eying you as he took an audible sip, the scent of jasmine merging with the cypress soap and the underlying aroma of death.

“How did you end up here?” he asked. For a brief moment, you couldn’t tell if he was asking because he was genuinely interested in an answer, or if he simply wished to distract himself from the fact that his cock was half-hard. A weighted silence settled over you both again.

You smiled at him over the rim of your cup, although it was empty. That was a trick the Madame had taught you years ago, to at least pretend to be mortal. The best way to please a client was to make them feel at ease, and the best way to do that was to make them forget entirely that they were face-to-face with an undead monster. You had learnt to pretend to drink alongside them, to hold your wrist and hand in the perfect position that implied weight, to act as though your cup was always overflowing even when it was bone dry.

“Lord Kage took a liking to me.” The answer came easily. Only because it was an answer that had been practised countless times over the decades, one that had been drilled into you since your arrival. But even if your answer was flawlessly spoken, with the perfect inflexion and sweet, empty smile to match, displeasure flickered across Zuko’s expression.

“When were you turned?” He asked.

You leaned back slightly. Normally, you wouldn’t have entertained such questions, rather you would have artfully steered the conversation away, but you already knew there was nothing normal about anything that had unfolded so far. The memories were distant, a faded quality to them, the edges fraying the more you tried to hold onto them. The harder you reached, the more they seemed to slip, until you began to wonder if you weren’t remembering the moments themselves at all, but rather the memory of memories. Details blurred and condensed until your mind filled in the gaps incorrectly, like they were events that happened to someone else entirely. Sometimes you felt like two beings were warring within you—Spider Lily and the girl you once were. Those fragments felt like they belonged to her, the girl, your true self. But you weren’t her anymore, you were Spider Lily. And no matter how much that girl tried to claw her way out, she was trapped, deep underground in that box. And you had learnt that the only way you could survive was to become the monster, to become Spider Lily, to become just as terrible as the rest of them.

“I couldn’t tell you,” you finally replied after a pregnant pause.

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember pieces.” Your fingers tightened around the cup. “After a while, the years all blur together. Seasons become decades, decades become centuries.”

A faint smile graced your lips. “Though, I remember it was spring.”

The Warden’s brow quirked.

“I was supposed to debut after the summer solstice—my mother had spent all winter preparing the last of my yomeiri-dogu, my father a dowry to ensure I would be secure.” As your eyes lifted to meet his, you could see the pieces clicking together as he realised exactly the type of wealth and status you had once been born into. “I was supposed to be the catch of the season… but I couldn’t help but feel terrified.”

At the time, you believed you had been afraid of marriage, of leaving your home, family, and friends, of marrying a man who would have been a stranger to you. But in recent decades, you began to wonder if, deep down, you had known all along. Perhaps you had a premonition of what was to come.

“Terrified of what?” Zuko’s rumbling voice asked.

“Of making a mistake—” you laughed softly. Your reply had layers to it. It hadn’t just been the idea of making a mistake during your debut, of tripping over your own feet or making a fool of yourself. It had been the fear of making a mistake by marrying, of committing yourself to a life of lies. “—Of marrying a stranger, only to become some trophy wife within a gilded cage.”

The answer seemed to surprise him, and you knew you could both see the irony within your words.

“I had seen my mother live that life, and I did not wish to repeat it. I wanted to… continue school, travel, fall in love. So I ran away.” Your brows knitted together. “I ran away, and made it all of what? A few blocks? Only to end up within another cage entirely, I—”

You reeled yourself back, smoothing over your expression with a pleasant smile.

“I think I was nineteen at the time, maybe twenty at most.”

A beat passed as Zuko studied you, and a wavering thought wondered if he was undergoing some horribly misguided attempt to try and discover a flicker of humanity left within you. Madame Yoru and the guard still weren’t at the spying hole; the most you could do was steel yourself.

“Do you remember who ruled at the time?”

You snorted. “No.”

“No?” He repeated, eyes narrowing.

Did he think you were lying?

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How a girl’s mind works?” Your thumb traced the rim of your cup. “I remember the colours of silk everyone wanted that year and the styles we wore our hair in. I remember the rose hip and hibiscus perfume my friend wore and how she always took her tea lukewarm with honey. I remember the boy I spent months pretending not to like.”

Your smile turned distant.

“But Kings? Wars? Politics? No, not a single recollection.” You shook your head. “It’s all so ridiculous now, thinking back on it.”

The Warden grunted in response, displeased. For a second, you thought that he would allow silence to fall over you both again, to allow himself some peace as he drank his tea, while you sat across from him pretending to do the same. In contrast to your expectations, he spoke up once again.

“I take it that you were turned against your will then?”

The question made you hesitate, and suddenly you had the uncomfortable realisation that this entire time he hadn’t been interested in your replies, but rather your reactions. You lowered the empty cup you had been nursing, properly lowered it until it connected with the table with a soft clunk. It wasn’t a graceful movement, not perfected and artful in the way Spider Lily would, but rather the actions of a girl caught entirely off guard. You looked up sharply, and he simply stared with a smug expression.

The mask slipped. A short, bitter laugh escaped you. “You think any of us are here willingly?”

Zuko’s arrogant expression didn’t change.

“Lord Kage likes to collect pretty faces. Girls, boys—anyone who catches his attention,” you spat. “He turns us and brings us here to be broken in and serve. There’s nothing more valuable than a whore that doesn’t age.”

“And if you refuse to serve?” Zuko questioned.

“Oh,” you hissed. “I think we both know there are plenty of ways to break a person, immortal or not.”

“They beat you?”

“No,” you muttered with a mocking little pout. “You really think Kage would damage his own merchandise?”

“What does he do then?” The Warden pried.

Your gaze drifted towards the floorboards, and for a fleeting second, you could feel it. That creeping darkness at the edges of your vision, shaking hands against rusted iron, and the stench, Spirits the stench—

Your eyes snapped up, and you found he was watching you intently as you teetered dangerously on the edge between reality and a dream. Eerily, you spoke.

“They put us in a box.”

“A box?” he repeated, confused.

Realising he was baiting you for more information, your expression twisted. You sucked in a deep breath, planting your hands hard enough on the low table that the teapot rattled. For a moment, you juggled between indifference and performance, before finally settling on one of your practised, pleasant smiles, even if there were a few cracks in it.

Zuko looked mildly vexed by your sudden withdrawal. It was entirely obvious to you now that he didn’t seem concerned anymore with covering up his true intentions with his line of questioning.

“Are you finished with your tea? I can pour you—”

“You want something from me, don’t you?”

Despite the abruptness of the Warden’s interruption, his tone and expression were entirely calm, perhaps too calm. Your smile fell while his only grew, your composure fully cracking. You pushed up until you were kneeling on the cushion, hands braced against the table as you stared across at him. Had your intentions truly been that obvious? A horrible thought dawned upon you, enough to make a cold chill run down your spine. If it had been that obvious, had the others noticed, had Madame Yoru? Is that why she was taking so long to take a peek? Were they all out there, secretly planning Spiritsknew what—

You couldn’t go back.

You couldn’t go back to that box—

“You willingly came to me. You walked down from the display and sought me out, not the other way around—”

“Careful, Warden.”

The warning came smoothly, so smoothly that the look in your eyes would’ve made any normal man quiver with fear. As you knelt, slightly towering over where he sat, still naked aside from the towel that clung around his hips, an unnatural stillness took over you. It was the kind of stillness only an apex predator on the hunt could hold. Zuko looked unimpressed.

“Is it revenge on your master?” He queried, leaning forward with an emboldened expression. “You want me to kill him, to create enough of a commotion for you to escape?”

Your eyebrows scrunched, head tilting as you examined him with a perplexed expression.

“Escape?” You laughed, though it was humourless. “There is no escape from this place.”

You cut your laugh off shot, expression abruptly steeling as you stared at him, speaking with complete and utter seriousness and sincerity. “The only escape from this place is death.”

That finally seemed to throw him, his face screwing up in confusion. The first genuine surprise you’d manage to get from him all evening. You leaned further over the table, until your faces were inches away, until you could feel his breath tickling your lips. Your next words would require his full attention.

“I want you to kill me.”

“What?” Zuko barked immediately, bewildered.

The words felt strangely easy once spoken aloud, like a weight had been lifted off your tired shoulders. You smiled steadily and unwaveringly, as though you were discussing the weather and not proposing your own execution. “I will help you get an audience with Lord Kage, as long as you promise to kill me before you leave this room.”

The silence that followed was palpable. All Zuko could do was stare, obviously struggling to contain whatever emotional leakage was slipping through the cracks of his usually stoic expression.

“After your master is dead, you will be free to leave this place—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you muttered. “Unless you are the Blue Spirit himself, I do not think you are capable of killing the monster that is Lord Kage. I appreciate the sentiment of your mercy, but the only true kindness you can show me at this point is ensuring I am dead regardless of whether you defeat him or not—”

“What if I am him?” Zuko cut over you, and you blinked.

“What?”

“What if I am the Blue Spirit?”

A scoff escaped you before you could stop yourself.

“If you were the Blue Spirit, we would not be having this conversation. I would already be dead,” you sneered. “So, I am asking you a favour. After I fuck you and feed from you, enough of a performance to get them to trust you, I need you to kill me.”

You watched his expression harden, yet he didn’t even flinch as you leaned in close, a sharp, seductive smile pulling at your lips. You couldn’t even hear his heart change from its steady beat as your breath ghosted his bottom lip. “Do you agree to this?”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed, the scar pulling tight as he leaned backwards sharply, establishing some distance. “Why would I agree to that?”

Anger flooded your face, your fangs peaking out over your bottom lip as you hissed at him.

“I need you to grant me that one mercy. It shouldn’t be hard for you, should it?” The low table groaned under your weight as you dug your palm harder into the surface, the wood nearly splintering under your inhuman grip. “You are a Warden, after all.”

“Hold on—”

His voice sharpened for the first time all evening, and you knew he was about to argue. But the words had scarcely left his mouth before both of you went deadly still in unison, hearing the warning sign you’d been waiting for since the moment you entered the room. It wasn’t anything immediately obvious, no raised voices or knocks at the door. Just footsteps, unhurried, circling the room in the inner, hidden servants' hallway tucked between the walls.

Your head turned instinctively towards the far wall of the room, near the raised bed platform. Anyone ordinary or unfamiliar with the House of the Evening Bloom would have heard nothing more than servants passing by, but you knew better. You had learned the rhythm of those footsteps years ago. Madame Yoru wasn’t one to hurry; she was the worst type of predator—the one that liked to torment and toy with her food long before the thought of ending its misery ever crossed her mind. She wanted you to hear her. The heavier tread alongside her steps was likely one of Lord Kage’s guards. The Madame to confirm you had performed and earned your keep, and the guard to confirm that the Warden had allowed himself to be defiled and filthied by his enemy.

Instinct took over just before the footsteps paused. You surged to your feet, sweeping the low table aside with far more strength than any mortal woman could possess. It skidded across the tatami, a sharp crack sounding as it struck the opposite wall. The clay teapot and cups rattled violently as lukewarm tea spilt across the floor.

Zuko didn’t bother questioning your actions or urgency as you closed the distance between you, just as the cover on the eye-sized hole on the far wall slid open.

You tumbled to the floor, him flat on his back, the towel twisted and barely covering his lower half as you straddled his hips, kissing him. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about it; it was intended to be heard as much as seen. Your fingers tangled into the loose strands of his damp hair as you pressed yourself close. He groaned into your mouth, tongue sweeping against yours as his hand settled on the small of your back. You arched into his touch, only the silk of your robes separating you as you teasingly ground your hips against his already rehardening cock. The movement earned an irritated little grunt from him, and he pushed himself up. You followed the flow of his movements, allowing him to manoeuvre you as you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist.

Zuko lifted you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Blindly, he guided you both to the bed, your lips working desperately and needily against one another. Perching himself on the edge, he settled you onto his lap, the mattress dipping beneath your combined weight. When you finally drew back, the Warden eagerly chased your lips. You huffed out a breathless laugh, resting your forehead against his. The towel had been lost at some point, leaving him completely bare beneath you. You dragged your fingernails across his shoulders and chest, giggling as he kissed a wet trail of kisses along your jaw and neck.

Slipping gracefully from his lap, your bare feet met the floor without a sound. You slowly rose to your full height between his spread thighs. His cock stood flushed and heavy against his stomach, the head already glistening with precum that caught the lowlight. You met his gaze with a knowing smirk, taking two measured steps backwards, fingers finding the fastening of your robe.

Was he performing as well? All too aware of the unseen eyes that were watching from behind the wall? Or had genuine lust slipped through the cracks of his restraint? The question flickered once before you snuffed it out. Zuko had been caught in your web the moment you kissed him, and already the persona of Spider Lily had settled over you like a second skin, fangs digging in. Given the irregularities of the evening, it was startlingly easy to push every opposing thought aside. Decades of training had carved this routine into your bones—the slow reveal, the calculated arch of your back, the precise tilt of your chin. Your mind would quiet, it always did when you let the mask take over. There was no room for doubt when every movement had been rehearsed and executed a thousand times.

You were numb to it.

The embroidered silk loosened around your frame. You eased it from your shoulders, letting the crimson fabric slip down your arms in a slow, liquid cascade. The Warden’s brow lifted, the only outward sign of interest, but neither of you could deny how his eyes tracked the motion hungrily as the robe peeled away from your breasts. Your peaked nipples caught briefly on the silk before the garment continued its descent, sliding over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it pooled in a shimmering circle at your feet.

You stood bare before him. Zuko remained seated on the edge of the raised bed, elbows braced behind him, amber eyes dragging over every inch of your exposed flesh with unapologetic focus. His gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts, the drip of your navel and the smooth line of your thighs. You stepped out of the robe at your feet with unhurried grace and closed the short distance between you. Your bare skin brushed the inside of his knees as you sank slowly to the floor. Your fingertips trailed down the hard lines of his abdomen, mapping each scar and ridge of muscle before your lips followed, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the same path. Zuko’s breath stuttered ever-so-slightly, his throat working as you settled between his thighs. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your mouth, quickening with every brush of your lips, the steady pulse of blood rushing just beneath the surface. The closer you drew his thigh, the stronger the scent became—rich, metallic, threaded with the faint sweetness of arousal. It filled your senses, and the barely restrained hunger that had been growing within you honed. You could smell the artery pulsing beneath his skin, the blood hot and eager, and the need to taste it clawed at the back of your throat. Your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt and the clean bite of remnants of cypress soap, but it was the iron-rich promise beneath that made your mouth water.

There was an ache in your belly, a deep, gnawing ache. You’d known aches in your time. The ache of slick heat between your thighs, never to be satisfied. The ache of sobs that rattled your chest and tears that stained your cheeks. But this ache had nothing to do with desire or agony, but rather everything to do with the veins pulsating so close to your teeth.

With no warning or even an indication of what was to come, you sank your fangs into the saddle-worn, meaty flesh of his inner thigh. The Warden hissed, the sound breaking into a low groan as your mouth sealed over the punctures. His blood flooded across your tongue, thick and warm, laced with the tang of adrenaline. It was far richer and cleaner than the thin, alcohol-tainted taste you were used to from clients. You swallowed greedily, each pull sending a fresh wave of heat through your own veins.

It took everything within you not to consume him entirely, to suck him dry until only a husk remained.

No.

No, you had to remind yourself.

Your hunger would settle, and soon it would not matter at all. You needed him alive for your meeting with Death to come to fruition.

The aphrodisiac in your bite hit him almost instantly, your eyes catching how his cock twitched hard against his stomach, another bead of precum sliding down the flushed head. His thighs trembled beneath your hands as pleasure rolled through him. You lingered a moment, savouring the taste with a muffled, wanton moan, then forced yourself to draw back enough to lap at the bite wound. Your tongue moved in slow strokes, sealing the punctures with saliva, while Zuko’s breath came ragged above you. One of his hands found your hair, fingers threading through the strands and dislodging a few of the gold and tortoiseshell pins that held it in place. The soft clink of metal against the tatami barely registered over the sound of his breathing.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips still wet with his blood and smiled.

“You taste… delicious,” you murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth, every syllable curated for the audience you both knew were watching.

His molten honey gaze burned into yours as you braced your hands on his knees and rose from the floor. Blood still slicked your lips and chin, thin streams trailing down your throat, pooling along your collarbones. You leaned in again, pressing your mouth to the hard plane of his stomach, then higher, kissing and licking your way back upward in a glistening, sticky path of spit and blood. His muscles jumped beneath your lips.

Reaching his chest, you paused, breath ghosting over his nipple before your fangs sank into the firm swell of his pectoral. The flesh gave way with a soft, wet pop, and fresh blood welled up against your tongue. Zuko groaned roughly, his body convulsing beneath you as you drew another slow mouthful from the wound—

The moment did not last long.

With a low growl, his hands clamped around your waist and hauled you upward, dragging you onto his lap in one powerful motion. Your knees settled on either side of his hips, and the length of his cock was wedged between your bodies.

The aphrodisiac-like effect in your bite was taking hold fast. There was nothing left of the cool, calculating Warden who had walked through the door. His breathing had gone ragged, pupils blown wide and dark, the grip on your waist unconcerned with care. His fingers dug into your skin with bruising force, pulling you closer, rutting his cock against your belly in short, desperate rolls of his hips. His heart hammered against your chest, every exhale carrying an edge of a groan he couldn’t quite swallow.

“I can tell,” you cooed, voice syrupy-sweet, “that my bite is taking effect on your system now.”

Zuko’s only answer was a strained, half-irritated grunt, his jaw tight as he fought to keep some thread of control. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lashes fluttering, but the tension in his body told you he was losing the battle fast. Very much aware of the watching eyes from the wall, you continued teasing, hips grinding a slow circle that had his blunt nails biting deep enough to leave marks.

You smiled against his throat, listening to the rush of blood just below the surface.

“That’s it, Warden. Feels good, doesn’t it?” You hummed, taunting. “Understand why men get addicted now? Are you going to get addicted to me too?”

Zuko’s only answer was a strained, wordless sound caught somewhere between indignation and raw need—his sharp jaw set in a way that spoke of a man fighting to keep his composure.

“That’s alright,” you whispered, breath hot against the shell of his ear. “I like you better when you don’t talk, Warden.”

His cock remained trapped between your bodies, each lazy roll of your core smearing his warm, slick precum across your stomach. With the taste of his blood still in your mouth, a wicked thought crossed your mind. “Want to taste yourself?”

Pulling back enough to meet his eyes, you could see the internal battle that raged within him—pride, restraint, the knowledge that this was still a performance? You were unsure. And, as if relenting to some hidden urge, he finally mustered a nod, his eyes glazed over.

Your mouth hovered over his, close enough that the word brushed his lips. “Open.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

You gathered the mixture on your tongue—thick saliva laced with the copper tang of his blood—then let it drip slowly. A long, glistening strand stretched between your mouths before it broke, the warm, pink-tinged glob landing half on his waiting tongue and half across his lower lip and chin. Zuko flinched at the sensation, a low, involuntary sound catching in his throat, but he didn’t pull away.

You watched the slow motion of his throat as he swallowed, his eyes fluttering half-shut like the taste had hit him like a drug. With a soft giggle, you used your thumb to smear the remaining mess across his lower lip, pressing it onto his tongue so he could taste every drop.

To your surprise, he reciprocated the motion, tongue sweeping over the pad of your thumb. You watched intently as he savoured the taste, suckling and nibbling at the digit—

A flicker of arousal pooled warm and unwelcome between your thighs, surprising enough that you felt your cunt flutter in response as your composure faltered. Before he could catch his breath, you withdrew your finger and leaned in again, your mouth crashing against his in a messy, open kiss. Your tongues slid together, the taste of his blood shared between you. His lips parted wider as he chased the flavour, a groan rumbling from his chest. Your hands framed his face, holding him steady as you licked into his mouth, sucking his tongue.

While he was distracted, you rose smoothly onto your knees, guiding the flushed head of his cock between your thighs. The moment you began to sink onto him, Zuko’s hips jerked upward in a helpless thrust. The kiss broke on a rough, breathy moan that spilt from his throat into yours, and you took him in one slow motion, until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt inside you. The stretch forced a shallow sound from your own throat, more for the watchers than from any real pleasure, but the heat of him was undeniable. You could feel every thick inch pulsing within your walls as they adjusted around him.

Once you were fully seated, you began to move, hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that dragged him in and out of you. Each rise and fall was calculated, each squeeze of your inner muscles timed to wring the most reaction from him.

Zuko groaned. His hips bucked up to meet yours, driving himself deeper, and you felt the exact moment his control began to fracture. Your fangs found the strong column of his throat, and the skin gave easily beneath your bite, his hot, rich blood flooding your mouth in a sudden rush. Zuko’s cock jolted hard inside your cunt, pulsing in time with every swallow, his hips stuttering upward in short, desperate thrusts as the pleasure of your bite crashed through him. His head tipped back, a broken groan tearing from his chest, and you felt him throb and twitch as if the act of feeding was dragging him closer to the edge with every mouthful.

“You’re losing control, Warden,” you whispered against his throat. A thin line of blood escaped the corner of your mouth, rolling hot and sticky down your chin. “I can feel it.”

Your hand pressed flat on the centre of his chest and pushed. Zuko went willingly, letting you tip him onto his back until he lay flat against the sheets.

Still straddling his hips, you moved on him with the same poise you had perfected over decades, each rise and fall of your hips made to look desperate while remaining entirely controlled. Your inner walls squeezed him at carefully chosen intervals, timed to the rhythm of his breathing so he would feel every calculated flutter. Every moan pitched just right—soft at first, then louder, breathy, the kind of sound that made men feel powerful. Your hands rested lightly on his chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns across his skin, but your real focus stayed locked on his face. You watched the subtle twitch of his brow, the way his throat bobbed when you clenched just right, the faint flare of his nostrils when you sank to the hilt. You were looking for the smallest flicker of a reaction that told you whether to slow down or grind harder. The head of his cock was dragging against sensitive places you knew were better to ignore. You noted the way his breathing had quickened, the slight tremor in his thighs, and the way his eyes rolled back as he lost himself in the sensation. All good signs—you catalogued each one.

When his grip tightened, and his hips began to lift to meet yours in short, involuntary thrusts, you decided it was time. You let your performance build, your moans growing louder, more breathless, your body moving with just the right amount of desperation. Your head fell back, exposing the long line of your throat, and you let out a carefully crafted cry—high, broken, the sound of a woman coming undone. Your walls fluttered around him, your thighs trembling on cue as you rode out the fake climax, every detail flawless.

But when you looked down again, Zuko’s eyes were no longer half-lidded with pleasure—they were sharp, focused, and unmistakably irritated.

His jaw was set, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his hands had gone still on your hips—

He hadn’t finished.

The tension in his body wasn’t the kind that preceded release; instead, he was watching you with growing displeasure. You felt the shift immediately. The air between you changed, the heat of exasperation swelling. His gaze pinned you in place, and you could see the realisation dawning in his expression: he had seen through the act.

Fuck.

He hadn’t orgasmed.

He hadn’t even been close, like somehow within those last moments he had willed himself not to, just to prove a point, but worst of all—

He knew you had faked it.

For an uneasy moment, you wondered why he was so angry. After all, wasn’t this entire arrangement for the benefit of Madame Yoru and the guard? A performance meant to earn their trust so he could reach Lord Kage? Your pleasure had never come into the equation—only your ability to seduce and filthy what was supposedly an honourable Warden. When had he even noticed the moment your moans turned scripted, your body moving on muscle memory rather than genuine need? The entire evening, it seemed the Warden was determined to unearth something solid beneath the act, as if he were deeply offended by the idea of interacting with Spider Lily, but rather desired you, the girl hidden behind the mask.

“Finished with your fun, are you?” he growled.

Before you could answer, he flipped you over in one swift motion. Your stomach met the sheets, and his hands pressed down hard—one between your shoulder blades, the other pinning the small of your back—so you couldn’t even lift your hips or escape the weight of him. Using his knee, he spread your legs wide, every inch of you open and helpless beneath him.

“What are you—?”

“Does that act really work on other men?” He snarled low enough that only you could hear it. You squirmed under his weight, not entirely from discomfort or the desire to be free. An intense, unwelcome pulse of heat flared low in your belly at the sudden dominance in his tone. “Kind of pathetic, really.”

How had he managed to fight through the aphrodisiac so cleanly? You could only hazard a wild guess that he or Warden’s as a whole must have built up defences to such tricks. Zuko leaned down until his chest was flush against your back, his breath searing against your ear.

“You truly thought I wouldn’t notice that you didn’t finish?” His hand swept over the curve of your spine, fingers sliding between your thighs to stroke through your folds. The touch made both of you pause—his fingers came away slick.

The realisation that you were genuinely wet, genuinely aroused, startled you.

“Pathetic little courtesan act, moaning on cue like I’m some green client you can play. You feel that?” He dragged his fingers through the wetness again. “That’s real. You’re drenched.”

You were suddenly, painfully aware of Madame Yoru’s single watching eye behind the hole in the wall. You could imagine her straining, trying her best to hear the words being rasped into your ear.

“Why do you care?” you hissed back, voice tight. “I’m just trying to help you—”

He cut you off with a hard, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. You cried out, body jerking beneath him.

“If I noticed,” he growled against your ear, hips already snapping into you in a brutal rhythm, “then they certainly did. We’re going to have to make it more believable if I’m going to see your master.”

“Fuck—!” The word tore out of you raw as he drove into you again and again, the angle forcing every thick inch to drag against places you’d spent decades ignoring. You squirmed, trying to adjust, but his weight kept you pinned flat, unable to do anything but take it. Your hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, and for the first time in years, the sounds spilling from your throat were desperate and involuntary.

You weren’t acting anymore.

The pleasure was building too fast, and Zuko seemed to have forgotten this was supposed to be a performance. His grip on you was possessive, his breathing uneven with something that felt dangerously close to real hunger. You were too far gone in the overwhelming sensation to stop it now.

“Fuck—Warden—”

His fingers slid into your hair and yanked, gathering a fistful at the roots and hauling your head back until your throat arched in a taut line. The sharp pull sent a bright sting across your scalp that only enhanced the pleasure already tearing through you. He drove into you again, the wet slap of skin loud, your mouth fell open, each thrust forcing another, a high, shameless moan to spill out of you before you could catch it. The shock of it hit like ice water. This wasn’t part of the act—

Your walls fluttered around him without permission, your thighs trembling, heat coiling and snapping low in your belly so abruptly that you couldn’t breathe. Every plunge of his cock was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the noises pouring out of you, gasps, whimpers, broken little cries that pitched higher each time he bottomed out.

Zuko leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, and hissed words directly into your ear, breath harsh.

“Shut the fuck up,” he commanded. “I’m trying to work here.”

“Ah—fuck, I—I can’t—” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your hands clawed at the sheets, and you realised you were shaking—actually shaking—because the pleasure was cresting too fast, and you had no control over the way your body answered him.

His hand came up, palm clamping over your mouth, then two thick fingers pushed past your lips and pressed down on your tongue, trying to muffle the sounds. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.

“Mmf—please, I’m—mmm—” Your voice cracked, the words muffled around his fingers, and the realisation that you were begging, truly begging, sent another helpless flutter through your cunt.

You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t fake it, couldn’t slow the way your hips tried to push back against him, even though he had you pinned flat. A choked sob left you, half-moan, half-cry, and you felt your walls clamp down around him. The pleasure kept building, surging higher, and you knew there was no stopping it now. You were lost to it, lost to him, and the only thing you could do was moan around his fingers as he fucked you through it. You couldn’t tell anymore if he was still playing his part or if the aphrodisiac and the heat of the moment had finally cracked his restraint. Every snap of his hips drove him deeper, the angle forcing the thick head of his cock to drag over the exact spot you needed him—

“I can feel you’re close,” he breathed into your ear. “Make it real this time.”

You quivered around him, the pressure inside you winding tighter and together until it burst. A raw, broken scream tore out of you, muffled against his palm, your body locking down hard, pulsing and clenching so violently that your vision spotted. You convulsed beneath him, thighs trembling, a flood of slick coating his cock as the orgasm ripped through you.

“Fuck, there you are,” he snarled, voice rough.

He didn’t stop.

He kept driving into you through the aftershocks, using the frantic, fluttering squeeze of your cunt to chase his own release. The wet, obscene sound of it filled the room, the slap of skin against skin loud enough that you knew Madame Yoru and the guard could hear every filthy detail. His fingers stayed buried in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue while his other hand kept you pinned flat. He used the tight grip of your body like a man starved, hips burrowing in short, brutal strokes that dragged your orgasm out until you were sobbing against his palm, over-sensitive and shaking.

You felt his rhythm falter for the first time, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. Heat flooded you in thick pulses, his cock twitching hard as he emptied himself inside you, grinding through the last shuddering waves until he finally stilled, chest heaving against your back.

The room was thick with the sound of both of you panting. Zuko’s weight still pressed you into the mattress, his breath hot against the nape of your neck, each exhale shaking slightly as he came down. You lay beneath him, body limp, every muscle trembling in the aftermath. Your mind was reeling, struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

You had orgasmed.

Really orgasmed.

There had been no performance, no calculated moan, no careful scripting of your reactions. A strange mix of disbelief and fear curled in your chest.

Zuko shifted above you. With a low grunt, he pushed himself up onto his hands, his softening cock still nestled inside you. To your surprise, he didn’t pull out. Instead, one of his calloused hands left your shoulder and began to stroke down the length of your spine, palm warm and unexpectedly gentle. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, too stunned to move, the steady rhythm of his hand grounding you even as your thoughts spun wildly.

The hole in the wall slammed shut with a sharp crack. Madame Yoru and the guard were obviously satisfied with what they had seen. At the sound of their retreating footsteps echoing in the inner corridor, you shot upright so quickly that Zuko’s cock slipped free. Before you could even register the loss, you were on him.

Your lips crashed into his, hands fisting his hair and dragging him down into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. He met you with equal force, one hand clamping around the back of your neck. The taste of his blood still lingered between you, and you poured every tangled, confused feeling into his mouth.

When you finally tore away, both your breathing was ragged, foreheads touching. You could feel his seed beginning to ooze out of you, and all you could do was swallow down the dread lodged in your throat.

Steeling yourself, you finally spoke, your voice scarcely more than a whisper—

“I need you to kill me now.”

For a long moment, Zuko simply looked at you.

He slowly leaned back, putting a few inches of space between you. The warmth that had temporarily blossomed vanished as his expression settled back into that familiar, unreadable mask. It was that stoic look you’d become accustomed to in your short time together, that hardness that swallowed every flicker of emotion before it could fully surface. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was angry with himself; he certainly gave off that impression. Perhaps, even if just for a moment, he had forgotten why he was here—forgotten Lord Kage, forgotten the House of the Evening Bloom and all its flowers. If only for a fleeting second, it was just your two souls meeting—like two stars colliding in the darkness—like the Spirits had willed that you meet on this one fateful day before you were both cast back out into the abyss. Regardless, it seemed your repeated request had shattered whatever illusion he’d allowed himself to entertain.

Without answering, he rose from the bed in one smooth motion. You dared to hope that his silence was a reluctant sort of acceptance. You remained seated, tracking him with your eyes as he crossed the room. His broad shoulder blades flexed beneath weathered skin as he bent to retrieve your discarded robe. For a second, you foolishly thought he meant to hand it back—

Instead, he tossed it at you.

You jolted as the embroidered silk struck your chest, sliding down your lap.

“You’re going to kill me, right?” you asked, voice tight.

He ignored the question entirely, as well as the pile of clean clothes the servants had left out. Returning to his discarded dirty pile, he dragged his blood and sweat stained undershirt over his head, followed by the heavier outer layers that carried the dust of half the Earth Kingdom upon them.

“Warden,” you tried again, rising to your feet as you gathered your robe around yourself. Humiliation curled hot up your spine. “We had a deal—”

He let out a slow breath through his nose as he adjusted his scabbard over his shoulders. “Just run away.”

You scowled, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

You thrust your arms into the sleeves of your robes with more force than necessary, fingers fumbling against the silk as anger began to eclipse despair. “That the only escape from this place is death.”

Only then did he fully look at you, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed in irritation. “Can you even hear yourself—”

A deafening crack echoed through the room as the shoji slid open so violently that it rattled in its frame. At the sound, Zuko had immediately assumed a fighter’s position, feet placed a shoulder-width apart, fists raised, while all you could do was gape in disbelief.

Peony stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling in quick, furious breaths, dark eyes fixed entirely upon you—

“You stupid, greedy bitch.” The words left Peony before either you or Zuko had the sense to react. All you could muster was to stare back at her in complete and utter bewilderment. You couldn’t believe she had the gall to march in, especially knowing the Zuko hadn’t left your side yet.

“Peony—” you started.

She crossed the room in three quick strides—entirely ignoring Zuko, who tracked her every movement with a Warden’s assessment—and slapped you hard enough that the force made your head turn. Pain blossomed across your cheek as your balance faltered, one hand flying instinctively to your face as you recoiled in shock. It took you a few baffled seconds, but you eventually lifted your head to look at Peony. She was trembling, not with fear, but with fury.

“I claimed him,” the words came through clenched teeth. “I was there first.”

You blinked at her, still dazed from the blow. Of course, the flowers often fought among themselves; the environment had always been built to pit you against one another, you were each other's competition after all. Though it was historically in the form of public humiliation or a not-so-subtle tongue-lashing, never anything this unbelievably reckless and blatant. But it seemed Peony had long passed the point of caring about consequences.

“The moment he walked through the doors, everyone saw it.” She took another step forward, eyes frantic. “He was mine.”

You couldn’t place her distress. You had expected her to be angry with you, yes, but this fury came from another origin entirely, like beyond the resentment was all-consuming fear. Deep down, you knew this had the stench of Madame Yoru’s meddling attached to it.

“Peony—”

“No,” she snarled. “Don’t you dare.”

The decades of polished smiles and practised elegance you had observed her hold over the years fractured all at once. The closer you stared, the more you noticed the details out of place. The slight smudge of her painted lips bleeding into her white face powder, the decorative pins in her hair slightly askew, eyes glistening with unshed tears—

“You’ve spent years sitting up on your little perch, pretending you were above the rest of us.” She jabbed a finger towards the direction of the display beyond the walls. “Too miserable to work, too miserable to smile, too miserable to earn your keep. Leaving the rest of us to deal with the disgusting, filthy scraps.”

She took another step forward, a manic laugh slipping past her sharp lips. “But the moment a handsome Warden walks through the front doors, suddenly Spider Lily remembers how to descend?”

Your jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “He chose me.”

“Oh, spare me.” Peony laughed with a gasp, clutching at her chest before her dark eyes narrowed with a hiss. “You challenged me. I wanted to drag you off him the moment you left the parlour.”

She pointed her finger at your chest. “I would have, if Madame Yoru hadn’t ordered me to wait until your little performance was over.”

Peony smiled wider, shoving your shoulder with a single, hard blow. “You’ve always been Lord Kage’s favourite, haven’t you? It has to be why Madame Yoru still keeps an embarrassment like you around.”

She shoved you hard again, hard enough that your calves struck the edge of the bed, her hands catching your robes as she made a fist around the embroidered silk. “I’ll make sure you pay for this. I’ll see you stripped of every scrap of favour you have left.”

“And when Lord Kage hears about this—” she yanked you forward, “—he’ll put you back in the box.”

Your hands instinctively flew to her wrists as dread washed over you, your breath hitching—

Her smile had turned vicious, knowing exactly what she was doing to you. “This time they’ll leave there until you forget your own n—”

Her hand drew back, intending to strike you once more. You braced yourself for the impact, frozen in place by just the mere mention of that box. But Peony faltered, her body jerking. You felt her grip loosen, her jaw going slack, a mixture of shock and horror flooding her features.

Confused, she slowly turned her head, and you followed her gaze.

Zuko was no longer half-dressed on the opposite side of the room. The Warden didn’t even seem to be present, replaced instead by a figure wearing a weathered, blue oni mask that obscured their face. But it was only when twin amber eyes met your gaze through the narrow eye slits that the scene before you clicked—

The Blue Spirit stood before you. Zuko, the man you’d spent all evening with—teasing him, sharing stories from a childhood you’d long since pushed to the recesses of your mind, drinking his blood and allowing him to fuck you senseless—was the Blue Spirit. You felt sick, yet almost laughed aloud at the same time. Was this what the Spirits had rewarded you with after a century of waiting and agony? Was this what fate had considered necessary? Two stars, burning fiercely in the night sky, only to explode on contact. Two stars destined to bring destruction to this place, like locusts to a garden. The petals would shrivel, and the flowers would wilt, and the House of the Evening Bloom, the greatest garden in the Earth Kingdom, would finally perish.

Peony’s eyes widened.

“No…” the word barely escaped her lips, and you followed her gaze down her robes. A wooden stake was punched cleanly through her chest, the pointed tip peaking out through a tear in her robes. For a moment, you both stared down at it, disbelief washing over both your faces.

Then the flesh around the wound blackened.

“Peony—” you gasped.

Lurching forward, your instincts overpowered reason, your hands catching her shoulders just as her knees threatened to buckle. For the briefest of moments, you thought you had caught her—until she began to fall apart. The flesh beneath your fingers cracked with a dry, splintering sound, fine fractures appearing across her throat and jaw. It spread over the rest of her body like frost across glass. You watched, horrified, as the colour drained from her skin. Flecks of ash lifted from her cheeks, drifting weightlessly between the two of you.

Her mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out.

Peony collapsed inward—not to the floor, but instead through your grasp—dissolving into a cloud of grey ash that slipped through your fingers and settled softly across the tatami. Her crimson robe crumpled a heartbeat later, folding neatly into the empty space where she had stood, as though the woman inside it had never existed at all. The room fell deathly silent, your gaze fixed on the pile of ash. Your empty arms were still outstretched where Peony had stood mere seconds before, your hands curved around nothing. Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes. Zuko—the Blue Spirit—stood motionless, stake still clenched in one hand. The carved, wooden oni mask concealed every trace of expression, but something about the way he stood unnerved you all the same.

And to your disgust, and absolute horror… You couldn’t muster a shred of sadness or grief for Peony. Neither of you had been close, no, one did not make friends in the House of the Evening Bloom. But you had been trapped all the same, two gilded cages directly opposite each other so you could watch the other pace like a wild animal.

No, the only thing you felt was envy—envy that she had been taken, freed from this place, and you had not.

With wide, glassy eyes, you swallowed and slowly lowered yourself to your knees. The movement stirred the ashes scattered around Peony’s discarded robe, her essence swirling briefly across the tatami before it settled once more.

“Go on, do it,” you breathed. “I’m ready.”

The mask tilted, and you couldn’t help but feel there was something almost animalistic about his silent assessment. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled behind the carved wood.

“No.”

You stared at him. “...No?”

A laugh bubbled in your chest, tight and high as your chest shook. Zuko remained still, towering above you, watching with what you could only imagine was disdain. It was only as tears began to blur your vision, thick, fat droplets pouring down your cheeks and under your chin, that you realised your laughter had morphed into ugly sobs. They rattled your entire body, rattled you so thoroughly that each wail went a wave of pain and nausea through you, your body folding in on itself as you braced your palms against the tatami.

The longer you sobbed, and the longer he silently watched, the hotter the flicker of resentment deep within you began to burn. Your head snapped up, your tearful expression pulled into a snarl as your voice rose despite yourself, finally unconcerned with anyone overhearing your demands.

“Why?” you shouted. “Why won’t you just kill me?”

Zuko scoffed—actually scoffed—and through the slits in the mask, you could see his eyes narrow. “You said only the Blue Spirit stood a chance of killing Lord Kage, that the only reason you wanted death first was because you believed no other man could achieve it. That you were afraid of the consequences of running if he didn’t fall—”

“Stop—”

“So I will kill him. I will kill him, and you will be free.”

“Zuko—”

“Run, run while you still can. You still have a few hours before the sun rises—”

“This wasn’t our deal!” You snarled, finally cutting over him loudly enough that he paused his spiel. “You agreed to kill me.”

He went quiet in a way that made you think he was making a face behind the mask, and his tone hardened as he finally replied. “I never agreed to anything.”

“You don’t seem to understand, do you?” You snapped, exasperated. Sniffling, you wiped at your face with ash-stained hands, anger finally forcing you back into your kneeling position to meet his eye fully. “Everyone and everything I have ever known is dead! They are all bones and dust in the earth now—where would I go, who could I even turn to? There is nowhere for me to run!”

“Then make a new life for yourself.” His voice was sharp enough to cut as he stared down at you, a hint of coldness in the way he held his shoulders. “You survived, what are you so afraid of?”

You laughed again, bitterly, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. Your next words came out in a snarl. “I haven’t seen the sun in years. I am a relic of a time that no longer exists! I don’t even remember my own name—how am I supposed to simply make a new life?”

“You remember enough, even if you pretend you don’t.” Zuko sneered. “That much is clear.”

“I thought you were supposed to be honourable,” you taunted. Maybe if you angered him enough, he would snap and kill you. Maybe if you provoked him, he would abandon the moral high ground, which he appeared determined to sit upon. “I thought as a Warden you were supposed to kill monsters, not fuck them."

The blue oni mask tilted again, his shoulders rising with a deep breath—the only sign that your words had affected him—before slowly settling. The fingers that had been curled into a fist at his side relaxed, the accusations you had hurled fizzling out as he denied you the reaction you desired.

“You’re not a monster,” he muttered, almost pitying. “I never thought you were.”

His softheartedness surprised you enough that you paused, chest heaving, voice trembling. You were a fool. A fucking fool. Kneeling before him, his seed still inside you, begging him to kill you when it was obvious he had never seen you as a threat. For all his callousness and coldness, you’d never expected the Warden to look beyond the act, to want to look beyond the mask.

“I am broken,” you confessed, head hanging low. “I am broken beyond repair. No matter what I do, I will never be free of this place.”

Whatever begninity had overtaken him waned; the familiar sound of a scoff reverbrating from behind the mask. “You are only broken if you allow yourself to remain that way. Pull yourself together.”

You swallowed hard, nails digging into your palms. “Do you know what they do if we disobey? If we try to run away? He will hunt us down, no matter where we run or where we hide. He will find us, and he will drag us down into that box—”

“What box? You all keep talking about this damned box—”

Your eyes flickered to the floor as his voice faded, shrinking in on yourself. Zuko shifted his weight, an uneasy mood sweeping over both of you as he realised your expression didn’t match the reaction he had anticipated.

Darkness flooded your mind, the weight of silence, walls pressing in…

You couldn’t go back.

“What is the box, Spider Lily?” Zuko repeated himself, his tone suddenly and eerily calm.

You couldn’t go back.

“The box…” You began, although your words sounded distant now, muffled and warped. It reminded you of the quiet mornings when all the clients left and the House fell into silence. You would bathe yourself in the lantern light, then slip under the surface, holding yourself there until your lungs burned. “It’s beneath the manor. They keep it past the cellars and wine stores in a room made of stone.”

A tremor passed through you as you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself, unable to look up at the Warden.

“It isn’t large,” you continued after a long, shuddering pause. “Not much taller than a child. It’s wide enough to fit one person, but only just. You can’t stand or lie down. The best you can manage is crouching—knees tucked against your chest, your back bent, and your head lowered.”

“The cramps start after… I don’t know.” You frowned, frustrated, eyes locked onto the tatami, Zuko’s boots at the corner of your vision. “Hours, perhaps. Maybe days. It’s impossible to tell how quickly or slowly time passes. But eventually, your body knows time has passed, your muscles seize and give out. You slump over from exhaustion.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, the room around you disappearing—the darkness, the silence, the phantom iron walls—

“Eventually, you stop trying to find a comfortable position, because there isn’t one.”

Zuko was deathly silent and still across from you.

“It is completely dark, so dark you can’t even see your own hands in front of your face.” Your breath hitched. There was a reason why you and many of the other flowers always kept your rooms lit, even when morning broke. “And silent too, so very silent.”

“You’d be surprised how loud silence can become—at first, you listen for footsteps, voices, anything. Your own mind becomes so loud, so you try to distract your thoughts. You count, you recite songs, poems, recipes, anything your mind can grasp onto.” You laughed softly, a disturbed little sound. “Then you begin hearing things that aren’t there.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, rushing out like a tidal wave—

“You hear conversations, laughter, people calling your name, scratching and knocking at the walls. I used to hear my mother singing—” You abruptly cut yourself off. You hadn’t meant to admit that.

You exhaled loudly. Loud enough that your shoulders shook as you finally dared to look up at the Warden. Only the blank oni mask greeted you.

“They never feed you at the same time, they’re careful at making sure you don’t recognise patterns. They don’t want you knowing whether it is morning or night… whether you’ve been there for three days or three weeks. They want you disoriented and afraid.”

Your eyes narrowed as you recalled it.

“But the hunger…” Your hands drifted to your stomach without thinking. “It becomes so terrible and all-consuming that you stop caring. You find yourself licking the inside of the box, because the iron tastes of blood. You convince yourself the rust tastes sweet.”

Another tight laugh bubbled to the surface, caught somewhere between your teeth.

“When they finally do feed you, they pour it through tiny holes in the lid.” Your voice was bitter as you recalled it. “And even if you’ve spent hours telling yourself that you’ll keep your dignity, that you won't give them the satisfaction of seeing you beg, you throw yourself under it. You scramble for every drop—it runs down your face, your clothes, the floor. And they laugh. They stand above the box and laugh while you lap it from the floor. They laugh while you beg for more.”

You held the oni mask’s stare, sullen as you recalled it, the sensation of sticky, half-congealed blood running over your head and face, of sucking the clots caught in your hair. “By the time they let you out, you’ve forgotten why they even put you in there in the first place. So you beg forgiveness for a crime you can’t even remember committing.”

“I’ve been in the box three times,” you admitted. “I don’t know how long for, but I am certain it was months, if not years. All I can remember is that when they opened that lid, I thanked them. I thanked them for their mercy and kindness. That I begged them to put me back to work instead of sending me back to that darkness—”

Zuko turned abruptly. He didn’t so much as spare you another glance before striding towards the shoji. His boots struck the tatami with enough force to make the floorboards underneath creak. You still couldn’t read his expression beneath the oni mask or fully discern the emotion behind his silence, but everything he refused to say was revealed in the stiff set of his shoulders and his precise, clipped movements. A predator, a hunter, a killer—whatever the label, he effortlessly adopted the persona within moments, just as casually as you changed into your robe each evening.

He reached the shoji in three long strikes, his hand shooting out. The wooden frame shuddered violently from his grip, his fingers punching through the paper before he realised the force he’d used. For a heartbeat, he remained locked in place, head bowed ever-so-slightly as though overcoming whatever storm threatened to surface beneath the mask. You had a sickening realisation. The longer you watched his mannerisms, the more obvious it became.

He was furious.

When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerous enough to send a chill through you.

“I am going to kill your master.” His fingers tightened around the frame until the splintering wood creaked. “And then I am going to burn this place to the ground. You’d be wise to run while you still can.”

He slid the shoji open, and the distant, faded sound of sanxian strings and the laughter of drunken patrons floated down the empty hallway. You lurched to your feet, so quickly your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

“No!” The word tore from your throat raw. Your foot caught in the discarded folds of your robe, pitching you forward. You stumbled blindly across the room, crashing hard against the abandoned bath. The heavy wooden tub lurched at the impact, long cold water sloshing over the rim and soaking the sleeves of your robes. You barely felt it, your attention locked onto his back as he began to walk away. The one person capable of ending your ongoing, century-long nightmare was disappearing into the hallway. “I need you to kill me!”

A sound escaped your chest, and you shoved yourself away from the path, palms skidding over the wet timber. Half crawling, half stumbling, you threw yourself after him. Your vision blurred so thoroughly by tears that the doorway became little more than a smear of light. But, by some miracle, you caught him just before he crossed the threshold, your knees striking the tatami with enough force that your teeth clattered as you clung to his ankles.

“Please…” The word came out as a sob. You clutched at the worn leather of his boot, as if your sheer desperation could anchor him in place.

“I need you to…” Your forehead dropped against his shin. “Please… please.”

Your shoulders shook uncontrollably. The tears came harder now, droplets pattering across the leather as your breath dissolved into ragged sobs.

“I need you to free me. I can’t…” You choked. “I can’t do this anymore.”

With a quiet exhale through his nose, Zuko looked down. The carved blue mask peered at you, molten honey eyes lost to the shadows. Ever stoic, he shifted his stance. Not to comfort you, but rather free him himself. Stepping back, he broke your grasp with a firm tug. Your hands closed around empty air.

Without another word, the Blue Spirit disappeared down the corridor.

As the shouting began, you remained collapsed in the doorway, hands still outstretched, sobbing so violently that you were sure your ribcage would cave in.

You did not know how long you had remained on the floor. Time had become meaningless again, dissolving into the same shapeless darkness that had swallowed entire decades of your existence. At some point, the tears had stopped falling quite so freely, though your cheeks remained damp and tight with salt. You stared blankly at the tatami beneath your face, following the woven igusa with unfocused eyes.

Beyond the room, there had been screams. The crash of splintering wood as furniture was thrown, the pounding of hurried footsteps through the corridors, and the shoji slamming open and shut. The carefully rehearsed illusion of the House of the Evening Bloom—the laughter, the music, the flirtation—had collapsed into naked panic. You had barely reacted to any of it. The sounds reached you, distant and distorted. Every cry blurred together until they became little more than white noise—like an earthquake, or the sound of blood rushing in a silent room.

At some point, others had tried to rouse you from your catatonic state. Patrons, fellow flowers, the servant girls you had tried and failed to protect. They had pleaded with you, begged you to move before the flames creeping through the manor swallowed you whole.

Unbeknownst to them, you welcomed the idea.

Each of them eventually gave up, leaving you where you lay. All too terrified by the fire—or maybe rather they were fearful of the Blue Spirit that still prowled the halls. The scent of smoke grew stronger as time passed. At first, it had been faint, an almost pleasant layer to the oudh incense that permanently clung to the walls. Then came the heat, creeping beneath the shoji, filling the room one slow breath at a time. You couldn’t quite find the will to care, to even react to the fact that the House of the Evening Bloom was quite literally burning before you. You simply watched as the smoke became thicker, listening as the walls and roof groaned and shuddered around you. If this was how it ended, then perhaps it was fitting.

You had resigned yourself to your fate, that was, until the shrill voice of Madame Yoru sounded over the chaos. It was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over you, waking you from your fugue state, suddenly aware of how hot and suffocating the room had become—

“You!” She hissed, and you slowly lifted your head. She no longer resembled the immaculate Mother of Blossoms. Half of her elaborate hairpins had come undone, black hair hanging loose around a face streaked with soot. One sleeve of her expensive, crimson robe had been burned away entirely, exposing blistered and blackened skin beneath, yet she seemed oblivious to the injury.

Her usually cruel expression had melted into something feral, for once her immaculate posture and composure were shattered. She stalked towards you with a snarl. Her nails buried themselves deep into your hair before you even managed to push yourself upright. Agony exploded across your scalp as she dragged you across the tatami.

“What have you done?” she shrieked. “Do you understand what you have done?”

She threw you, hard. You struck the edge of the low table, which was still pushed up against the wall—one of the ornate carved legs splintered on impact, collapsing onto your side.

“What did you tell him—?”

A kick caught you in the ribs.

“What deal did you make with him—?”

You curled instinctively around the blow, arms shielding your head as another strike glanced off your shoulder. Smoke was pouring through the open doorway now, the ceiling groaning above you. Madame Yoru seized your sleeve, hauling you upright, only to slap you hard enough that your vision flashed white.

“I never understood why you were his favourite,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You were always weak and ungrateful. I should have let you starve in that box—”

Her hand shot towards your throat, and you stumbled backwards instead, managing to wrench yourself free as silk tore beneath her fingers. Instinct seized what little remained, and you tore out of the room. Stumbling down the hallway, you dodged upturned furniture, fallen beams and splintered shoji. Somewhere behind you, Madame Yoru screamed.

You burst into the parlour, your hand flying to your mouth as a series of hacking coughs tore from your throat. Thick smoke clawed at your lungs with every inhale, while a wall of blistering heat rolled across your skin so fiercely that your eyes watered. You knew you should’ve kept running, should’ve sprinted out the doors into the street beyond, taken in the world before the sun crept over the horizon, lost yourself in the maze of Ba Sing Se… but instead you were rooted at the centre of the room. Your gaze drifted upward, and you laughed.

The display was burning.

The great tiered platform, once the pride of the House of the Evening bloom, had become little more than a towering pyre. Flames climbed hunrgily from perch to perch, devouring lacquered timber until blackened and spilt apart with deafening cracks. Silk cushions shrivelled, embroidered fabrics curling in on themselves before erupting into showers of glowing embers. How many nights had you spent up in the highest tiers, looking at the men below? How many times had you prayed never to descend those steps again? One by one, the carefully placed seats where you and the other flowers had spent decades waiting to be chosen gave way. You watched as it collapsed inward, showering you in a spectacular burst of sparks and hot wind.

The fire spread greedily across every familiar corner of the parlour. The paint of the red and black pillars crackled, the draperies that had once enshrouded the room billowed as pillars of flame, and the lanterns that had once hung above were lost in the smoke. The low tables lay overturned amongst shattered porcelain, abandoned cups of sake and baijiu bubbling.

Your laughter caught in your throat as movement stirred beyond the smoke—at the mouth of the corridor stood Madame Yoru, and with no hesitation and fangs bared, she lunged.

But to your surprise, and maybe horror, she made it all of half the distance before a blur of blue and black crossed your vision. And much like Peony, Madame Yoru was frozen in place, mouth agape in confusion as she slowly looked down at the wooden stake protruding cleanly through her chest.

Almost immediately, cracks spread across her skin, the shrill sound of her scream cut short as her body fractured, collapsing into a pile of ash that scattered across the burning floor, revealing Zuko. The masked Warden’s chest was heaving, visible wounds poking through slices in the fabric of his clothes. Despite it, deep down you knew. You knew that if Zuko was standing before you… That if the House of the Evening Bloom was burning around you… No, Lord Kage would never have allowed it. So it could only mean… You knew it could only mean that…

Lord Kage, the Red Prince of the Pleasure District, was dead.

The monster was dead.

The Blue Spirit had killed him—he had done what centuries of Wardens before him had failed to accomplish.

He had killed him.

Your knees buckled, and you collapsed before him, a sound caught somewhere between a cough, sob and a laugh escaping you. Suddenly, the smoke no longer felt so unbearable, nor did the heat radiating from the fires surrounding you. As Zuko stepped closer, over the pile of robes and the scattered ashes Madame Yoru had left behind, you raised your chin to meet his gaze with a sniffle. Up close, you could see the full extent of his wounds; some were deep, but nothing life-threatening or crippling. You could even see the bite mark you’d left on his neck peeking out at you from under his undershirt. Blood and ash were smeared over the oni mask, and you studied the blank, smiling expression carved into the wood.

“Lord Kage is dead.” Zuko finally spoke, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the flames, though his voice was gravely from the smoke. “You’re free now.”

Free.

The word felt foreign.

You smiled up at him, not the practised smile of Spider Lily, but simply your smile. Perhaps the first honest smile you had worn since entering the House of the Evening Bloom. And it seemed to tell him all he needed to know, as he didn’t appear surprised as you reached out with trembling hands for the stake still clenched in his fist. He did not stop you as you guided the sharpened point towards your chest, resting it directly over your undead heart.

Still smiling, though tears blurred your vision, you pressed it into your skin, just hard enough to feel the promise waiting on the tip. When you finally spoke, there was no performance left within you. Only the girl Lord Kage had stolen all those years ago, asking for one final act of mercy. You curled your fingers around his and spoke what you hoped would be your final words.

“Kill me.”

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[artficlly]

nothing left but ash [teaser]

── avatar: the last airbender au

zuko x spy!fem oc six years after the death of avatar aang during sozin's comet, kaiya returns to the fire nation as a spy for the rebellion. after a mysterious, otherworldly sickness has wiped out most of the world’s women and children, surviving women have become little more than property—married off and valued only for their ability to reproduce. disguised as her former identity as the daughter of a respected war general, kaiya’s gender and status are enough to buy her a place within the palace walls. but after being abruptly married off to prince zuko, a man rumoured to be just as cruel as his father, her mission becomes unexpectedly complicated. the longer she spends trapped in his chambers and sharing his bed, learning the man hidden behind the monster, the lines between hatred and desire begin to blur.

── author's note

this fic is currently a wip - currently 30k words deep (predicting it'll be around 60-70k altogether). i'm planning to prewrite it all before posting! i just wanted to post a little teaser to get an idea of interest since i haven't written for atlab before or for x oc, since i'm usually an x reader girl. if you are interested, let me know! drop a like, a comment, a reblog or an ask! this fic is going to include smut and a lot of heavy themes (sa and noncon, war, misogyny, racism, violence and death, conversations around pregnancy and miscarriage), and parts of the plot were heavily inspired by the handmaid's tale it's going to be a pretty angsty beast, but there will be happy ending i promise. expect to see some wonderful tropes such as enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, slow burn and forced proximity.

There was a saying, older than the war, that Kaiya’s mother had once told her. 

It had been during the hush of night, five years after the death of the Avatar Aang during Sozin’s Comet, when the rebel base on Kyoshi Island finally fell to the Fire Nation. Kaiya remembered the sky most clearly. It had been infinite above them, stars blinking faintly while the moon painted silver across the waves and guided their dangerous journey to the Northern Water Tribe, where the scattered remains of the rebellion lay in wait.

The boat had rocked endlessly beneath them that night. Survivors huddled shoulder-to-shoulder along the hull beneath damp blankets, shivering and bracing whenever the sea spray hit. The silence had been broken only by muffled sobs, the occasional groan of the injured or the clatter of teeth. 

‘You walk a path, and behind you, the snow begins to fall.’ Her mother had murmured into the dark. Kaiya had finally looked at her then, after hours spent staring numbly at the sky overhead. ‘Not all at once, not enough to alarm. It gathers slowly in your footprints, softening the edges, filling the shape of where you have been.’

Moonlight had caught along the sharp edges of her mother’s profile, illuminating the old burn scars stretching across her hands, throat and arms—the patches of ruined flesh smudged with soot and blood. The boat had creaked beneath them as another wave struck the hull. ‘You don’t notice it happening step by step, not until there is suddenly no clear way back.’

The Elders always liked to say there had been signs. That the world had been warned of what was to come. Kaiya had heard them list them, one by one, as if naming them might mean something now, as if it could change anything that had happened. 

No one had thought much of it when Fire Lord Sozin first began seizing small territories in the Earth Kingdom over a century ago. No one had recognised it for what it was when tensions rose, colonies spread, and armies grew larger with each passing year. They had let the snow gather in their footsteps, and by the time anyone thought to turn around, the path back to peace and normality was already gone. Humanity had lost its way, lost in the blizzards of war and destruction, stumbling blindly in the hopes of finding what they had forgotten. 

Kaiya’s mother had been born into violence and died in it too, and all Kaiya ever secretly hoped was that she herself might escape the same fate.

But in the present, there was no time to dwell on the past, because despite the way her pulse thudded against her ribs, Kaiya knew that everything was going according to plan. 

It certainly didn’t feel like it. Not with her wrists bound in iron, the chains bruising and biting each time she shifted her weight. Not with a rough cloth bag pulled tight over her head, damp with her own breath.

But this was what the rebels had wanted. 

What she had agreed to. 

Kaiya had crossed back into Fire Nation territory willingly. 

The rebels had ferried her in beneath a moonless sky, the sea black and endless beneath the tiny boat. No lanterns had been permitted, not even a voice above a whisper. Only the rhythmic slap of water against the hull accompanied them as they slipped carefully past Fire Nation patrol routes and watchtowers. It had almost been laughably easy—then again, the patrols were watching for deserters fleeing eastward, not for rebels trying to get in. 

When they finally reached shore, her escorts had hesitated. Even in the dark, Kaiya had caught the uncertain glances they exchanged as she climbed from the boat alone, black sand sinking beneath her feet. No one had said it aloud, but she could feel the thought hanging between them all the same: 

What if they had just delivered her directly to her execution?

Kaiya had not allowed herself to think too long about it. 

By dawn, a patrol had found her sitting calmly at the shoreline. She hadn’t run, hadn’t fought back, hadn’t even resisted when they shackled her wrists. 

Why would she?

Everything was unfolding exactly as planned. 

A woman of fertile years, crossing the border alone and demanding an audience with the Fire Lord was either desperate or insane. Or both. The guards, foolish enough to underestimate her, never seemed to consider there might be another reason entirely. 

And so, eight hours later, Kaiya found herself exactly where she had intended to be.

Inside the palace of her enemy. 

Even blinded, she could hear the others lined beside her—criminals, deserters, rebel sympathisers waiting for Fire Lord Ozai to decide if their sentence was death or something far worse. Chains rattled softly whenever someone shifted. Somewhere nearby, someone whimpered quietly, while another tried and failed to suppress frightened sobs. 

Although it was not apparent to anyone but herself, Kaiya stood amongst them willingly. 

And all she could hope was that her footsteps would not fill with ash before she found her way back to a life she had never truly known.

i no longer have a taglist. if you want to keep being notified when i post please follow @artficlly-archive and turn on post notifications! <3

[artficlly-archive]

bit of a shift from my usual stuff! but heres a little teaser of a fic i've been pouring my heart and soul into the past couple months... really wanting to get an interest gauge on this beast. check it out and let me know <3 mwah

[pinksplace]

Inspired by the ultimate cozy game, the Bucky Writers Association is excited to bring you the ultimate cozy collab!

After suddenly finding himself the owner of a new (admittedly decrepit) farm located in the quiet recesses of Pelican Town, Bucky Barnes has to face his toughest challenge yet: growing parsnips.

Oh! And of course, falling in love.

warnings: minors do not interact. be sure to read all content warnings listed on each fic prior to indulging. please remember that fiction cannot hurt you! if you don't like what you see, please exit. as always, you are responsible for your own media consumption.

“Selfish Appetite”- @tw1sters

「 Lewis 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Mayor!Reader

You’ve always had one rule: never date your residents — and it’s been easy — until Bucky shows up with his steady hands and deep blue eyes, making you question everything you’ve built and everything you’ve sought to protect.

“Pour Decisions” - @blowingbarnes

「 Gus 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Bartender!Bucky

Tony Stark’s saloon runs on good liquor, better music, and one rule: don’t cause trouble. Bucky finds it one hell of a rule to follow when you get your claws out. To everyone, you're harmless — sweet, attentive, and just so nice. To him, you're a problem he keeps coming back to.

“Silver Springs” - @superbassbuck

「 Haley 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

As the new farmer in a small town, Bucky is constantly working to earn everyone’s respect. He can’t seem to get through to you, so he keeps his distance out of respect for your boundaries. Then he realizes your distance isn't by choice, but rather a testament to how lonely you truly are in this town.

“Fertiliz-her” - @pinksplace

「 Demetrius」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Scientist!Reader

Bucky gives you free range of his farm and all the plants and wildlife it includes. You give Bucky fertilizer and any scientific insights you find. Tit for tat. Seems simple enough, but as the days pass, you can’t seem to escape each-other’s orbit. It’s like nature is literally pushing you together, but that would be crazy… wouldn’t it?

“Reap What You Sow” - @epiphanyrogers

「 Shane 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

bucky barnes moved to the valley looking for peace. you’ve been here your whole life and never known it. one impulsive night proves you have chemistry. every day since proves you’re fundamentally incompatible. or at least, that’s how it looks when anyone’s watching. the problem is what happens when they’re not.

“Hex Appeal” - @artficlly

「 Rasmodius 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Witch!Reader

You must obtain the power of forest magic to decipher this message

ᛍ╮ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵ ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ᛁ◟⸍ᛁ╮ᛁˎި⸝╵⸍ᛙᛍᚽᛁᛍ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄⸌╵╵ᛍ╮ި ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ ᛍ╮ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵ ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ᛁ◟⸍ᛁ╮ᛁˎި⸝╵⸍ᛙᛍᚽᛁᛍ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄⸌╵╵ᛍ╮ި ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ ᛍ╮ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵ ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ᛁ◟⸍ᛁ╮ᛁˎި⸝╵⸍ᛙᛍᚽᛁᛍ ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄⸌╵╵ᛍ╮ި ⸝ިᛍ⸍ᛁᛙᛍ⸝ᛁ⸍ᚽᛍ⸝ᚽ⡄ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵ ᚽ⡄ ◟ިᛁŊ◟ᛁᛁᛁ⸍⸜ᚽ╮ᛍ╵

Only one can gift it.

“Doctor’s Orders” - @54nboo

「 Harvey 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Doctor!Reader

the farmer claims he doesn’t need your help, but he always ends up in your clinic one way or another. this time, a particularly bad fall in the mines is the reason he’s laid out on your examination table, and as the valley’s only doctor, it’s your job to make him feel better no matter what.

thank you @/artficlly for the gorgeous Bucky sprite!!!!

Stardew fence divider by @/softandsleepyboy

there are no dates for posting. each writer will post their fic whenever they are ready, and the masterlist will be updated as such. all writing and work belongs to their respective writers. as a collective, the writers tagged in this post do not give their consent for their work to be redistributed to other platforms to be reposted, translated, or re-worked by any means. we do not give consent for our work to be used in any form of artificial intelligence (ai) training.

[artficlly]

o m ggggg!! it’s stardew time guys 🤩

as a certified gamer girl i hope you are all ready… pinky naturally let me claim the wizard as my character the SECOND she pitched this idea. (in all seriousness. concerned ape. when are we getting romanceable wizard?????)

if you have not played stardew or do not know the lore, do not fear my dear readers! i think most of these fics will be able to be read without prior knowledge!

thank u to miss pinks place for letting me join in on this, and also letting me draw the little pixel art sprite of bucky!

anyway buckle up dear readers and i hope you all enjoy once my fic Hex Appeal is ready and posted in the coming weeks ❤️

[artficlly-archive]

something is on the way!

[artficlly]

the price of passage [three]

── sci-fi marvel au ✩

bountyhunter! bucky x healer!reader when an off-planet plague wipes out your village, you set out in search of a cure. with no way off-world, you’re forced to hitch a ride with the infamous bounty hunter bucky barnes—only to learn that every favour in the galaxy comes with a cost, and his may come with strings attached.

── tags ✩

18+ content minors dni, eventual smut (later chapters), fem reader, slow burn, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, death, sickness/disease, injuries, death of family, grief, sci-fi elements like spaceships, bickering, kidnapping, bucky has issues, use of 'little lady', 'sweetheart' and 'darlin'' pet names, jungle setting, heavy lore building, no use of y/n, mood boards do not represent reader's appearance

word count: 4.3k

── main masterlist ✩ series masterlist

It was the shrill clang of metal on metal, the scrape of tools and hurried rummaging that dragged you back into consciousness. That, and the cold sting of unyielding metal pressed against your throbbing cheekbone. For a hazy moment, you thought you were still in the jungle. Still in one of the many rooms within the maze that was the Thicket, listening to the builders as they negotiated their way through solutions to stop the ancient ship from crumbling in on itself. 

You rolled over groggily, the world lurching. All you could do was squint up at the ceiling, eyes following the metal curving overhead. It was far too polished and far too close to be your room back at the Thicket— 

Panic jolted through you as sensation rushed back in all at once. 

Your wrists burned, pulled back and bound tightly somewhere behind your back. You sucked in a sharp breath, and your eyes flew open properly this time, blinking hard against the light. Strange bands of illumination traced the seam of the room, casting everything in a cold blue-white hue. It didn’t flicker like firelight or waver like torches. It remained steady and unblinking like the sun up above. 

Your head turned, and the room tilted, vision splintering as your eyes struggled to keep pace. Metal walls pressed in on all sides. Panels lined the walls, etched with symbols you didn’t recognise. Some glowed faintly, others dark and silent. Thin lines—wires, maybe—ran along the surfaces like veins, disappearing into the structure itself. 

But, oddly enough, the air was dry and crisp, nothing like the heavy, damp warmth of the jungle. A bitter tang clung to it, sharp and sterile. It made your nose wrinkle.

Your gaze snagged on a narrow bunk bolted into the wall, a blanket folded neatly at its foot. Beyond it, a cabinet hung open, its contents spilt across the floor. Tools, containers, and weapons. Bullets glinting dully among the scattered pieces. 

Cold fear slid down your spine. 

You tested your restraints again—harder this time—tugging at the rope that bound you in place until the metal beam behind you groaned and thudded in protest. Blindly, you scrambled onto your knees, fighting the bindings until your wrists screamed and your shoulders burned—

The noise stopped, rummaging cut off abruptly. 

A shape moved beneath you; one of the floor panels had been pried up, leaving a gaping hole. A head of dark, tousled hair appeared, followed by the broad, hulking body of your captor as he hauled himself up with a grunt. His metal arm caught the light, and now, even in your foggy state, it was undeniable that this man was Bucky Barnes, the bloodhound hunting Thane. 

“You’re awake,” he said easily. “That’s good. Thought I’d hit you too hard there for a secon—” 

His casual drawl was cut off. 

“Where am I?” you snapped, words tumbling over each other as your gaze darted around the space. “What is this place?”

“Easy there, little lady,” he muttered, unbothered, dragging a stool across the floor with a scrape. He dropped onto it in front of you, legs spread, elbows braced on his thighs as he peered down at you. “You’re on my ship—you know what a ship is, right? You Green Graver’s have ships?”

Your brows knit together, breath coming in short, shallow pulls. “What’s a Green Graver?”

“You—” He sighed, clearly losing patience, and turned his head. “Hey. F.R.I.D.A.Y? Do Green Gravers have ships?”

You flinched, startled as a voice filled the room. It was a woman’s, calm and clear, though utterly devoid of warmth. The scout had mentioned nothing of another bounty hunter working with Barnes. 

“Query acknowledged.” 

You whipped your head around, heart hammering. “Who—who is that?”

“By ‘Green Graver’,” the voice continued smoothly, “I assume you are using slang to refer to the native inhabitants of the planet Ixara Primeria. Intergalactic Fenske Risk Scale classification: R-87.4.”

You looked back at Barnes, who appeared entirely unfazed and understanding of the jumble of unknown words.  

“Planet Ixara Primeria possesses no local technological infrastructure. Native populations have not been exposed to standard scientific developments. Planetary conditions are classified as extremely hostile due to aggressive flora and fauna, and a dense jungle biome—earning it the unofficial nickname of ‘Green Grave’.”

Barnes' brows lifted in vague interest. The harder you listened, the more wrong it sounded. The voice didn’t come from any one place; it seemed to seep out of the walls themselves. It echoed unnaturally, as if it were being projected through the entire ship.

“The Intergalactic Travel Agency advises no travel to R-87.4 Ixara Primeria. No contact with native inhabitants is also advised. Locals are considered primitive and potentially violent if approached or unknowingly provoked.”

“There’s… someone else here,” you whispered, eyes searching the walls, the ceiling, the shadows between panels.

“It’s just the ship’s A.I.,” Bucky said, waving a hand dismissively. He caught the look on your face and snorted. “Just—don’t worry about it.”

You didn’t understand a single thing he was saying, but you decided to take his word for it—except the worrying part. You were very much worried about it. You secretly tucked away the knowledge that a woman might be on board and able to leap out of the shadows to attack you at any moment.

“What is a… Ixara Primeria?” you asked slowly, the word feeling strange on your tongue.

He frowned, eyes scanning your face like he was searching to see if you were joking or not. 

“Hell, maybe I did hit you too hard.” He leaned back on the stool. “Ixara Primeria… your planet… the one we’re on right now?”

It was your turn to examine him to double-check he wasn’t making a poorly landed joke. 

“You are mistaken,” you replied firmly. “This is Khar’eth.”

“Khar’eth?” He huffed a quiet laugh; the pronunciation sounded wrong with his strange accent. “That the local name or somethin’?” 

Despite the casual tone, you could tell it had been rhetorical, because the moment you opened your mouth, he barrelled right over you. 

“Well, sweetheart,” he said, and you didn’t miss the condescension dripping from the nickname.  “Every star map says it’s Ixara Primeria. But if callin’ it Khar’eth makes you feel better, knock yourself out. I ain’t here to argue names.”

That irritated you. 

Maybe it was his tone, the condescension, or the casual entitlement… But his words alone were enough to activate a rage that had lain dormant since you woke. The fear that had wrapped tightly around your ribs evaporated in an instant, burned away by a rising heat that left your body trembling. Anger surged, turning from a simmer to a boil as something within you finally snapped. 

“I know why you’re here,” you snarled, lifting your chin despite the dull throb pulsing behind your temple. “I know what you are.”

That got his attention. 

“I even know your name,” you finished with a sneer. 

His brows lifted, mouth quirking as he leaned back slightly on the stool, posture relaxed in that casual, over-confident way. But you couldn’t help but notice his eyes had become alert. 

“Oh? You do? Well, ain’t that helpful…” he drawled. “Guess we’re on the same page then.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” you clarified, jutting your chin to the side in dismissal. 

“I don’t need you to, little lady,” his lips twitched, amused, “got all the information I needed outta that scout. What a screamer he was…”

“I know,” you shot back with a scowl. “I was the one who fixed his shoulder after what you did to him—”

Barnes didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by the vile in your tone, instead sucking on his teeth in thought with a shrug. 

“Huh,” he hummed, thoughtfully. “Guess that tracks. Your village-folk said you was a healer of some kind.”

You swallowed hard, jaw tightening. 

“Be easier for you to kill me now, bloodhound. I’m not helping you,” you seethed. 

His gaze slid over you, deliberately, in an unhurried way that made your skin prickle. It caught on the lines of your body—the way your shirt pulled tight across your chest, the inward dip of your waist before flaring to your hips—and lingered there a heartbeat too long to be accidental. Heat crawled up your spine; it was the kind of look that made you acutely aware of your own body. Bound, sore, and far, far too close to him. 

“I ain’t going to kill you, little lady,” he murmured at last, his voice dropping until it scraped like gravel. “Killin’ women’s bad for business.”

“You already hurt me,” you shot back, anger snapping through the ache in your knees, which were still burning from being knelt cold metal for too long “What’s the difference?”

Something dark flickered through his expression, and his eyes narrowed. “Well, that was necessary to get you—”

You interrupted him. “Untie me then.” 

“No.”

“Then why have you kidnapped me—”

“Because,” he said calmly, cutting you off without raising his voice. He leant forward again, forearms braced on his muscular thighs. Up close, he filled your vision. Close enough that you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your skin. “I know I won’t make it more than a few hundred meters into that jungle without gettin’ pick off by whatever beasts are lurkin’ out there.”

His eyes flicked briefly to your bound hands, then returned to your face. He wet his lower lip with his tongue, considering you. His voice dropped when he spoke again, rough-edged and low enough to settle deep in your chest. “Figured the best way would be to get a local guide.” 

“No.”

“No?” One dark brow lifted, faintly amused. 

“I won’t take you.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you. Up close, you could see the fine lines etched around his eyes—likely from time spent under the sun and a life lived in violence. He was older than you, that was for sure, a decade or so…around Naven’s age. It showed in the way he held himself, unhurried and unshaken. You could make out more scars, smaller, old enough to have faded to the point of minimal visibility. But worst of all, you could smell him, faint sweat and oil and the musk of the jungle. 

“Look,” he said finally, voice low and maddeningly steady. “From where I’m sitting, sweetheart…” His gaze dipped, briefly, deliberately—before lifting to lock onto yours again, cool and certain “...you don’t have much choice in the matter.”

You scowled at him, forcing your spine straight despite the ache in your skull, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. “I won’t take you to him.”

His mouth curved, lazy and infuriating, like he’d been expecting that answer.

“You say that but…I know that you can. You navigated that jungle all by yourself, ‘least that’s what your village folks say.” He paused, a deceptively charming smile on full display now. “Hell, I’ll give you part of the reward if you’re a good girl.”

The words rubbed you the wrong way, and something feral was clawing up your throat, like the way a cornered Morrowcat in the jungle—fur bristled, lips drawn back in a hiss, every warning screaming don’t come closer. Time was bleeding out around you, every second, another handful of soil placed in the graves you were trying not to picture. You were wasting time you didn't have. 

“I don’t want your reward,” you snarled. “I need you to untie me.” 

He exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers tapping once against his thigh. “You’re gonna make this difficult, huh?”

You were wasting time you didn’t have. 

“I need to get back to my village—”

“Just take a breath, sweetheart. I’ll let you go once you take me to Thane—”

“I need to go back,” you insisted, the words tumbling faster now as panic bled through your anger. Naven. The Hall. The rows of bodies. “They need me to heal them—”

“You’re gonna heal them?” Barnes interrupted, incredulous. “You?”

“I promised them I would find a cure.”

“Out there?” A short, humourless laugh left him as he leaned back on the stool, metal scraping softly against the floor. “In that jungle?”

He huffed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shit, darlin’. Ain’t none of your little… herbs and prayers gonna touch Dry Lung.”

“Dry what?”

“Dry Lung, Desiccation Fever?” His tone shifted. Not mocking now, rather, he seemed troubled. “It’s what they have.”

“You know this plague?” You questioned. 

It took him a beat to reply. 

“Yes,” he said, slowly. And for the first time, he didn’t appear eager to meet your eye; he looked past you instead. Jaw tight, eyes distant… as if something old and ugly had surfaced in his memories. “Yes, I do, so I can tell you you ain’t gonna cure it with anythin’ you can find here.”

“The jungle always provides,” you shot back, grasping for certainty like a lifeline.

That did it.

Whatever had crossed his face vanished, replaced in an instant by the familiar snark, the easy condescension snapping back into place. “Sorry, sweetheart, but that ain’t how it works in the real world. Only cure for Desiccation Fever is RespiraSol.”

The word meant nothing to you. “Respira… what?”

“Hell,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw again. “You don’t know anythin’ do you? The sickness in your village, it ain’t from this planet. And the cure sure as hell ain’t here either.”

“Don’t lie to me—”

“I ain’t lying, sweetheart,” he cut in, voice firm now. “Maybe it’s best you just face the reality that—”

“Stop—”

“ —everyone in that village is either dead or dyin’—”

“Stop it—”

“—and there ain't a damn thing you can do—”

“Stop talking!” you shouted, the sound ripping out of you. Your head pounded viciously as tears bloomed behind your eyes. You squeezed them shut, blinking hard up at the curved ceiling, swallowing back the grief before it could fully rear its ugly head.

Barnes sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was already exhausted by you; that much was clear. “And I thought I was ‘posed to be the one runnin’ this shitshow.”

“I’m not taking you to him,” you sniffed. “I need you to let me go.”

“Yeah?” When you tipped your head back down, he was up in your face again. His fingers caught your chin firmly, forcing your face across from his. The pad of his thumb brushed your cheek, smearing away the trail of a tear with an almost mocking gentleness. “And what choice do you have in the matter at this point, little lady? If anythin’ I’m doin’ you a favour—”

Something hot, reckless and ugly seized you. All the fear, all the grief, all the helpless fury accumulating at once. You didn’t think—couldn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You sucked in a breath and spat.

The glob of saliva hit his cheek, just under his eye, and the ship went very, very quiet. 

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he wiped his face slowly with the back of his hand, eyes lifting to meet yours, all understanding and patience gone now, replaced by something cold. 

“Alright,” he spoke, deceptively calm. “I’m done playin’ nice. We’re headed into the jungle whether you like it or not.”

Panic shot through you.

“I need to go back!” you shouted, desperation clawing its way up your throat. “They need me—”

“Oh, grow up, would you?” he snapped, rising to his feet. “They’re all already marked for death, might as well let it happen ‘fore you catch it too.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed, and he barked a short laugh, stepping close, his shadow swallowing you whole.

“Is that ‘posed to intimidate me?” he asked. His hands reached behind you, fingers working at the bindings. Before you could react, the restraints loosened, only for his grip to tighten as he hauled you upright in one swift motion, your wrists still bound behind your back.

“C’mon,” he growled, steering you toward the exit. “Get on your fuckin’ feet, we’re going for a walk.”

The area where Barnes' ship was located had been unceremoniously named ‘The Clearing’ by Thane. And it was not so much a clearing but rather a wound torn into the jungle. Roughly oval-shaped, made up of trampled earth and broken plant growth, ringed tight by the towering trees. The canopy had been scorched back, branches blackened and stripped bare where ships had burned through on descent. 

The villagers whispered of this place as if it were a legend, not because the land was mystical, but because entry was forbidden. Thane kept it under constant watch, scouts hidden in the trees at all hours to ensure no one wandered too close. The reason, as far as anyone could tell, was simple: it was one of the only places on the entire planet not swallowed by jungle, which meant it was one of the few stretches of open ground where ships could land. 

And ships did land there regularly enough, though no one ever saw them land. 

They came at night, roaring overhead, loud enough to rattle the huts and wake frightened children miles away. Sometimes—before you had left your home to work for Thane—you had stayed awake late into the night, staring hard through the leaves. Just for the off-chance you’d catch a glimpse of them, the distant lights slipping between the branches, gone before your eyes could adjust. 

Now, after living in the Thicket these past years, you knew why those mystery ships came. They came loaded with supplies meant only for Thane. Guns. Ammunition. Strange, off-world items no one else on the planet could obtain. And by guarding the clearing so tightly, Thane ensured that every off-planet arrival was seen, tracked, and reported. Any outsider who came down uninvited was flagged immediately—especially if they posed a threat.

A threat just like Bucky Barnes, whose ship now sat behind you.

It was large in comparison to you, that was for sure, but nowhere near as colossal in contrast with the ruins of the ship the Thicket was made from. Barnes’ ship wasn’t boxy in the same way; it was all sharp angles. Sleek in a way you suspected was for speed. The metal was scorched in some places, scarred and pitted like it had been struck with bullets. Along its side was bold, red text: Howling Commando. It squatted in the Clearing like a predator at rest, ramp already sealing shut with a hiss. 

You barely had time to take it in before Barnes shoved you forward. “Move.”

Your feet slid in the loose earth as you stumbled and managed to regain your balance, your wrists still bound tightly behind your back. The dull, pounding ache of pain still flared from your skull down into your arms, only growing more irritated with every step. You were near certain you had a giant bruise on your cheek and temple, and from the itch along your hairline, likely a fair bit of dried blood, too. 

The jungle swallowed you almost immediately, the moment you were shoved past its threshold. The undergrowth tugged at your shins, broad leaves slick with humidity brushing your skin, insects whirring angrily at the disturbance. 

Although there was a bittersweet comfort and familiarity with the jungle, you still cast a quick, desperate glance back towards the clearing. Please, you thought. Please let one of the scouts be watching. You knew if any of them saw you being dragged off by an off-worlder with a gun, they’d have to act. Or at least report it to Thane—hopefully to your village too. 

Gods, you hoped your village didn’t believe you’d abandoned them—not again. No. You couldn’t run this time. You would save them.

Still, apprehension coiled in your gut. You had the sinking feeling that Barnes wasn’t lying, not about Dry Lung or off-world cures. As much as you wanted him to be wrong, he had nothing to gain by deceiving you about that.

But Thane… he was an off-planeter himself. If anyone on this planet knew of Dry Lung and how to treat it, it would be him. Maybe—if you could worm your way out of Barnes’s grip—you could convince Thane to bring the cure in his next supply shipment. If he treated it as urgent, if the ships came fast enough, maybe it would arrive before Naven and the others grew too weak to fight the disease.

Maybe. Just maybe. 

But all of that didn’t matter now. You needed to focus and make an escape plan. And from the way Barnes was navigating the jungle, you suspected that escape needed to be sooner rather than later. He hadn’t taken you towards any of the main paths. Instead, he cut sideways into the undergrowth, forcing you through growth so thick it slowed your pace to inches at a time. You presumed he wanted to avoid running into any scouts, but those paths existed for a reason. They were well established enough that travel became unquestionably faster, and conveniently wove around to avoid nests, sink holes and the dens of things that hunted by scent and sound. 

And Barnes was making plenty of sound. 

Branches cracked under his boots, leaves tore, and his shoulder clipped vines hard enough to snap them free. It was like he was deliberately trying to leave a path of destruction behind you. The massive rifle strapped across his back bumped rhymically against him, metal knocking dully with every step. 

“You’re too loud.”

“Relax,” he muttered, one hand clamped on your upper arm as she shoved you around a curtain of hanging moss. 

“Everything in this jungle can hear you,” you snapped back with a hiss, breath coming short as you struggled to keep up with the pace, all while dodging and weaving through the undergrowth. Sweat was already slicking down your spine.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah? And everythin’ in this jungle can hear you breathin’ like that.”

You glared over your shoulder, though the motion sent a sharp spike of pain through your skull. The world tilted for a second before righting itself. You gritted your teeth and pushed onwards. 

A couple of hours in, the sun was starting to set; even under the canopy, the golden light shone through, catching on the moisture clinging to the plantlife. Barnes had ensured the brutal pace was kept up, with not-so-delicate shoves as you tried to find the best path through the greenery. Every step fought you, roots twisting underfoot, thorned vines snagging your clothes, insects biting exposed skin without mercy. Sweat plastered your hair to your temples, trickling down into your eyes. Your throat was dry, your entire body shaking from fatigue, and the throbbing in your skull was becoming agonising. 

“How much further?” Barnes asked abruptly, and you hesitated with a sigh, carefully steering around a fallen, half-rotted log. 

“Far enough that you should’ve taken a path—” your snip was cut short as the rope binding your wrists snapped taut. You were yanked backwards, your spine colliding with a solid wall of muscle as his chest came flush to your back.

“Don’t be smart about it, sweetheart.” Barnes breathed into your ear, and you shuddered, acutely aware of the brush of his breath, the faint graze of his lips near your earlobe as he leaned in. “How far?”

The proximity made your skin prickle. As you swallowed hard and turned your head to look at him, you realised he had not been spared by the elements either. Sweat darkened the fabric of his shirt, clinging to his broad frame, curls plastered damply to his forehead. His breathing had deepened with the heat and exertion, chest rising slowly and heavily as he watched you.

“At the pace we’re going…” You started, eyelids fluttering and chest heaving as his breath fanned across your face. “We’ll get there early morning if we’re lucky and push through all night. But it’s impossible to navigate unpathed jungle in the dark without—”

“We keep movin’.” He grunted and shoved you forward. 

You stumbled, feet catching your foot catching on a root you swore hadn’t been there a second ago.

“You slowin’ down on purpose?” he asked. “Thought you Green Gravers were ‘posed to be good at this shit.”

“I—” The word slurred, your balance pitching sharply to one side. White flared behind your eyes, pain detonating through your skull in time with your pulse. You barely caught yourself before your knees buckled completely. 

Barnes swore under his breath and grabbed your arm, steadying you before you hit the ground. He gripped your chin with one hand, as he tilted your head side to side, eyes tracking your pupils, and inspecting the dark bloom of the bruise at your temple. Whatever he saw, he didn’t like the look of it. He muttered something low under his breath that you didn’t catch, jaw ticking as irritation bled into something closer to concern. Reaching back, he yanked his canteen free and twisted the cap off with his teeth.

“Drink.” 

“I can’t—” Your wrists jerked uselessly behind you. 

“I know.” His voice dropped, unexpectedly gentle. His free hand stayed at your chin, tipping your face back as he angled the canteen toward your mouth. “Just… look at me.”

You did. It was unexpectedly intimate, watching his brow furrow in concentration as he poured the water into your mouth. You couldn’t help but let out a little moan, eyes rolling back as the water hit your lips, cold and clean. You swallowed greedily, throat working as it spilt too fast, some of it escaping and trailing down your chin. 

When you opened your eyes, he hadn’t looked away. His gaze locked on the movement of your throat, lingered at your mouth. Slowly, he lowered the canteen. His thumb followed after, the metal digit brushing away the line of escaped water at your jaw with a deliberate, lingering swipe.

Your breath hitched. 

“Enough,” he finally said, his voice rougher than before. He capped the canteen and took a step back, like he’d only just realised how close he’d let himself get. “We keep movin’.”

For once, you didn’t argue.

i no longer have a taglist. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-archive and turn on post notifications! <3

[artficlly]

the price of passage [two]

── sci-fi marvel au ✩

bountyhunter! bucky x healer!reader when an off-planet plague wipes out your village, you set out in search of a cure. with no way off-world, you’re forced to hitch a ride with the infamous bounty hunter bucky barnes—only to learn that every favour in the galaxy comes with a cost, and his may come with strings attached.

── tags ✩

18+ content minors dni, eventual smut (later chapters), fem reader, slow burn, enemies to lovers, death, sickness/disease, violence, graphic descriptions, death of family, panic attack, grief, sci-fi elements like spaceships, monsters and creatures, use of 'little lady' pet name, jungle setting, heavy lore building, no use of y/n, mood boards do not represent reader's appearance

word count: 4.5k

── main masterlist ✩ series masterlist

Your prediction had been right, just not in the way you’d expected. 

You were already packed and moving past the spiked jungle-wood fence, and the half-dozing guards in the watchtowers before the sun had breached the horizon. Only a thin wash of grey light clung to the sky, the last of the night retreating as you slipped beneath the canopy. Insects trilled and clicked around you, their chorus thinning the deeper you went, giving way to the first tentative calls of birds waking overhead. 

You kept a steady pace, feet finding the familiar rhythm along the dirt and roots, ducking low branches without breaking stride. If you kept your pace up and nothing interrupted you, you’d reach Caligo by late afternoon. 

Thane had suggested you take a party of his men. A kind offer from him, all things considered. Though, he had called it travel protection, rather than a helping hand for the horrors you had yet to face. 

Regardless, you’d declined. 

You didn’t need guides through your own jungle. You’d walked these routes more times than you could count, answering the call for help whenever a scout or hunter was injured deep in the wild. But mostly, you’d declined because a heavily armed group would only draw attention. If the scout was truthful, and that bounty hunter, that bloodhound was still lurking… attention was the last thing you wanted. 

You suspected this Barnes was likely smart enough not to venture too deep alone, instead sticking to the more populated areas. The jungle paths between villages were dangerous, yes, but they were carved by generations of feet. The wildlife had learned those boundaries. It kept to the deeper, darker places. Places like where you walked now, or where the Thicket squatted, half-swallowed by the rainforest. It was a type of natural defence, one that kept the Thicket relatively safe from wandering outsiders—at the cost of isolation. The type of isolation that made travel to the true heart of the jungle slow, punishing work—

There was movement, just off the trail. 

Your steps faltered automatically, feet coming down softly as you slowed to a stop. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be too much of a threat. The insects still trilled, their endless chorus only drowned out by the distant flutter of a bird taking flight into the grey dawn. You scanned the undergrowth, catching the faint ripple of motion.

A spineback. 

Its plated hide blended almost seamlessly with the mottled greens and browns of the jungle floor, only the curved ridges along its back betraying it, layer upon layer of bone and leathery skin grown thick as armour, scarred and dulled by age. Its head lifted, deep nostrils on either side of its horn flaring as it tasted the air. The creature shifted its weight, pawing at the jungle floor with a low, grinding sound, its hooved toes pressing deep into the soil. A spilt tongue flicked out between blunt, crushing teeth, its beady, dark eyes tracking the shadows. 

If there was one, the rest of the herd would be nearby. 

Slowly—slowly—you eased backwards, placing your heel where your toe had been, feeling for roots and stones before committing your weight. The herd’s passage was announced by the rhythmic thud of armoured bodies and the crack of felled branches surrendering beneath their weight. You stepped carefully off the path, watching as they passed, their thick tails flattening the undergrowth with careless swings. The smaller juveniles stayed tucked close to the centre, shielded by the bulk of their elders. They were peaceful creatures, herbivores. But, like most things on Khar’eth, no less dangerous when they felt threatened, especially with their young to protect. 

The detour took you closer to the undergrowth than you liked, forcing you into a narrow strip of ground choked with low creepers and twisting vines. You watched your footing closely, eyes tracking the faint sheen along the forest floor until you spotted it—chokevine, its tendrils lying deceptively slack among the moss and soil.

You lifted your foot slowly, placed it down with deliberate care, and moved through without disturbing a single coil.

You kept your body turned slightly away from the herd, movements smooth and predictable, giving the spinebacks a wide arc. One of the adults snorted softly, stamping once, but did not charge. Its attention lingered on you only briefly before returning to the juveniles pressing close to its flank.

This—this—was why no one came. Not because Khar’eth was hostile, not truly. But because it demanded understanding. Because survival here wasn’t about strength or weapons or destruction. It was about knowing when to stop, when to yield ground, when to become one with the jungle…but most of all, when to run. 

Outsiders didn’t have the patience for it, or the time. Years passed between them. Decades, sometimes. Thane was one of the only off-planters to ever settle on Khar’eth, and he’d only survived because he’d hired locals—people like you—to teach him the jungle’s language. Which birdcall meant warning, which silences meant death, and which plants were as deadly as predators. Without that knowledge, he’d been dead in days, if not hours. 

Once you had cleared the herd entirely, you eased back onto the path, boots crunching softly over packed earth. Behind you, the spinebacks moved on, the jungle folding itself closed around them..

Ahead, the trail bent toward Caligo.

You adjusted your pack and continued forward, careful where you placed your feet, already recalibrating your pace to the jungle’s unspoken rules.

Hours later, it was the crunch of sand beneath your boot that stopped you short. You stared down at the ground, momentarily disoriented. You had seen sand before—of course, you had—but never like this, never here. The nearest bay lay miles away, where the jungle finally surrendered to an ocean that stretched unbroken to the horizon. You had only ever seen that great blue after leaving Caligo, called there under Thane’s employ for a job gone sideways. A razortooth had taken one of the Hunters at the water’s edge. It had clamped its jaw around his legs, dragging him screaming towards the surf to be devoured until Ronan put a bullet through the beast's skull. The Hunter had lived, if you could call it that. He walked with a brace now, bones shattered beyond your ability to heal. 

But this—this made no sense. Sand had no business being this far inland. 

You crouched, brushing your fingers through the pale grit. It was fine, almost silky, slipping easily through your hands. It dusted the undergrowth, clung to moss and fallen leaves, and settled in the shallow footprints along the path. You followed the trail with your eyes, uneasy. The closer you drew towards Caligo, the denser it became. Quite literally a path leading home—and you’d noticed it far before you saw the familiar curve of the entrance arch through the leaves, long before the outlines of huts and smoke emerged. It had been tracked through the jungle, carried by the breeze. A sick understanding coiled low in your gut. This abnormal sand, it was coming from Caligo. 

And worst of all, Caligo was silent. No voices, no laughter, no rhythmic clatter of daily life. The village sat ahead of you, perfectly intact, and utterly dead. The dread in your stomach yawned wider, and you passed beneath the archway on unsteady feet, eyes darting as you drank in the scene before you… and stopped dead in your tracks. 

At first, you mistook the shapes in the street for covered lumber or baskets of food. But the harder you stared, the more undeniable the truth became. 

Bodies.

They were stacked in the thoroughfare, piled without care, some half-covered, others left bare beneath the canopy. You braced yourself, braced yourself for the stench of rot. You knew decay, had encountered the cycles of life and death within the jungle. You’d seen plenty of decomposing and bloated bodies of animals and unfortunate souls that wandered too deep into the jungle without a guide. You’d stared at their blue flesh and bulbous eyes, recognised decomposition taking hold. 

But the stench never came. 

The air was warm and humid. Sweat beaded even your brow, your clothes drenched through from just walking, but these bodies seemed to reject the moisture. There was no swelling, no bloating, no mould or maggots creeping across the skin. It was as if nature itself had been shut out—something so wrong, so uncanny it wrung out even your iron gut and made your steady, healer’s hands tremble. 

Their flesh was pale and tight, drawn so thin it had split over elbows and knees, cracked like leather stretched too far. Lips were pulled back from yellowed teeth, eyes left open, shrunken and dry. You took a step closer to investigate, and your breath hitched. 

The bodies didn’t compress the way they should have. Those at the bottom of the piles hadn’t flattened or burst—they had collapsed. Chests caved inward, as if the ribcages had simply…given up. Their bones were reduced to nothing, their skin and muscle hard and disintegrating until they turned to dust… to sand. 

Sand.

The streets were coated in it, that same pale grit you’d followed all the way here. It puffed up around your boots with every step, rising in faint clouds. You lifted a shaking hand and dragged your neck covering over your mouth and nose, bile burning acidic in your throat. 

You were standing in a mass grave.

It was a voice in the distance that finally dragged your attention away from the bodies. A quiet, hoarse voice that you thought you’d imagined at first, until it continued, insistent, calling your name. You finally turned, catching sight of its origin—Lira.

She stood a few paces away, half-hidden behind a leaning hut wall, as if unsure whether she was really seeing you. Her hair had been hacked short in the time since you had seen her last, uneven and jagged around her jaw. Her face was thinner than you remembered, eyes sunk deep into bruised hollows, skin sagging with exhaustion.

Lira, the wife of your brother Naven. Your sister by marriage, though the word sister had always felt odd to say. You had never been close with her or Naven. Being one of your older brothers, he was already a man by the time you were old enough to trail after him. Still—family was family. 

Lira’s face crumpled the moment she recognised you. A broken sound tore from her throat as she surged forward, the force of her knocking the breath from your lungs. You barely had time to brace for her unexpected embrace before her arms locked around your waist, fingers digging in, her face pressed into your shoulder. 

“Gods above,” she breathed, voice raw. “I thought—when the elders said someone was coming—I didn’t think it would be you.”

She was shaking. Not just trembling, but full-body, bone-deep tremors. You wrapped your arms around her on instinct, your hands finding her shoulderblades as you drew her in tight. 

“I thought—we all thought you were gone,” she whispered. “Thought you’d abandoned us for good—”

“I came as soon as I heard,” the words tumbled out of you before you could help it. “As soon as I got the letter, I came to help… I didn’t… I didn’t realise how bad—”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy but fierce. “No,” she cut over you sharply. “You couldn’t have known. None of us did.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, slowly easing from her grip. Your gaze drifted past her, back to the street, back to the bodies. The further you looked, the closer you inspected, the worse it got. The sand gathered in drifts, the unbearable stillness in a place once bustling and flourishing—

“How many?” you asked quietly. 

The pained look on her face told you all you needed to know. 

“My family?”

“Gone—I am… I am sorry. They are gone. The children were some of the first to go, then your parents, and your siblings—”

You shook your head. Thane had already said as much, and you thought deep down that you were prepared to face the reality of it, but… maybe you weren’t. There was an undeniably hollow ache opening beneath your ribs that seemed to grow larger by the second. 

“What of Naven and your children?” you asked, almost afraid of the answer. 

“My children are safe, thank the gods, but Naven…” her voice trembled, like a sob was nearly breaking the surface. “He caught the sickness, he is still alive, still fighting but…”

There was a haunted, defeated look in her eye.  “Once they catch it, no one survives.”

You stared at her a moment. “No one? No one has recovered?”

“None last longer than a month. Sometimes less,” she replied softly. “It always starts slow, dry lips, dry throats… They stop sweating, even in the heat—and they are always begging for water, for some kind of relief, but it never helps. It is like the sickness drinks it first.”

Her hands twisted together, knuckles white.

“They grow weaker each day, like something inside is wringing them dry.” She paused, swallowing hard. “Eventually, the body gives up its shape. It breaks apart, turns to sand. Like they were never made of flesh at all.”

A shudder crawled up your spine, and Lira glanced around, as if only now truly seeing the devastation surrounding you.

“We haven’t buried them,” she said, shame and exhaustion tangling in her voice. “We can’t. We don’t have the strength to dig, and when we try to move them, they just crumble—”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and all you could think to do was rest a hand on her shoulder in comfort, with a solemn, “I understand,” muttered.

“The ones still alive,” she continued, “we’re keeping them in the hall. Those who haven’t….” Her voice wavered. “We’re doing what we can. Anything to ease their passing.”

Your healer’s instincts finally stirred back to life, cutting through the fog of grief. 

In all your years as a healer, you had never known a wound without at least the promise of mending, let alone a sickness without a cure. Nature was cruel, yes, but it was ordered. There was balance. Flesh broke and flesh healed. Blood spilled and blood clotted. You had set bones by torchlight, packed wounds that should’ve rotted a man from the inside out, kept people breathing long past the point the gods themselves seemed to intend. 

So why this? Why your village, why now? Mothers, fathers, children—people who had done nothing but live quietly in the shadow of the jungle’s rule. There had to be something you were missing. Some herb, some ritual, some answer buried deep enough that it simply hadn’t been reached yet. There had to be a solution, an offering to drive this evil from your home. 

And yet, a colder thought followed. What if this was something else entirely? Maybe this was worse than anything you had ever faced, something so unnatural that even the jungle and the gods had no words for it?

You exhaled sharply, chasing the thought away.

If this was beyond your knowing, beyond your skill, then you would learn. If it demanded more than you had ever given before, then you would try and try again—you would try until there was nothing left of you to offer, you would try even if it broke you. Try for the family you had abandoned so long ago, because if all your siblings were dead, if Naven did not recover and your bloodline truly ended here… maybe your father’s worst fears would be realised. 

You alone would be the only surviving heir of Caligo, or at least, what was left of it. 

“Show me.” You said as you turned to face Lira, determined. “Take me to the ones who are still alive.”

Signs of survival clung desperately throughout the devastation. What had once been the village market was now little more than a churned, muddy courtyard. The stalls stood crooked and abandoned, canvas rotted through. Whatever food had been left behind had spoiled long ago, reduced to mould and buzzing insects. 

You remembered how it had been, colour and noise. Life packed shoulder to shoulder. Baskets overflowing with bright, fresh fruit and vegetables. Honeycomb wrapped in leaves, bread still warm enough to fog the air. Cuts of meat hung in the shade, the scent of ale spilling from the tavern. Peddlers would call out, offering shells gathered from the shores miles away, braided baskets woven from river reeds, or the seamstress who would stitch anything you asked for. 

Now, the cooking fires were cold. Black circles of ash left untouched for days. Anything that could be scavenged seemed to be eaten quickly, passed and shared among those who still survived. Marks had been carved into the frames of the huts. Names, tallies, prayers. Some were little more than scratches, others deep enough to splinter the grain. A record of grief, maybe, or maybe a record that at one time, there had been life in this village. Like the fear that this plague would wipe all history of your people had taken hold of those who persevered. 

Those still alive moved through the streets with hollow eyes and bowed shoulders. But when they saw you, they stopped. One by one, bodies froze mid-step. You felt their stares long after you passed, disbelief pressing in from all sides. Whispers of your name rippled through the thin crowd. Uncertain, as if saying it too loudly might banish you again. 

They were considering you as an omen, you realised. Good or ill, they weren’t sure. But you were something. The last of your bloodline, not buried, not becoming sand.

Already, whether you wanted it or not, they were looking to you.

The village hall was the hub of activity now—if what was before you could be called activity. The doors had been thrown wide open to let in what little air could move through the heavy heat. It did little to ease the stench of sweat and healing incense. Mats woven from palm fibre, bedrolls dragged from homes, layered haphazardly with cloaks and blankets. Bodies filled the space wall to wall, arranged in careful rows so the healers could navigate through them. The infected lay unnervingly still, chests rising shallowly, breaths dry and rasping as if each one scraped painfully through their throats. 

Those still standing knelt beside them. Pressing damp cloths to cracked lips. Murmuring prayers under their breath. A few survivors lifted their heads as you entered, eyes widening as they tracked your movement through the hall. You heard your name whispered again, as though they weren’t sure if you were flesh or spirit.

Lira guided you along the edge of the room, her hand light at your elbow, until she stopped near the far wall. The man lying there was gaunt, cheeks hollowed, collarbones sharp beneath stretched skin. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of your movement, and it took you a second to register, to realise that the man was Naven.

“Lira?” he rasped.

“I’m here,” she said immediately, dropping to her knees. “Your sister is, too. She has returned to help us, just like the elders said she would.”

His gaze shifted—slow and unfocused—until it landed on you. Recognition sparked, faint but undeniable. His cracked lips curved into something like a smile.

“Gods,” he breathed. “Death must truly be upon us if even you have returned home—”

You shook your head, shushing him as you knelt, pressing your fingers gently to his wrist. “Save your energy.”

For once in his life, Naven listened.

He swallowed, throat working painfully, and let his head fall back against the mat, eyes fixed on the woven roof above. Lira soaked a cloth and carefully dabbed it along his forehead and lips. You assessed him quietly. His pulse was thin and fluttering beneath your fingers, skin fever-hot and brittle-dry, breath shallow and uneven.

“How long?” you asked Lira softly, as if it were nothing more than idle curiosity. Anything to hide the genuine concern you felt for your brother, who seemed to be withering before your very eyes. 

Before the woman could even answer, Naven let out a faint, humourless huff. “Two weeks.”

Lira stiffened beside you. 

“Two weeks?” you repeated.

The sickness progressed faster than you’d dared to predict—he was already skeletal in appearance, and where sweat should have been, there lay the beginnings of crystallised sand. 

He turned his head just enough to look at you again, the thin skin of his neck crunching. There was no fear in his eyes—only resignation. “I’m not stupid,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I can feel it. I won’t last much longer.”

“No,” you said immediately, sharper than you intended. You’d never known Naven to be a pessimist; he had always been the cocky, overconfident one in the family. He had always been up to mischief, attempting to ride spinebacks or gambling by eating potentially poisonous wildberries. He’d defied death too many times to be lost now, just when he was truly becoming a man worth looking up to. “Don’t talk like that.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Someone has to.”

His gaze slid past you, unfocused, towards the far end of the hall, as if examining the rows of bodies and the murmuring survivors. His fingers twitched against the mat, as if he wanted to reach for them, but no longer had the strength. 

“They’ll need you,” he said quietly. “When I’m gone.”

Your hand tightened around his wrist, thumb pressing into the fragile beat of his pulse as though you could will it to be stronger. “I’m not ready.”

A faint crease formed between his brows. 

“Then take this time to prepare yourself.” He rasped, throat working painfully. “You can’t go running to hide in the jungle now. These people—this village—is your responsibility—”

“Naven—” 

“They are frightened,” he continued, forcing each word out despite scraping his throat each time. His eyes met yours, unflinching despite the fatigue and fever burning through him. “They will need guidance. I cannot give that to them, sister. You must face the reality of this situation—”

“I’m not going to just give up on you—” The words spilt out before you could stop them, a little louder than intended, but it was Naven’s roar that made your snap your jaw shut. 

“I am dying!” Naven snapped. The sound of his voice cut through the hall, startling those who were lucid enough to hear. Lira bristled beside you, murmuring something you couldn’t quite hear to try to calm her husband before he overexerted himself. 

Naven sucked in a ragged breath, chest suttering as if the shout stole what little strength he had left. 

“I am dying,” he repeated, quieter now. “And there is nothing you can do to change that.”

Something inside you finally cracked. Your vision blurred, hot and sudden, and you dragged in a shaking breath that did little to steady you. 

“I won’t let it come to that,” you said, voice trembling despite your efforts to control it. “I will do anything and everything in my power to fix this. I swear it.”

Naven’s expression had softened—pity, maybe. Or sorrow. 

“I am not what Caligo needs.” You admitted, even if it tasted bittersweet. “They need you to guide them. Not me.”

“I respect your ambition, sister,” he murmured. “But even the gods cannot save us now.”

You exhaled sharply and lifted your gaze, only then realising how still the hall had become. The murmurs had died, the whispered prayers faded into silence. Those who had the stamina left were watching you expectantly. 

You were entirely exposed, a raw nerve naked against the jungle air. And grief was crawling up your throat quickly, anger and fear tangling until you didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Scrubbing a hand down your face, fingers trembling, you stood too quickly. 

“I need some air,” you muttered lowly, and turned away before anyone could see tears form. 

Lira tried to follow you as you staggered to your feet, only to be stopped by Naven’s skeletal hand. His fingers weakly closed around her wrist before she could rise. You barely registered it—your focus had narrowed to one, singular goal: get out. 

You threaded your way through the rows of bodies, fighting to control the sobs of panic that were threatening to rise. You couldn’t carry this death and grief for another second. If you were going to break, you would break alone, where no one could witness your weakness. 

You slipped out the side of the hall and stumbled blindly through the village, past silent huts and abandoned fires, until the dirt gave way beneath your feet and the trees swallowed you whole. The jungle closed in fast, dense and buzzing. 

Your knees hit the ground.

You folded over yourself, crouching low as your hands came up to clutch at your head. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you struck the heel of your palm against your temple—once, twice—as if you could knock the thoughts loose, beat them back into order.

“Fuck,” you hissed into the hum of insects and distant birdcalls. Your breath came in sharp, panicked gulps, lungs refusing to remember how to work. 

In. Out. In—Gods, please.

Tears burned hot against your lashes, spilling free before you could stop them. Your chest heaved as the truth finally caught up to you. Not just that Naven was dying, that basically your entire family was dead, but that the village was looking at you now. Expecting something you didn’t know how to give.

You couldn’t do this, you couldn’t do this, you couldn’t do this—you were a healer, a deserter, barely a woman, and now they expected you to lead? 

You couldn’t—

You couldn’t do this—

A sharp crack echoed behind you. The sound of a branch snapping underfoot. 

It jolted through your spine, dragging you violently back into your body. You twisted around, already speaking, voice frayed and gasping. “Lira, I just need a moment—”

The words died on your tongue, the shock enough to silence the panic blooming in your chest. It wasn’t Lira.

The man standing a few paces away was a stranger—tall, broad-shouldered, built with pure muscle. His arms hung at his side, one unmistakably metal, dull silver catching the fractured light filtering through the canopy. His face was chiselled, marked by half-faded scars along his temple and jaw. Stubble shadowed his mouth. Beneath the disordered fall of dark hair, cold steel-blue eyes fixed on you, assessing and measuring with predatory stillness.

“You look like you’re havin’ a bad day, little lady,” he drawled, voice low and casual, like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Too bad it’s ‘bout to get worse.”

“What—?!”

His metal arm moved in a blur, and pain exploded at your temple, white-hot and all-consuming. The world went black before you could even register hitting the jungle floor. 

i no longer have a taglist. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-archive and turn on post notifications! <3

[artficlly]

the price of passage [one]

── sci-fi marvel au ✩

bountyhunter! bucky x healer!reader when an off-planet plague wipes out your village, you set out in search of a cure. with no way off-world, you’re forced to hitch a ride with the infamous bounty hunter bucky barnes—only to learn that every favour in the galaxy comes with a cost, and his may come with strings attached.

── tags ✩

18+ content minors dni, eventual smut (later chapters), fem reader, slow burn, enemies to lovers, mention of death, mention of sickness/disease, violence, graphic descriptions of wounds, death of family, grief, sci-fi elements like spaceships, jungle setting, heavy lore building, no use of y/n, mood boards do not represent reader's appearance

word count: 3.2k

── main masterlist ✩ series masterlist

Your record for relocating an arm, injury assessment included, was twenty-six seconds flat. If luck was on your side, the walk to Zarvik Thane’s office and back would take you no more than four minutes. Add on another twenty-six seconds to pop the joint back where it belonged, and you’d be crawling back into bed in no time. Five minutes, give or take. Six, if Ronan walked slow. 

The first thing you asked Ronan—who had rudely awakened you by slamming his fist repeatedly against your door, until the rattling had finally roused you from a relatively peaceful, dreamless sleep—was the time. He hadn’t answered your question. Instead, his brows had raised as his gaze slid past your shoulder, landing on the naked man sprawled face-down in your bed. You’d clambered over him while pulling on some clothing just moments beforehand. Awkwardly enough, he was one of Ronan’s fellow Hunters. Snoring softly, entirely unconcerned with modesty or aware of the company now standing in your doorway. 

You couldn’t recall the man's name now, Taren, perhaps? Or was that the one from the week before—no, that one was definitely Jarek. Either way, both men—and countless others—found their courage at the bottom of a glass or three of gods-knew-what from Isara’s bar. They’d swaggered over to your usual corner booth, the one with a bit of cushioning left and fewer springs stabbing through the fabric, where you’d been playing cards with the rookie healers Thane had asked you to train. 

And to your credit, you had fucked them both senseless—Taren and Jarek, that was, not your rookies. The cycle, as ever, renewed itself. That was one of the freedoms you had come to enjoy since leaving your family and village behind four years ago, a good, or at least middling, fuck when you wanted one. You were learning, quickly, the quiet power that came with being desired. 

Ronan gave you a look that could only be described as deeply judgmental. You nudged the door closed another inch until only your face remained visible. And finally, he spoke. 

“It’s one of the scouts, he’s in Thane’s office—”

“What is it this time?” You cut over Ronan with a sigh, squinting at the flickering torch in his hand. 

“Shoulder. Dislocation. And a few scrapes… maybe a broken nose—”

You groaned, maybe a little over-dramatically, and scrubbed a hand down your face. Still, you grabbed your medic-bag, ready to go as always beside the door. Glass vials clinked softly and leafy herbs rustled inside as you pushed past Ronan into the hallway with a huff and followed the spill of his torchlight down into the hallway. 

The Thicket Outpost lay quiet at this hour, sunk into the type of hush that only settled when even the night-shift guards had begun to doze off at their posts. Your footsteps rang out against the narrow metal passage, Ronan’s close behind you. Beyond the walls, insects trilled deep in the jungle, and somewhere ahead, muffled voices cut through the dark. 

The Thicket hadn’t always been a place, of that much you were sure. The ancient metal spaceship sat deep in the wilderness like a fallen god. 

You remembered the first time you saw it, your jaw had quite literally dropped. You’d heard tales of beasts made of metal that roamed the stars, controlled by humans as simple and small as you. But nothing, no tales or warnings, had fully prepared you to see a spaceship for the first time in your life. It was colossal, bigger than anything you had known existed, larger than you could even comprehend. 

You’d stepped through the spiked jungle-wood fence the guards had raised for defence, expecting another village hall, another cluster of huts woven from vine and bark. But that had been your first mistake—expecting Zarvik Thane to be anything like you, or anyone you had ever known. He wasn’t from Khar’eth, no, he was from another planet entirely. And the Thicket, this enormous spaceship you now called home, was the closest you’d ever come to experiencing what the galaxy and beyond had to offer. 

The ship’s hull had split open, its insides exposed and twisted, towering overhead in a way that made your neck ache. Whole sections of its mass lay half-buried under earth and roots, others suspended where trees had grown through open wounds in the frame. You’d wandered inside in a daze, hands brushing cold walls etched with strange markings and bullet holes. Buttons and switches lined panels taller than you, and smooth black plates—screens, Thane called them—stared back at you like dark eyes. You had been afraid to touch them, half-convinced they might wake. 

Thane had once told you the ship was dead, that it had been for decades. He had told you how all the buttons, switches and screens had once lit up, once made noises and had purpose. They were all useless now, ever since the ship had crashed from the skies like a bird felled by an arrow. 

You hadn’t noticed the vines back then, or the moss creeping along the seams. The jungle had already begun to reclaim the wreck, the patient and unstoppable force you knew her to be. That wonder felt somewhat lost now that you lived inside its corpse, like a maggot to rotted flesh. Roots burst through cracked plating, and fungal blooms clung to rusted beams. Whenever it rained, water dripped constantly from the ceiling where the hull had collapsed inward, collecting in shallow basins carved from scrap metal. Wooden walkways had been built over gaps in the floor, torches burned in brackets welded to walls, and candles flickered in alcoves where objects called circuits and wire once lived. 

Bleary-eyed, you tilted your head, squinting up through a jagged hole in the ceiling as you walked. The sky beyond the trees was still dark, not yet dawn. If your record held, you’d be clambering back over Taren and under the sheets before the sun broke the horizon and the birds began to call. 

“How’d he even manage it?” you muttered as you walked. “ It’s the middle of the night—”

“You’ll see.” Ronan cut back, unhelpfully. 

You gave him a scathing look over your shoulder as you reached Thane’s office. It sat deep in the ship’s belly, where the hull had buckled inward and had to be reinforced with scavenged beams. The door was old, metal warped and melted, hinges red with rust. You shoved it open with a little more force than necessary, the metal screeching against the floor as it swung open. 

You’d never been able to pin down how old Thane was exactly. He rarely shared personal details about his life before he came to Khar’eth, but tonight, he seemed older, maybe even paler than usual. A slight strain in his expression, at first glance, you could’ve mistaken it for anger, but the harder you looked, you realised maybe it was apprehension. 

He was built broad and weathered, all hard angles and old muscle. A long, dark coat hung from his shoulders, reinforced at the seams with scavenged plating and stitched repairs, its hem perpetually frayed. Underneath, layered fabrics and hardened leather were cinched tight with belts and holsters, each one bearing a weapon or tool whose purpose you had never dared ask about. His face was sharp, with dark eyes sunk deep beneath a heavy brow. 

He stood behind his desk, palms braced against the amalgamation of metal and jungle wood. Maps were spread across it, hand-drawn charts of jungle paths, smuggling routes, bounty postings and fragments of star maps. Behind him, candles pooled wax over the cracked metal wall, their smoke clinging to the ceiling and mingling with the scent of gunpowder, earth and iron. 

“Explain it to me again,” Thane snarled. “Slower.” 

Thane’s gaze was locked onto what appeared to be your patient. The scout sat slumped in one of the mismatched chairs scattered around the room, cradling his dislocated shoulder like it might fall clean off if he let go. Guards and Hunters crowded the walls—whoever had still been awake at this hour—arms crossed, faces carved into identical scowls.

Ronan slipped in beside the others. You followed suit, lowering your medic-bag by the scout’s chair and dropping to your knees without a word. 

“I was watchin’ the clearin’, had to scare off a few of the village-folk—” the scout started, then hissed, fingers tightening as pain spiked through his arm. 

You didn’t look up, instead assessing the damage by sight alone. The shoulder jutted at a wrong angle, skin stretched tight over bones, the seam of his shirt torn wide enough to expose the swell. Even you had to fight the instinct to wince

“Not that part,” Thane cut in. 

Your hands were moving now, gently feeling the joint as the scout squirmed and flinched. You braced one foot against the floor, wrapping your fingers around his upper arm as you tenderly tested how the tendons felt. 

“A small ship landed, not the cargo you was waiting for—” the scout faltered as a tight sound slipped from his throat before he could stop it, jaw locking hard.  “Came down real quiet and clean, just one man inside.”

That caught Thane’s interest. “Describe him.”

“Don’t fight me,” you murmured, low enough that only the scout could hear. “It’ll hurt worse if you do.”

He let out a breath that was half-way laugh, half-way sob. “Easy for you t’say.”

“I know,” you replied, and shifted your grip. “On three.”

His jaw clenched as you rolled the joint, guiding bone back towards where it belonged. The scout sucked in a sharp breath and kept talking through it, words spilling out between clenched teeth as if stopping would somehow make it worse. 

“He was big, real strong lookin’—” 

You felt the joint catch. Wrong, still wrong. The scout had doubled forward with a sharp gasp, and all you could do was shove him back in place with a determined scowl. You had a feeling this wasn’t going to be your finest work. Five minutes until your return to bed, twenty-six-second record, be damned. 

Thane’s finger drummed once against the edge of his desk. “Go on.”

“Dark hair…. An’ he had a metal arm! On the—on the… left side! An’ he was armed—”

You leaned in closer. “Now,” you warned softly, and twisted.

The sound that followed was sickening—a wet, hollow crunch—and the scout yelped, body jerking and twitching against your hold. Someone along the wall swore, gazes averted. You didn’t let go until you were sure you felt the joint settle. 

The scout gasped, sweat slicking his dirtied brow, but in his glassy eyes, you could clearly see that instant relief. The pain had dulled now, that was for sure, just a tender joint rather than fire licking down his nerves. 

“There,” you uttered, already reaching for a wrap. “Breathe.”

“And?” Thane prompted, and it was only as you cast a glance over at him that you realised he had grown dangerous still. Your hands slowed almost imperceptibly as you began to bind the scout’s shoulder into a sling, your curiosity getting the better of you. 

“He came outta nowhere, hit me hard enough that I don’t even remember hittin’ the ground! I woke up all tied up, my shoulder outta place.” The scout now lifted his eyes to Thane, relief turning to apprehension. “He was askin’ questions.”

“About?” Thane asked.

“‘bout you.”

You tied off the bandage and leaned back on your heels just as the scout sucked in one last shuddering breath. 

“Said he was lookin’ for a Zarvik Thane,” the scout continued. “Said he was a bounty hunter, that there’s a price on your head.”

Thane was deathly quiet for a moment before speaking up.

“And this bounty hunter, this bloodhound—” he spat the nickname out like it was a curse. “Does he have a name?” 

“Said his name was Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

And for the first time since you’d known him, the practical, level-headed and ever-stoic Zarvik Thane let his mouth curve—just barely—into something that was undeniably a smile. 

Thane continued questioning the scout as you worked, pressing him for more details about Bucky Barnes. His usual style of methodical, relentless observations that circled the same facts. What kind of ship? The scout did not know; he did not know technology as Thane did. So, Thane sharpened his questions. What shape was it, what was painted onto the metal? Were there numbers burned into the metal—and did the scout remember those numbers and what order they were written in? 

And when Thane grew frustrated with that line of questioning or gleaned enough information, he moved on to the next set of questions. What type of weapons did Barnes carry? What size were the guns, what shape? How many were visible on his person? 

What was the exact wording of every question he’d asked after the attack?

At some point, the words began to slide past you. You put your head down and worked through the last of the wounds, hoping to be back in bed before the sleepiness well and truly wore off. Blood wiped clean, grit coaxed from shallow cuts, assessment of the bruised skin half-hidden behind torn fabric. Your hands remained steady even as the scout trembled beneath them, shutting out the tense, low voices of those still crammed into the office. 

You eyed the scout’s nose. Now that you were closer, you could definitely see the break. The flesh was swollen, the bridge bent off-centre, making every breath sound laborious and painful. And before anyone could register what you were about to do—and maybe most importantly, before the scout could draw enough energy to protest—you braced his head between your hands. Your thumbs found the twisted bridge, and with one firm and confident press, the bone slid back into place with a wet, unmistakable crack. 

The scout grunted in surprise, doubling forward and clutching at nothing. Several of the men lining the walls flinched in unison. It was as you were reaching for a clean cloth to wipe the blood from his face that Thane’s eyes landed on you, as if the movement had suddenly drawn his attention to you. 

“Tell the princess about Caligo,” Thane instructed, his chin tipping in your direction. “Show her the letter.”

Your hands stilled. 

You turned so fast that the motion nearly gave you whiplash. Thane’s expression had gone grim, stripped of its usual neutrality. 

Caligo. Your home, or what had once been your home. The village where you’d been raised, where the jungle paths were worn familiar beneath your feet, where you’d learnt to stitch flesh and set bone long before you’d ever held a weapon. The place you’d left the moment you turned eighteen, never once looking back.

In truth, your family had never made walking away difficult. 

Being the chieftain’s youngest child meant being overlooked by default. You’d grown up in the long shadow of lineage—your eldest brother groomed to lead, his children already set to inherit long before they could walk. You were never expected to amount to anything. Useful, perhaps, if you could be married off to smooth over some future alliance, but never essential. Never a priority. And maybe that complexity of your upbringing, of your relationship with your own blood, had turned you somewhat bitter over the years. 

The Thicket had been your escape. Thane, your unlikely refuge. Here, your hands mattered. Here, you had a purpose, one measured in lives saved and wounds mended rather than expectations failed. It didn’t make the nickname sting any less, though. Princess. Or the feeling of dread that sank deep in your bones when your village was mentioned.

What had happened in Caligo?

Your gaze snapped back to the scout, expectant now, heart thudding as you waited for him to speak. 

“I heard–well, there’s…” The scout faltered, eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing while the words refused to line up. His hands fluttered uselessly over his torn, mud-caked clothes, fingers patting pockets in a blind, frantic search.

“There are whispers,” he managed at last. “I heard whispers... ‘bout Caligo.”

Your brow furrowed. “What about Caligo?”

Thane, as if sensing the anxiety crawling under your skin, interrupted. “Take a seat, princess.”

Your head whipped between them, and you hesitated where you knelt, suddenly acutely aware of the room. The men lining the walls shifted, exchanging uneasy looks. The weight of their attention settled on you all at once, heavy enough to press the air from your lungs. You swallowed slowly and planted your palms against your thighs, pushing yourself upright. 

A scraping filled the room as Ronan dragged a mismatched chair closer to you, motioning for you to sit. But as you looked up at him, he wouldn’t meet your eye. Had he known? When he came to wake you, had he already known and said nothing?

“Word is there’s a… sickness,” the scout spoke finally. “Not just in Caligo, but few other villages too.” 

His hands shook as he passed you a narrow strip of parchment. The seal had already been broken, the wax snapped clean through—no doubt Thane’s doing. Nothing passed in or out of the Thicket without his eyes on it first. 

“How bad?” you murmured, though the question felt pointless even as you asked it. Your attention had already fallen to the parchment. The paper trembled as you uncurled it, eyes rapidly scanning the ink.

“Bad.”

You hardly registered his reply, nor the tone he took. You were too busy reading the three sentences before you. You read them once. Twice. Again. And again. The words refused to change, refused to rearrange themselves into something you could make sense of, something you could understand—

A plague has come. They’re all dead. Please, come home. 

Your breath caught, shallow and useless in your chest. 

You didn’t recognise the handwriting. That, somehow, hurt almost as much as the words themselves. It wasn’t your father’s careful, commanding script. It wasn’t your mother’s tight, slanted hand. Had they, had Caligo, not had their own healers? Had they burned through every remedy, every prayer, before reaching for your—their last resort, dragged out of exile only where there was nothing left to lose? Had they truly been so desperate? You’d never been the first choice, gods, you’d never been any choice at all. Third. Fourth. Eighth. None. You were none of them. You were disposable. 

So why now, why after four years of silence? 

Thane, obviously growing impatient with your muteness, interrupted once more. “Your father is dead, princess—”

You couldn’t lift your head, couldn’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from the words blurring on the parchment. 

They’re all dead. 

“—your mother too, most of your siblings and their children as well—”

They’re all dead. 

The sounds in the office and the jungle beyond thinned into a high, distant ringing, drowning out whatever else Thane said. Your hands had gone numb around the parchment, knuckles white. All you could do was stare and stare at those three sentences—

They’re all dead. 

There was a long moment of silence before Thane spoke again.

“What are you going to do, princess?” He asked, voice low and careful. Careful in the way a man was when he already suspected the answer he would receive. 

Only then did your eyes snap up, finally locking with his. “I am going home.”

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[artficlly]

── lessons in lovemaking [part six]

── marvel au ✩

bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

── tags ✩

18+ content minors dni, smut, kissing, making out, blowjob, handjob, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, huge previous sa warning, clubbing, undercover mission, mission gone wrong, vomiting/puking, overstimulation (not the good kind), ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, angst, hurt no/some comfort?, crying, bickering, teasing, reader is highkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, mood board does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

word count: 14.6k

── authors note ✩

it's finally here, after 6 fucking months. oh my god. i have no idea how many of you will have stuck around but here you go! i've had such a hectic few months with uni, moving house, dealing with sickness and 5 million other things. one chapter to go and this series is over! thanks to my moots who watched me go actually clinically insane writing this chapter over the past couple weeks, i am, and always will be, stuck in the beach house. as always, sorry for any typos and enjoy!

─── main masterlist ✩ series masterlist

You liked to think you were unreadable, but the truth was simple—painfully so: you weren’t. 

Not even fucking close.

You’d barely scraped together enough strength to appear normal after what had happened in the kitchen. Your pulse was still jittery, your lips a little swollen, the ghost of Bucky’s breath still lingering along your throat. But how could one appear normal after being pressed against a kitchen counter with Bucky Barnes between your knees?

You’d tried—God, you’d tried.

You washed your face three times, changed your shirt twice and practised neutral expressions in the mirror like a fucking lunatic before emerging into the living room. 

Throughout dinner, your thighs wouldn’t stop trembling. Bucky didn’t help either, he knew exactly what kind of trouble he’d put you in. His hand slid onto your knee beneath the table, tracing patterns that made your spine try to abandon your body. You kept chewing and nodding, stabbing at your food with mechanical precision, and pretending you understood a single word Steve said about the flight schedule. 

You almost thought you were going to make it through until Steve opened his damn mouth. 

“You and Bucky should take the master bedroom since the bed is bigger. Sam can take the single and I’ll take the cou—”

You choked on your drink so violently that Sam actually flinched.

Bucky went rigid beside you, shoulders snapping straight as his hand retracted from your knee in mere milliseconds. Steve blinked, confused, eyes bouncing between the two of you.

“You…okay?” Sam asked skeptically. 

“Fine,” You wheezed in reply, eyes watering and forced a smile that felt like it might crack your skull in half. 

It took you hours—actual hours—of wandering the beach barefoot in the dark before you finally worked up the nerve to approach the master bedroom. Steve and Sam had tapped out early, asleep before their heads even hit their pillows. 

You were the only one still buzzing, no, not even buzzing. You were wired like you’d swallowed a live electrical cable whole.  And it wasn’t because of sharing a bed with Bucky, that ship had sailed, crashed and been rebuilt by now. You’d done that countless times now, hell, even ‘lessons’ were born out of sharing a room with Bucky. 

No, sharing a room, a bed—that was not the scary part. Not the feeling of his body pressed up against yours, pulling him into a kiss, the last whispers of a whimper escaping his lips… You weren’t afraid of any of that.

You were afraid of his questions. 

Because you knew, deep in your bones, you knew that your conversation on the porch steps wasn’t over. He’d seen through you. He’d clocked you, well and truly fucking clocked you. Read you like he’d been skimming the annotated edition of your psyche. You’d replayed it in a loop during your little barefoot pilgrimage, spiralling hard the moment you post-orgasm haze faded and your brain resumed its regularly scheduled programming of self-sabotage. 

All that was left was dread—cold, creeping dread—over everything he’d said. 

‘I think you have a problem with it.’

‘I think you’re destroying yourself.’

‘I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.’

He’d dug right into the raw nerves with gentle obviousness. They were the parts you avoided, the parts you buried. And he had the fucking audacity to press his thumb right into the bruise of who you were. And the worst part? The most terrifying bit of all? He probably hadn’t even meant to. 

You considered disappearing into the ocean and letting the tide decide your fate. You considered sleeping on the sand at the base of the beachouse porch. You even considered the war crime of waking up Captain America himself and stealing the couch. 

But in the end, only one strategy seemed remotely viable. 

You were going to fuck James Buchanan Barnes so hard he’d forget he ever asked those questions. 

Erase his memory through sheer, physical devastation.

Biblical smiting via coitus.

God willing, if you couldn’t outrun your problem, you could at least fuck them senseless. 

At least that was the plan, until you actually stepped into the bedroom and everything within you stalled. 

Bucky turned immediately, reacting to the soft click of the door. A part of you wondered if it was fake surprise, if the super soldier had heard the subtle shift of sand as you had paced the beach, or even the faint tremor of your footsteps as you climbed the porch steps. The bedside lamp cast a warm halo over him, outlining every line of his bare chest and the long slope of his spine. His hair was messy, pushed back like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. He held a shirt in one hand, fingers curled tight around the fabric. 

He went still.

His eyes darted over you—your wind-swept hair, flushed face, your shoes still clenched in your grip after carrying them for what felt like miles along the coastline. His expression shifted to barely contained concern in an instant. 

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Absolutely not. You were holding yourself together with the emotional equivalent of scotch tape. All confidence, all the riled-up feelings you’d manifested in your hours of pacing in the dark, fizzled out in an instant. Coward. You were a fucking coward. It was like the exact moment you set eyes on him, all you could feel was the sinking feeling of terror. 

“Yeah,” you replied, unconvincingly. “Just… took a walk.”

“You took a three-hour walk,” he corrected immediately. “In the dark. Barefoot.”

His pointed stare dropped to the boots dangling from your hand.

“You say that like it’s weird.”

“It is weird.”

“I didn’t want to get sand in them.” You muttered with a huff, tossing them to the side. They hit the dresser with a thump, the mirror rattling on impact. 

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you with that signature look, stupid big puppy-dog eyes that made you melt—only now it made your throat tighten. You crossed your arms, suddenly very aware of every dip and curve of his exposed muscle, every line of his veins, the way the light caught on his scars. But he saw everything on your face, no matter how much you tried to hide it. Your hesitation, the nerves, the battle you were losing. You knew he could see through you. You were beginning to think he always could. That no matter how many walls or barriers you put up, it wouldn’t even matter. 

His hand raised, fingers dragging through his dark hair. “Did I do something wrong—? I mean, in the kitchen earlier, did I hurt you—?”

Suddenly, you could see yourself reflected in him. As clearly as a fucking mirror. 

“No.” You uttered, but the worry in his tone hit you hard enough that your feet moved before you could think straight. You crossed the room and pressed your hand to his chest. His skin was warm, grounding in a way that both soothed and terrified you. “You didn’t hurt me. You could never—I felt good, fuck, I felt more than good I just—”

His head dropped, nose nuzzling the top of your head, audibly inhaling your seaswept scent. “Then why did you leave after dinner? You bolted like you’d been spooked off or—?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, hand sliding over his shoulder as you pulled yourself flush against his frame, brow pressing against his shoulder where metal fused with flesh. “I’m just in my own head—not about that. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“Thinking about what?”

You didn’t reply. 

He sighed, and his hand slid to your chin, gently lifting your face. “Doll,” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, “you gonna tell me what’s actually bothering you?”

You were shaking before you even realised it. Not visibly, but inside. A tremor under the ribs, a tightening behind your sternum. You were dangerously close to either spilling everything or shutting down. 

You blinked up at him, shuddering lightly as his thumb swept over your bottom lip. “No,” you whispered.

A frustrated sound left him, “c’mon sweetheart—” he groaned.

You rose onto your toes, brushing your lips lightly over his jaw, just enough to make him exhale. 

“Sit,” you instructed. 

He blinked. “What?”

Your pulse hammered, and thoughts tangled. You didn’t want to talk about any of it. Didn’t want to feel it. Didn’t want to let the truth crack you open. So you reached for the only distraction that ever worked. 

You stepped back, eyes tracking him deliberately, hunger simmering through your voice. If you couldn’t quiet your mind… you’d quiet his instead. 

“Sit. On the bed,” you repeated, firmer this time. 

Confusion flickered across his face, but he followed your instruction regardless. His knees bent as he reached the bed, mattress sinking slightly as he perched on the edge. His thighs spread, and his hands settled on either side of him. He looked up at you, unprepared for whatever you were about to do—but he wanted it anyway. 

You stood between his knees, the heat and tension radiating between you. You were spiralling again, thinking of everything he’d said. Every truth you didn’t want to face, every wound you never stitched, every punishment you’d ever given yourself for the sins you couldn’t even begin to articulate. 

You sank to your knees on the floor before him. 

A breath left him in a stunned, broken sound—half awe, half need. You shuffled closer, hands sliding up his thighs, slow and deliberate. His reaction was immediate, his thighs tensing under your palms, eyes going wide and dark all at once. And for a moment—just a moment—the storm inside you went quiet. 

His thighs spread wider instinctively, a hand stroking your cheek before slowly sliding into your hair. Heat licked down your spine. His pupils were blown wide, the lamplight catching the blue. He looked borderline ruined already. 

You kissed up his thigh, lips soft, tongue darting out just enough to taste the salt and heat. His breath stuttered. There was something addictive about watching him unravel—how someone so solid, so controlled, came undone in front of you like you were the only thing he couldn’t guard himself against. 

When you reached his waistband, he hissed through his teeth. “Steve and Sam will hear—” 

He made no move to stop you. 

“Then we’ll just have to be quiet, hm?” You murmured and palmed him through his boxer shorts, feeling the hard, heavy shape of him straining against the thin fabric. His eyes fluttered shut for just a second, like he needed the strength not to melt—his head dropped back, throat bared. 

“You’re already hard,” you whispered, breath fanning across his knee. “You get this worked up from me just looking at you?” 

You traced the waistband of his boxers with your lips, dragging your tongue along the seam. Heat pooled low in your belly as his grip on your hair tightened. He inhaled sharply, a stifled gasp, and your eyes flicked up at him. The shiver running through his body made your stomach tighten with need. 

He tugged your head slightly back so you had to look up at him, and a wicked smile graced your lips. 

“Pacing the beach for hours…” he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip, “and this is what you come back wanting?”

His thumb slid into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. You left out a muffled moan, lips closing around the flesh as you sucked on the digit, tongue stroking a flat stripe across the calloused pad. 

He inhaled sharply, chest rising. “Jesus Christ, doll…okay.”

It didn’t take a genius to realise he had no fucking clue what to do with you. 

“Sweetheart…” Saliva dripped from your lips down your chin as he retracted his thumb, smudging the moisture across your cheek as he swept your hair behind your ear, “you’re sure?”

You nodded. It was barely a movement, just enough for him to feel it where his fingers cupped the base of your skull. 

“Need words,” he whispered.

“Yes.” You hummed, one of your hands on his thighs tapping out the familiar triple beat. “The same as always. Now show me.”

Bucky stared down at you like you’d rewritten his universe, and then you felt the three taps against your skull. “Same as always,” he repeated. 

You hooked your fingers under the waistband of his shorts, and he lifted his hips obediently as you pulled them down. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, smearing precum against his stomach. 

You leaned in close, cheek brushing the inside of his thigh, your breath ghosting over him. 

His cock twitched, head tipping back in silent anticipation. 

“Look at me,” you whispered. “I want you to watch me.”

His eyes snapped down to you instantly. 

You licked a slow stripe from base to tip, savouring the way he jolted, muscles jumping under your palms. His hand gripped the edge of the mattress, metal fingers denting the frame. You stroked him once, then placed an open-mouthed kiss right on his flushed tip.

“Fuck—” His whole body jerked, the curse slipping through clenched teeth. 

You worked him lazily, teasing at first, letting anticipation coil tight. His breathing got heavier, uneven, every exhale brushing the top of your head like he was trying not to grind his hips up. 

When you took him into your mouth, he inhaled so sharply that you thought he might choke on air, a slow shaking groan escaping him. Your lips stretched around him, the thick weight of him pressing heavily against your tongue. Your throat fluttered around his shaft, and he whimpered. 

Hollowing your cheek, you sank lower, flattening your tongue against his underside, loving the way he trembled for you. You hummed around him, tongue flicking and swirling, lips sliding down in long, slow strokes. Your hand moved in tandem with your mouth, squeezing and stroking, kneading him with careful pressure. 

“Oh god…” he rasped.

“Shhh…” You cooed against him, tongue teasing the lip, lips sliding over every sensitive ridge. 

You worked your mouth on him, deeper now. Your throat tightened, eyes watered, the obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. Every time you rasped around him, his grip tightened just a little, hips jerking reflexively. He was big, almost too big, but you forced yourself to breathe through your nose, forcing yourself to take more. 

“Gotta be quiet,” he panted almost as a reminder to himself, fighting to keep his voice down. “Steve’s—fuck—Steve’s in the other room—”

You pushed yourself lower, so low that your nose brushed his stomach, your nails digging into his thighs. He moaned, low and strangled, fingers flexing at the base of your skull. 

“Jesus, doll,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You—you’re too good—”

You smiled, lips curving around him, teeth grazing gently in that perfect, teasing rhythm that had him arching into you. Your tongue swept over his sensitive length, fingers curling at the base as you worked him deeper, coaxing, teasing, tasting every shudder he gave. The sounds he made—the quiet, choked whimpers—sent a thrill straight through you, a little gasp of your own escaping despite the need to stay quiet. 

“Fuck…” he rasped. You held him with your mouth, tongue swirling, lips sucking with teasing pressure, letting him hover on the edge. His breath hitched in small, stifled gasps, little whines that made your thighs rub together. 

His hips rocked on instinct, chasing the sensation, completely undone. He hit the back of your throat again, again, again—until tears blurred your vision and spit dripped down your chin, your breath broken and wet around him. 

You kept going, letting the rhythm find you. The more he quivered, the more the tight ache bloomed between your legs. You moaned around him, and his reaction was immediate. His breath fractured, hips jerking despite how desperately he tried to keep them still. 

“Doll, I’m… I’m close—if you keep—oh god—”

You didn’t stop. 

A strangled groan tore from him—quickly swallowed as he remembered Steve and Sam were sleeping on the other side of the walls. He pressed his forearm over his mouth, biting back the noise as his hips rolled up involuntarily. 

Your throat burned, jaw aching, saliva pooling, but his hand stroked your scalp, shushing softly as you kept up the pace. He was still looking at you, sweat beading his brow, eyes lost in a daze. 

The next sound he made was pure desperation as you bobbed your head rhythmically, steady but rougher than before, his breath breaking with every slide of your mouth—

“Can’t—can’t hold it—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He shuddered violently, his hips bucking, a strangled sound caught in his throat as his fists tangled in the sheets. His release came slow, drawn out, every pulse of the thick, hot ropes of cum filling your mouth, and you swallowed it down, choking a little on the heat and slick, but didn't stop, didn’t let a drop go to waste. Your lips stayed pressed to him, tongue taunting the tip as he trembled, body twitching, groaning quietly, hands buried in your hair. 

“Jesus… fuck… you—” he groaned, forehead falling against yours, breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. “You’re… so good…”

You hummed around him, lips brushing his shaft, tongue flicking, hands moving to soothe and steady him as his pulse slowed, blue eyes dark with the aftershocks of pleasure. 

When you finally pulled away, a thin string connected you before snapping. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, breathing hard, and he watched you swallow the last of his cum down. 

Not just watched, he tracked every moment of your throat like he was hypnotised by it, chest rising in sharp, uneven breaths, hands still trembling where they gripped your scalp. You remained kneeling before him with quiet, obedient hunger. 

The moment you looked up at him through your lashes, something inside him snapped. 

“Fuck—” he whispered, voice wrecked.

He slid off the edge of the bed so suddenly that you barely had time to inhale. His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud, and then suddenly he was in front of you. His hands cupped your face, dragging you forward into a desperate, sloppy kiss. 

No hesitation, no caution, just heat. A messy, desperate slide of lips against lips, his breath mingling with yours in fast, uneven bursts. His nose bumped yours, his mouth chasing you, almost clumsy in its urgency. 

You leaned into him, fingers curling in his hair at the nape of his neck. His breathing stuttered when your mouth opened for him, letting him slot his tongue against yours. His body shuddered, a little whimper escaping him before he could swallow it down. 

You felt it—literally felt the tremor run through his shoulders, down his arms, into the hands holding you so carefully. Your balance wavered, and the two of you tipped. You didn’t even realise you were falling until your hand slipped on the carpet. Your mouth was still fused to his, his hand tightening instinctively at your waist. 

Bucky landed half on top of you, vibranium arm braced above your head. “Fuck—sorry—” he panted against your mouth. His knee nudged between your thighs, not quite intentional but not accidental either. 

You cut him off with another kiss, your lips crashing into his before he could finish apologising. His breath stuttered, hips jerking forward in a helpless, unintentional grind that pulled a quiet moan from the back of your throat. 

That made him kiss you harder, deeper—his mouth warm and urgent, chest to chest. You drowned in the heat of him hovering above you. His hand slid down, over your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, following the curve of your body by memory. His palm cupped your hip, and his weight leaned into you with a soft grunt, pressing you deeper into the carpet—

You weren’t in the Red Room

You knew that.

You knew it. 

But your body remembered before your mind did, that ice-cold creeping dread settling over your flushed skin. For a split second, the room blurred, your heart slammed against your ribs, breath clawing up your throat—

No. Not now—

“Hey—” Bucky froze, pulling back a fraction. “You okay?”

His hand hovered near your cheek, hesitant, painfully gentle. You hadn’t even realised you had grown still beneath him, limbs locked, nails digging into his arm where you were already reaching to squeeze out that triple beat—

A flicker of guilt crossed his eyes. “Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean to crowd you, I just—”

You didn't let him finish. 

You surged up, crashing your mouth to his, swallowing his apology whole. His breath caught in surprise, then melted into your again—eager, needy, grateful. You pushed the fear down your throat, hooking your leg around his hip and pushed your hands to his chest. 

Twisting your torso and, in one smooth, instinctual motion, you flipped both of you. Bucky’s breath punched out of him as his back hit the carpet, but he didn’t fight it. Any words that had been forming whoosed out of him in a shocked grunt, eyes blown wide as he stared up at you. 

You climbed over him, thighs bracketing his hips, your palms pressed flat against his ribs. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, breathlessly. 

You leant over, kissing the corners of his mouth. “I’m fine,” you murmured against his lips.

Your tongue slid over his bottom lip, teeth catching the tender, swollen flesh. Bucky’s hands gripped your thighs like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. A whine tore through you as you rolled your hips down just slightly, barely giving yourself friction. 

The panic ebbed, and his warmth spread through you like a tide, and control settled back into your spine. 

“Okay,” he whispered, voice strained as you pressed another kiss to his jaw. “Okay.”

His head fell back against the carpet, a low, wrecked groan catching in his throat. “God, sweetheart… whatever you want.”

You dragged your lips to his jaw, then down his throat, sucking just enough to make him gasp and tilt his head back, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising strength. 

“Good,” you whispered, biting at his pulse point before soothing it with your tongue. He was breathing like he’d sprinted a mile. Half moans, half sighs, every sound spilling directly into your mouth.

But slowly—so slowly you barely noticed—the frantic edge softened. Your lips slowed. The kisses calmed. Your breaths synced. Fast, then slower, then slower still, like your bodies had decided for you when enough was enough.

Bucky’s hands loosened on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles into your skin. Your forehead dropped to his, breaths mingling, noses brushing in a lazy, exhausted nuzzle.

You didn’t move for a long moment.

His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers stroking your hair in slow, grounding sweeps. “I lost you for a sec there—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You cut over him, a flash of guilt warming your cheeks as you clocked your own snappy tone. 

He didn’t reply straight away, but you could feel the cogs turning in his brain. 

You eased down, resting your head against his chest. You could hear the faint thump of his heartbeat growing steadier by the second. His arms wrapped around you automatically, and the two of you lay tangled on the carpet, legs intertwined. 

“Sometimes…” Bucky began, and you tilted your head to look up at him. “Sometimes I want to know what’s going on in that head of yours, hm?”

The tip of a vibranium finger tapped your temple. 

You let your eyes flutter shut. 

You should’ve known it was only a matter of time before Natasha figured out the true nature of your situation with Bucky. Even worse: Yelena had apparently found whatever secret combination of pressure points—begging, bribery, psychological warfare—was required to squeeze the information out of her, too. 

Secrets didn’t stay secret long in the Avengers Tower. You’d learnt that the hard way, because shortly after your impromptu mission with Bucky, Steve and Sam, someone had obviously run their mouth. Or, more likely, had been tortured for information by the two sisters sent from hell. 

All it took was one gloating smirk from Natasha during one of your torturous morning trainings and a low, breathless ‘so, lessons, huh?’ hissed into your ear during a rather brutal takedown. The wind leaving your lungs had absolutely nothing to do with Natasha serving you with her usual: eat the fucking mat, bitch. 

If you’d thought the teasing from Steve and Sam was bad, you were delusional. They’d tried to keep their shit together over breakfast before your flight home—tried being the keyword. Both of them kept exchanging knowing looks. Neither of them addressed the giant neon sign hovering above the table that read, something sexual definitely happened. 

You didn’t know what they’d heard, if anything at all. But Steve’s abysmal track record of not knocking had stayed strong, giving him front-row seats to Bucky starfished in the sheets, dead asleep, your limbs tangled. He froze, blinked, muttered something about Bucky never sleeping that deeply unless he was sharing a bed with him, and then fled the room as if he’d just witnessed a homicide. 

Steve hadn’t been able to make eye contact with you for a week. 

But, even that humiliation didn’t compare to Natasha and Yelena. They were ruthless, and—much to your dismay—they were beginning to get a knack for knowing exactly how to get under your skin.  

Which is how you ended up here, weeks later, composure slipping. Your knees were pulled up to your chest as you perched on your bathroom counter, laser-focused on applying glitter to your eyelids with the precision of a bomb technician. You hesitated, pulling the brush away as you blinked, watching the gold catch the light. Too much glitter for Karpin’s club? Maybe. Maybe not enough…not quite tacky enough, that was for sure.

You moved in for the kill, pressing in more before you could think better of it. 

“So,” Natasha drawled from behind you, lazy as a cat stretching into mischief, “is he a good student?”

You didn’t look at her reflection. You could feel the smirk.

“Do you think he takes notes?” Yelena chimed in, giggling as she deepened her voice into a terrible imitation of Bucky’s dry drawl. “Hold on—stop sucking my cock for a second. I need to write this down—”

You grimaced as Yelena performed some stiff, robotic scribbling in the air.

The two of them had volunteered—completely unhelpfully—to ‘assist’ you getting ready for tonight’s mission. Assist being code for standing around, digging for information while you did the actual work, styling your hair and blending your eyeshadow. If anything, their impromptu gossip session was making you jittery. They pretended to care as you did all the work, perfectly styling your hair and applying makeup. Because if they weren’t teasing, they were interrogating. And if they weren’t interrogating, they were doing both simultaneously. There was almost always an ulterior motive. 

“I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath.

“Charts? Diagrams?” Natasha sang lightly.

“You two are fucking cunts, you know that, right?” You grumbled, tongue rolling over your teeth as irritation simmered hot beneath your ribs.

Both sisters made an exaggerated oh-hoooo! sound in unison as you slammed your makeup brush on the counter.

“Oh, calm down,” Yelena snorted. “It is just a little fun. I always forget you are so serious.”

There was all of about three seconds of silence as you began to apply your mascara when you felt it—Yelena was already shaking with restrained laughter, practically vibrating with another jab.

“Okay, but…” she started, and you could already feel the dread crawling up your spine, and mentally prepared yourself for the bullshit that was about to slip past her lips. “…do you use a pointing stick?”

You closed your eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Suffered.

Yelena turned to Natasha, doubling down. “You know the one I mean? The big stick and they whack you over the hand when you are naughty in school—”

You felt your eyes roll back into your head as you sighed in defeat, Natasha bursting out with such a loud bout of laughter that she had to grip onto the side of your bathtub to stop herself from doubling over. 

“Do you put a little teacher outfit on?” Yelena continued relentlessly, lowering her voice in a mocking impression of you. “Bucky, today we are covering foreplay—pay attention—!”

Natasha was wheezing. Actual, medical-grade wheezing. She sounded moments away from cardiac arrest.

“I hate both of you,” you declared flatly.

You could already see Yelena winding up for the kill, lips twitching with another wicked remark, when movement in the mirror caught your eye. A broad figure darkened the bathroom doorway, cutting clean through the sisters’ laughter. Whatever Yelena had been about to say stalled on her tongue, and Natasha’s smirk twitched into something more unreadable.

Your stomach plummeted. God, how long had he been standing there?

But if Bucky had heard anything, he wasn’t showing it. His expression was carved from stone—cold, unreadable, terrifyingly calm.

“Speak of the devil,” Natasha drawled, straightening and turning to face him.

You met his eyes in the mirror and instantly regretted it. He looked… unfairly good. The sleek black suit hugged the breadth of his shoulders and tapered in at the waist, every inch tailored to perfection. The fabric pressed sharply and cleanly against every line of muscle. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, pushed back in a way that left his jawline on full display.

You looked away before you could embarrass yourself, swallowing hard, lashes fluttering as your focus darted back to the counter. The act of tearing your gaze from him felt like peeling your own skin off.

"I won't be long." you mumbled, quickly sweeping your brushes and powders back into your makeup bag. You fished out a rather bold and obscene shade of lipstick to top off your look for the evening, uncapping it with a flick. 

“The others are waiting downstairs,” Bucky said, voice low and pointed. 

Not aimed at you.

Aimed at them.

Natasha exhaled through her nose, catching the unspoken warning. For once in her life, she read the room and rose from her perch on the edge of the tub. “We’ll go keep them company.”

It took an elbow to the ribs for Yelena to budge, following the redhead with a grumble and a muffled laugh under her breath, but they left. Finally. It was only as you heard the door click shut that you sucked in a breath for the first time in what felt like hours, the sound shaky in the echo of the tiled room. 

“They still giving you grief?” Bucky asked, stepping inside.

You let out a humourless laugh. “Grief is a polite way of putting it.” 

You finally abandoned your post by the mirror, hopping down from the counter, the cold tiles slapping against your bare feet.

A lot had changed in the weeks since the beach house. The secret about you and Bucky was hardly a secret anymore; idle gossip whispered in the hallways whenever agents didn’t think you were listening. Nothing concrete, nothing official. But everyone had their theories: if you weren’t dating, then clearly you were fucking; if you weren’t fucking, then clearly you were lying about it.

But, idle gossip hadn’t been your priority. You’d spent more nights than you cared to admit tangled in Bucky’s sheets, keeping him blissed-out enough that he didn’t have the time or the brain function to ponder the questions and observations you knew were simmering beneath the surface. 

Your only focus was on the progress of the Karpin mission. 

The Karpin buyer had finally taken the bait. He was going to be at the club, supposedly to meet with Karpin, who was none the wiser that his communication had been hijacked. You weren't even sure if Karpin was in the country; the last time you had seen him, he had been muttering about private yachts in Greece. 

But the trap was set nevertheless.

And you—lucky you—were the bait.

And the plan, at least on paper, was simple: seduce and stall. It was a set-up, a sting operation. Get close to the buyer, keep him there until the team infiltrated the club and took out any potential threats. You’d pretend to be one of the club’s girls, just another party favour, and continue the persona you’d so carefully built over months of intel missions. 

Bucky would be posted nearby, disguised as a security guard. When he gave the signal through the coms, the op would go loud. You still weren’t sure why he had volunteered to be a part of your cover, nor why anyone had agreed to let him play that part. The clubs were sensory hell—loud music, flashing lights, strangers pressing in from all sides, slick and skin… maybe he wanted to keep you in arm’s reach. Maybe he didn’t trust the plan. Maybe he didn’t trust other people with you if things went sideways.

S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t been able to get a full ID on the buyer. The messages had been encrypted, and the timeline of price negotiation meetings was too vague to piece together and pull intel on. There was always a chance it was a trap. Always that risk that you were familiar with—it wouldn’t be the first time you had to bullshit your way through an undercover disaster when your cover was blown. 

Maybe Bucky was showing his first streak of protectiveness because everyone knew you were going in essentially unarmed—nothing put a wire tucked somewhere discreet, a knife strapped to your thigh. No one would trust a stripper with a gun strapped to her thigh, for gods sake, and it was near impossible to conceal such a weapon in the outfits you had to wear. Your true weapon was your wit at this rate. 

There would be no guns, no do-overs, no margin for error. 

You were, quite literally, bringing a knife to a gun fight.

You turned to Bucky then, studying his face, trying to read all the things he wasn’t saying.  “You sure you want to do this?” you asked quietly.

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of exhale that said he was tired of being asked. You’d asked a dozen times. The team had too.

"Yes."

“The club’s going to be packed,” you reminded him. “Everyone’s either drunk or high—”

“I know.”

“It’s not too late to back out.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. His voice was quieter this time, but resolute.

“I know,” he repeated. “And I’m sure.”

A knot tightened in your chest, but you forced motion into your limbs, brushing past him, the hem of your robe whispering against your calves as you padded barefoot out of the bathroom and into your walk-in wardrobe. He followed, of course. Hovering. 

“They’re gonna talk, you know,” you muttered over your shoulder. Bucky lingered by the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame as you sifted through hangers with far more aggression than garment bags deserved.

“Who?” he asked.

You pulled out your poison of choice—black, form-fitting, unapologetically indecent. It hugged the curves of your body like a second skin, the hem scandalously short and the neckline a deliberate plunge into sin. One glance at it and you knew: this was bait.

“Who do you think?” you scoffed, tossing the dress onto the ottoman behind you, ignoring the way Bucky’s breath hitched just seeing the fabric move.“The team. Downstairs. I’m sure Natasha and Yelena are already crafting a narrative about how you stopped by for a quickie before the mission.”

“Quickie?” 

“A quick fuck,” you clarified sweetly, glancing over your shoulder.

He made a strangled sound, and you grinned, delighted. 

“Oh, come on,” you teased as your fingers toyed with the tie of your robe. “You can’t be blushing over words like that. People at the club are going to say and do much worse.”

With a careless tug, the robe slipped off your shoulders and pooled at your feet.

He went very still.

You stepped out of it, bare-skinned except for a matching set of barely-there underwear—delicate lace and thin straps that left very little to the imagination. 

You knew exactly what kind of character you were slipping into. 

Bucky had turned every shade of pink, poker face cracked down the middle as he blinked, struggling to keep his gaze polite. Struggling and failing. 

You bent, unhurried, stepping into the dress. The fabric clung to your thighs, your hips, your ribs—hugging your body like it was sewn on.  

You faced him with a smirk. “Zip me up?”

From the way his pupils had blown, you estimated he was around 5 seconds away from actually jumping your bones. 

He didn’t answer in English. Or any language you recognised. Just a guttural little sound, like instinct had severed his connection to coherent thought. He moved like instinct had hijacked his body, stepping into your space before thought could catch up. You swept your hair over one shoulder, baring the length of your spine. His breath stuttered. Then his fingers were on you in an instant. They skated down the dip of your back, tracing the curve of your waist, lingering like he was memorising every notch of your spine before he even touched the zipper. When his thumb brushed the start of the seam, you swear you felt the ghost of his lips follow, even though he hadn’t moved.

He drew the zipper upward in a slow, deliberate pull. The dress hugged you as it closed, and his knuckles dragged along your bare skin the whole way up, sending a shiver rolling through your body. You exhaled a shaky breath, chest rising as his fingers wandered—light, exploring—along your shoulder blades, dipping into the hollow just below your neck.

“I know I keep saying this,” you murmured, your voice betraying the tremor running through you, “but there’s no reason for you to force yourself into this mission.”

His touch froze for a heartbeat.

“It’s going to be… a lot,” you continued. “Hot, sticky, dirty. People won’t just look—they’ll want to touch you. Touch me. Over clothes, under clothes. Half the club is basically a glorified sex club disguised as a nightclub. You know that, right?” 

You heard him swallow thickly behind you. 

“They’ll say filthy shit, grab you without asking—” You turned, meeting his gaze through your lashes. “I know you. I know how this stuff gets under your skin.” 

“Or it might even…” You let the words drip slowly, “make you jealous?”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes told you everything. His gaze darkened, jaw ticking, and his hand—still at your back—curled just slightly, tension pulling through his fingers.

“These kinds of places, they’re messy. Not a blood and guts type of messy, I mean bodily fluids in the bathroom kind of messy—” His gaze burned into you, throat bobbing. You went on, unable to stop yourself now. “People fucking in corners, doing lines off strangers—”

“I want to do this.” He interrupted quietly but firmly. 

You wavered, chewing your lip, “Just…if it gets too much, it’s okay to tap out. Safe word, signal, whatever. We go. No questions asked—”

"I want to do this." He reiterated.

“…Okay,” you whispered. Hands up, mock-surrender. “Okay.”

You almost kissed him. God, you nearly did. Something about the earnestness in his eyes, the desire simmering right beneath it, pulled you forward like a riptide. But one glance at your lipstick in the mirror reminded you of the absolute clownery you’d invite if you walked out with it smeared across both your faces. Natasha would never let you live it down.

So instead, you just smiled, fingers grazing his knuckles as you brushed past him again.

Peeling him out of that suit piece by piece would have to wait.

Later. Much later.

 

The club swallowed you whole the moment you crossed the threshold. 

Heat rolled off the crowd in suffocating waves, thick with perfume, sweat, spirits and that faint chemical tang of designer drugs. The bass wasn’t heard so much as felt, vibrating through the walls, the floor, your ribs. From above, strobes painted the sea of bodies in fractured slashes of colour, red, violet, electric blue. Every surface had a sheen to it—slick palms, damp skin, mouths pressed to necks, hands slipping where they shouldn’t. The crowd didn’t move so much as writhe, one heavy mass of groping limbs and open mouths. 

You had slipped into your role instantly, posture loose and fluid. The regulars recognised you, eyes lighting up, faces turning your way as though you were a beacon in the dark, their bodies leaning close enough that hot breath damped your cheek. 

Behind you, Bucky weaved his way through the crowd. He blended in as well as he could, suit and tie, forged security tag, and expressed boredom in a way that mimicked the real club bouncers. Unlike them, his gaze never left you. He tracked every inch of your path, every hand that skimmed too close, every drunk body that staggered into your route. 

And the crowd noticed him too, thinly veiled lust behind dilated pupils. 

You had to try your best not to look back at him, not to appear too concerned as hands dragged over his chest, fingers curling around his bicep as hungry club-goers tried to pull him further into the depths. 

All you could do was push deeper into the throng. 

A sweaty man bumped into you, hands braced on your hips to steady himself, his laughter loud and slurred. You played it off with a breathy giggle and a light shove, slipping sideways through a knot of dancers.

The further you pushed, the denser the crush became. Someone tugged your arm, another your waist. A wandering hand slid across the back of your thigh, up towards your ass. 

You threw a look over your shoulder.

Bucky had freed himself from the grasp of a pack of women wearing bachelorette sashes, and just from one look at his expression, you could tell he was hanging by a thread. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought you heard his teeth grind. His eyes had gone glacial, pupils narrowed to pinpricks, focused on a man whose hand was cupping your tit. He took one deliberate step forward, cutting through the crowd with a lethal expression.

You raised a hand—don’t—but it was too late. 

The drunken man yanked you closer, slurring something into your ear as his grip tightened.

Bucky closed the distance in a heartbeat. One hand clamped down on the man’s wrist—the left—gloved fingers locking with deadly strength. The man yelped as vibranium likely came close to shattering bone, but the music swallowed his cry.  

“Hands,” Bucky growled, voice loud enough to be heard even over the music, “off.”

You gripped Bucky’s right bicep, nails digging into the suit fabric in warning. Only then did he release the squirming drunkard.

The man staggered back, ripping his wrist away and rubbing it. “It’s a fuckin’ club man—she came onto me—”

“Try again,” Bucky warned, stepping into his space. 

You quickly slid yourself between them, smoothing a hand up Bucky’s arm, squeezing him in a second, silent reminder. Stop it. Pull it together. Just enough to drag him out of his blind rage. 

“Hey,” you breathed, leaning close under the pretence of whispering something provocative into the drunk man’s ear. “I’m working in a private room tonight. Book earlier next time, baby.”

The guy blinked, the promise enough to soothe his bruised ego. He stumbled off into the crowd, muttering, already forgetting you.

But Bucky… Bucky didn’t move.

You turned toward him, your hand still on his bicep. His heart was pounding so hard you could feel it through his shirt. His breaths were short, barely contained.

“Buck,” you whispered, voice soft enough that only he could hear. “Eyes on me. Not them.”

He didn’t answer, but his jaw eased a fraction.

“You can’t lose it here,” you murmured, thumb brushing the inside of his elbow. “Look at me.”

His gaze finally met yours.

Cold, furious, protective to the point of recklessness. But at least he was now present.

You smiled—your club girl smile, sweet and sinful—and gave his wrist a tiny squeeze, a subtle command disguised as flirtation.

“Good,” you whispered, and then you turned, guiding him with your body through the last of the crush.

The music shifted as you approached the stairwell, the pounding bass thinning into a muffled throb as the air cooled. Guards at the bottom nodded at you, familiar in the easy, sleazy way that came from months of intel work.

“Thought you were off tonight,” one of them drawled, eyes tracing you from head to toe with unashamed hunger.

“Special client,” you said with a saccharine smile. “You know how it is.”

The guard’s gaze slid past you to Bucky—big, silent, glowering like a storm cloud in a suit—and the smile dropped right off his face. “Must be a big fish if he’s got his own security.”

Bucky only crossed his arms, muscles shifting under the fabric, making the guard subtly reposition his stance. And that was the problem. New guys didn’t just show up on nights like this without months of groundwork, flirting with staff, getting friendly with bartenders, collecting gossip, and making himself known. Anyone new skulking around on a night this important would’ve been shoved right back out onto barricade duty.

If he’d tried to come in as a newbie, he would’ve barely made it past the main dancefloor, let alone into the back rooms.

So tonight, he wasn’t a new hire. He wasn’t even American. He was the foreign muscle of your newly arrived, invisible, allegedly very powerful Russian client. The plan hinged on the fact that no one at this club had ever met the man. Not the guards, not the management, not the dancers—he only existed in encrypted messages run through middlemen like the Brandon kid.

Once you reached the buyer, Bucky would flip identities, sliding seamlessly into the role of one of Karpin’s men.

“Don’t worry,” you said lightly, giving Bucky’s tie a playful tug, like he was your expensive accessory rather than a weapon. “He’s Russian like the rest. Doesn’t speak a word of English. You can say anything in front of him, he wouldn’t have a clue.”

Bucky looked down at you with perfectly timed irritation, flicking your hand away as if you were a nuisance. A little act, a little disdain, the kind that fit the character.

“Kinda creepy,” the guard muttered, but he stepped aside and lifted the velvet rope anyway.

You swept past him with a wink and the faint click of your heels, Bucky trailing close enough that you could feel his presence at your spine.

Upstairs, the VIP corridor stretched long and narrow, lit by moody pinks and blues that smeared across the polished floors. The throb of the main floor softened into a heavy pulse through the walls, the riot of voices reduced to a distant roar enough to hear the occasional laugh or moan behind a closed door. The air here smelled of perfume, expensive vodka, and the faint acrid bite of cleaning agents used between clients.

Girls lounged along the walls and alcoves, draped in lace or leather, sequins or mesh. Some perched on velvet benches, others leaned on doorframes, all of them eyeing Bucky with a mixture of curiosity and unabashed desire as he followed behind you.

“Hey, baby,” one of the dancers crooned, sliding a manicured hand through her curls. “Didn’t realise you were working tonight.”

“I got a call,” you said with a smirk, adjusting the hem of your dress like you’d rushed to get ready. “Another one of them fancy Russians.”

“Figures,” she laughed, though her gaze snapped right back to Bucky, drinking him in with slow, predatory appreciation. “And who,” she purred, “is this handsome man?”

Bucky didn’t react, remaining perfectly still behind you, barely even breathing.

“Security,” you said with a shrug, tilting your head toward him. “One of the client’s boys. Doesn’t speak English. Only Russian. Apparently, watching me strip to check for wires was very necessary.”

“Oh,” she giggled, suddenly even more interested.

You turned your head just enough to murmur up at Bucky, words switching into Russian. “Careful, they’re watching.”

His jaw twitched—barely—but he replied low and guttural. “I don’t want her touching me.” 

You didn’t have the luxury of soothing him. The dancer didn’t notice the strain in both your voices. She was too busy practically undressing him with her eyes. And that should’ve been funny, or flattering, or at least unsurprising. But instead, jealousy flared sharp and mean under your ribs, quick as a spark on dry tinder. Ridiculous. Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Still, you used it.

“Play along,” you instructed. 

And he did—God help you, he did.

When you turned back to the dancer, you caught Bucky shifting his weight, leaning just slightly toward her as though he were interested. His gaze tracked her legs, deliberate and slow, and it was such a good performance you felt rage punch you dead-centre.

“Didn’t realise you spoke Russian too, honey.” Though the dancer wasn’t even looking at you anymore, instead her cheeks warmed under Bucky’s stare. She tucked a curl behind her ear, eyelashes batting. 

“Mm-hm. My grandmother was Russian.” A blatant lie, but you delivered it with such effortless confidence that it slid into the air like truth. “Picked up bits and pieces.”

“Never pegged you for bilingual.”

“Multitalented,” you teased, brushing imaginary lint from your dress. She was not in any shape or form paying attention to you, not with Bucky filling the room.

“So, what is he saying?” she asked, giggling.

You laid a light hand on Bucky’s chest as if mediating the conversation, then answered with the sweetest, most effortless lie: “He thinks you’re pretty.”

Her smile turned dazzling.

Bucky dipped his chin in a stiff little nod, just enough to look eager, not enough to look too polite. It worked. Too well. She practically preened.

That jealousy flared again, stupid and hot.

You swallowed it and weaponised it.

“Well,” you drawled, looping a strand of hair behind your ear, letting the movement frame your throat, your smile, everything he wasn’t supposed to react to, “if I finish early with this very important client…”

Your gaze slid to Bucky, lingering just long enough for the dancer to follow your line of sight. “…you could always come find him. See if you can squeeze out a few tips—” Your fingers brushed Bucky’s tie, the barest tease. “—or maybe a good time out of him.”

The dancer practically purred. Resentment coiled, even though this was your idea, even though this was supposed to be the act.

You cleared your throat, letting the moment loiter just enough to burn, then stepped back.

“Russians,” you added airily, “they always leave big tips.”

She burst into delighted giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. The sight made you nauseous enough you had to turn around, busying yourself with examining one of the expensive, frosted bottles of vodka in the bottle cart. 

The smallest incline of your head was all it took to have Bucky back at your side, away from the grasp of the dancer. A soldier stepping into place. Your soldier.

“Duty calls,” you told the girl, voice honey-sweet again. “We’ll catch up later.”

“Don’t keep me waiting,” she teased.

“Oh, we won’t,” you shot back with a grin you didn’t feel.

You let the corridor swallow you both as you stepped deeper into the VIP wing, only speaking once the other girls were out of earshot. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He said it too quickly. Too clipped. You knew him well enough by now to hear the truth snagged under the word

You could feel it. His stride matched yours, but his posture gave him away: shoulders squared too hard, jaw clenched tight, his breath a shade too heavy. You could feel the vibration of his agitation pulsing off him. He was one bad interaction away from snapping someone’s neck.

You slowed, letting your hand brush his forearm. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, glancing back at him. “I didn’t mean to push you—”

“I’m fine.”

“We can stop, no questions asked—”

“I said I’m fine.” His tone made you jolt a little, a barely constrained strain at the edges. “I just—I didn’t—”

“Expect it to be like this?” you finished for him gently.

“No.” He shook his head once, sucking in a sharp breath. “Expect it to be so hard to watch how these people treat you. How they look at you. Touch you like—”

“I know.” You stepped closer, hand smoothing down his arm. “Just a little longer and it’s—”

A door down the hall swung open with a hollow thud. A businessman stumbled out, wasted, belt half-unbuckled, followed by a cloud of overpriced cologne. Even with the smallest glance at him over Bucky’s shoulder, you…

You recognised him.

One of the regulars, a buddy of Karpin, a dirty bank guy who helped with the money laundering. Loved to snort coke off anything with tits, who would definitely question why you were here if Karpin was off on his yacht in Mykonos— 

Your instincts clicked into place. 

Without hesitation, you grabbed Bucky’s chest and shoved him lightly back against the wall, your body shielding his startled expression. This wasn’t the time for loose ends; for this plan to work, everyone needed to believe you were here on Karpin’s order. You rose onto your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, urgent and low. “Play along, feel me up—”

His reaction was immediate, too quick to be a conscious thought; you hadn’t even finished your sentence.

One heartbeat, the businessman was approaching, the next, Bucky’s hands were on your hips, steering you with a sureness that stole your breath. This was not the Bucky you had taunted all those months ago, the Bucky who could hardly look at you without combusting. He was a changed man, and you couldn’t help but wonder—breathlessly, dreamily—if the effect you’d had on him was truly this significant. He spun you into the shadowed corner of the hallway, pressing you back against the wall. You barely had time to inhale before his leg shoved between yours, pushing them apart. He hooked a gloved hand around your knee, hiking one of your legs up around his waist, locking it in place while your heel dug instinctively into the hard plane of his lower back. 

Your pulse stuttered, heat flooding through you as he caught both of your wrists in one large hand and pinned them high above your head, your back arching helplessly into him.

Then—god—the way he dipped his head.

His face found the hollow of your throat, breath hot, lips grazing a line up the column of your neck. His mouth crashed against your jawline, then your ear, open-mouthed, hot. To anyone walking by, you looked like a woman being thoroughly—and willingly—ravished. 

You couldn’t help it, even biting your bottom lip, a whine slipped through. It wasn’t even an act. Neither was the way you squirmed as leather-covered fingers traced up your thigh with practised intimacy, gripping your ass possessively through the thin black fabric of your dress. 

Your breath left you in a shuddering sigh, and the businessman walked past without blinking an eye. Bucky didn’t lift his face until the footsteps faded, didn’t release his grip until he was sure you were alone. But when he did, his head tilted back as he looked down at you in an unmistakable expression of bliss. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. Dark enough that, for a second, you caught your own reflection in them, flushed and stunned.

“You with me?” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes were still stormy, but his voice was steady.

“Always.”

It took you a beat too long to remember how to move, to remember that you were, in fact, still on a mission. It was like that with Bucky, too easy to get lost in the press of his body, the heat of his mouth, the faint, dangerous curve of a smile still tugging at his lips. His hand still lingered at your hips as you pulled away, helping you smooth your dress. 

You let out a laugh then, a soft, unbelieving giggle. Somewhere, some poor S.H.I.E.L.D. intern was going to have to scrub through the audio feed of that entire exchange, and the thought was just enough to clear your head. Mostly. Bucky’s mouth not being pressed to your throat helped, too. You straightened, rolling your shoulders back as the haze finally lifted. Just like that, you both snapped back into place, postures shifting, expressions settling, masks sliding on. Professionals again.

“Ready to catch this bastard?” 

His answer came without hesitation. “Lead the way.”

The door to the private room loomed ahead, only a few doors down from what could’ve been your ruin if you’d let lust get the better of you. You reached for the handle, already swaying into character, hips loose, smile sultry. This part was familiar, easy. The role slid onto you like a second skin. 

The steady pulse of music should’ve helped you find your rhythm. 

It didn’t. 

Because the moment you pushed through the doorway moments after Bucky had comm’d that both of you were going dark, the moment you set eyes on this mysterious buyer that had been taunting and evading shield for months, if not years… something inside you stalled. 

Red neon strips of light bled over the leather couches and a glass table, light catching on a half-melted bucket of ice. The man on the couch—he was relaxed in the way only powerful men ever managed: one ankle propped over his knee, arms spread along the backrest like he owned the entire damn building. He was watching you with the lazy, indulgent smugness of someone who thought the world existed to entertain him. 

You knew that posture, that predatory gaze.

You knew that man.

Not immediately. Not in the sharp, cinematic flash of a nightmare. It hit slower, first a sickening roll in your stomach, your pulse skipping a beat, then the prickling cold of goosebumps along the back of your neck. Ice poured down your spine, throat tightening, the horrible, solid click of a memory sliding into place—

You knew him. 

Your steps faltered, heels rooted in place.

He looked older. Grayer at the temples. Softer around the jaw. But his eyes, flat and sharklike, were exactly as you remembered. 

It was like that first painful, gasping breath after being underwater too long. You remembered—

Not his name, you’d never been granted that kind of respect. Kozlov? Korolev… Krasnov? It was all hazy now, the cloud of nights spent slung over couches, stretched out on beds, bruised knees on concrete floors, mouth open and waiting—

You remembered him hovering at Dreykov’s side. You remembered he whispered to Dreykov behind closed doors. You remembered the way he smirked during ‘evaluations’, during ‘re-educations’. You remembered the man who stood in the observation rooms reserved for board members, sipping dark liquor while the whip cracked down—

The Red Room was no more, the board was no more. You had to remind yourself, in that moment, you had to cling to that truth. But of course—of course—a man as sick as Korolev or Krasnov or whatever the fuck his name was would want his hands on super soldier serum. Of course, this entire criminal web looped back to the same rotting core. 

Your heart thudded hard enough that you felt it in your teeth. 

Beside you, Bucky halted. His hand brushed the middle of your back, barely a ghost of contact.

But it snapped you back into your body all the same.

Move.

Your body obeyed, and you let it. You allowed yourself to fall backwards into the familiar numbness, into the place where thinking hurt less. In that moment, you were no longer standing in a club under neon lights—you were a component slotted neatly back into the Red Room’s machinery. Another swallow, pliant and empty. Another girl reduced to a function, another offering laid at the altar of power. 

It was easier to let the old programming spool back up, to flatten yourself into obedience and silence. You had learned long ago that submission was a kind of prayer, one that kept the punishment brief. Freedom was a dangerous faith. Hope was heresy. Because forgetting was kinder than remembering, forgetting meant no grief for what you’d gained and might lose again. 

When the devil met your gaze and spoke your name, surrender felt like the only language left. You told yourself it would hurt less this way, that yielding might make the end sweet, the pain brief. Because when hell remembered you, resistance felt like vanity. And sometimes the softest lie you could tell yourself is that if you stepped willingly into the fire, it might choose to be merciful.

You slid a smile onto your face, sugary-sweet and lacquered on thick.

“Good evening,” you purred, letting the Russian drip warm from your tongue. Your hips resumed their usual sway, legs steady despite the lingering tremor. 

“Hello, beautiful,” he drawled, licking his lips. 

Beautiful. 

That made bile tickle the back of your throat.

You slid close, coat of disgust and terror tucked behind an easy smirk. When your legs threatened to shake, you leaned into the movement as though it were deliberate seduction. When your skin crawled, you let it fuel the slow trail of your fingers over his shoulders, directing his gaze exactly where you wanted it. 

And then, because it was what was expected—

You settled yourself neatly onto his lap. 

It took everything within you, every ounce of your steel will, not to flinch. 

A thousand memories pried at the seams of your mind—cold tile, latex gloves, the smell of antiseptic and blood, a thumb tilting your chin up—

He couldn’t know. He couldn’t. 

His thigh was solid beneath you. His hand immediately found the bare skin near the hem of your dress, fingers inching without permission. The feeling raised a quiver along your arms, but you forced the reaction into a breathy exhale, tilting your head as if you enjoyed it.

Bucky moved to his post by the door, every muscle tight beneath his suit. His eyes flicked between the two of you, professional mask on his face, but a storm gathering behind it. If he noticed you drowning, he didn’t show it. If the sight of you perched on another man's lap uncoiled anything inside him, he buried it deep.

You rose onto your knees, draping an arm over the back of the couch, leaning into the man just enough to keep up the illusion. Your voice was velvet when you spoke again, even as your stomach roiled. 

“Karpin will be here soon,” you hummed, low and sultry. “He asked me to make the wait… more enjoyable.”

The buyer’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “How generous of him,” he murmured. 

Generous.

Right. 

His breath smelled of whiskey and cigars. You swallowed the urge to spit in his face. But before you could respond, his attention shifted to the corner of the room, to Bucky, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Who is he?”

Bucky stepped forward just enough to be seen clearly, chin lifted, shoulders squared. 

“Security,” he replied smoothly. 

There was a tense beast, and then Bucky added with a respectful nod, though somewhat reluctantly, “I work for Karpin. He values your partnership greatly, so he sent me for your protection.”

The buyer grunted, accepting it without question. 

His focus dragged back to you, perched on his lap. “Show me your worth then, beautiful.”

You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, letting your body melt into the rhythm of the club below. His hands gripped your hips greedily, kneading. 

Your skin crawled, but your body moved like water. 

Just long enough, you just needed to keep his attention on you long enough for the others to infiltrate… Bucky had already given them the go-ahead; they were likely already closing in from the surrounding alleyways. 

You tossed your head back, hair cascading down your back in soft waves, light catching the glitter on your lids as you fluttered your lashes, biting down on your lip in faux pleasure. Your palms ran down his chest, the fabric smooth beneath your fingertips. His breath hitched in satisfaction, and you let your hips grind down again, the kind of movement that made men forget their names. 

Across the room, Bucky stood rigid. You could see him clearly reflected in the mirrored wall behind the couch. His jaw flexed. His eyes tracked your every moment, every movement of the target’s hands when they drifted too close. Every inch of space you surrendered in the name of the mission. 

He couldn’t move, couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t even glare too directly. 

Instead, he was stuck, left to watch helplessly.

Your body arched backwards, offering the buyer a clear view of your tits as you guided his hands up your thighs, up past your ribcage, until he was squeezing the soft mounds. You smirked at him, leaning closer to murmur into his ear, Russian like velvet. “What is your name?”

You traced a finger along the buyer’s jaw, caressing the bare skin. Your eyes flicked to Bucky’s reflection through the mirror for half a second—a tether. 

The buyer’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. 

“Klimov,” He replied. His hand was in your hair now, fingers sweeping through the strands as you continued to move, slow grind after slow grind. “But, you should know that, shouldn’t you, little swallow?” 

It knifed straight down your spine, stealing warmth from your limbs, turning them heavy and unresponsive. Shock landed so cleanly it robbed you of the seconds you needed to react. Your lungs seized before you could draw a full breath, ribcage locking as fear—

Kilmov’s fist tangled in your hair, and he yanked back hard.

Your spine slammed against his chest, a strangled cry catching in your throat as his forearm locked across your windpipe, sealing you into a crushing chokehold. Your heels scraped uselessly against the floor as you struggled for purchase, nails clawing at his arm as panic tore through you.

“Bucky, don’t—” You wheezed, but he was already moving. The gun was in his hand in a blink, drawn from inside his jacket. His stance was perfect, a predatory calm, barrel aimed squarely at the buyer’s skull.

Kilmov only laughed, a grotesque, triumphant sound vibrating against your back. 

“You know,” he rasped, tightening his grip until your pulse fluttered wildly under his arm, “maybe this pathetic little plan of yours would’ve worked if I didn’t recognise her.”

The bile you’d swallowed earlier surged back with vicious force, burning hot at the back of your throat. If you’d been able to breathe, if you weren’t being crushed under his arm, you might have vomited all over him.

Recognise her. 

There was a look that flashed across Bucky’s face, beyond the anger, beyond the desire to protect, and you could only describe it as horror.

Pure, unfiltered horror. 

Kilmov leaned in, his breath slithering across your cheek. His lips dragged wetly along your skin, smearing sweat and ruined makeup as he pressed his mouth close to your ear.

“I know this swallow, hm?” he purred, squeezing your throat for emphasis. “I had the privilege of helping train the little whore, and what a pleasure that was. I always liked trying to predict the sounds she would make.”

He hissed a low laugh. Bucky was trembling with barely contained rage. He was rigid, knuckles squeezed so tightly around the gun, you were surprised the handle hadn’t warped from the pressure. 

“I know she’s trying to gut me for information,” Kilmov growled, and he ground his face against yours, teeth grazing the corner of your jaw. “So tell me, beautiful, who do you work for these days? F.B.I? C.I.A? K.G.B?”

His tone dipped, amused.

“Who am I kidding?” he scoffed. “It’s S.H.I.E.L.D., isn’t it? Following in that Romanov bitch’s footsteps.”

Bucky’s grip on the gun tightened as the buyer’s fingers pressed harder, not just on your hair but along your waist, tracing the curve of your hip through the dress. He chuckled darkly in mock sympathy, tongue flicking over his lips.

“It would make sense,” he said, his grin spreading. “Gloved man who speaks my mother tongue… You must be the infamous Winter Soldier?”

The gun cocked. For a breathless moment, you were certain Bucky would pull the trigger anyway—line of fire be damned. But you were still between them. Still blocking the shot. Kilmov chuckled, delighted, tightening his chokehold until stars burst behind your eyes.

“Looks like I was right,” he gloated. “Only S.H.I.E.L.D. would be stupid enough to try something like this in the open. I suppose they didn’t expect me to recognise their little whore—”

Your vision blurred, edges bleeding together. Pain, humiliation, rage—it all burned too hot. You couldn’t let him keep talking. Couldn’t let Bucky hear what came next. Because once the truth was out there, once those stories you’d tried so hard to keep hidden were given life… You didn’t know if you could ever look Bucky in the eyes again. 

“You know, Soldier,” Kilmov went on, dragging his hand down to squeeze your breast through the dress. Bucky jumped slightly at that word, that title. Soldier—Soldat. “I’ve known her a long time. You can imagine the kind of training a swallow goes through to become something so… accommodating.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“I wonder,” he murmured, “do you think she remembers how I taste? I certainly remember how she did. Back in the glory days, Dreykov used to hand the swallows out like party favours.”

You struggled, but it was useless, stars dancing behind your eyes—

“Too easy, I would tell him.” He went on, smug. “Programmed to want it.”

Your fingers twitched toward your thigh.

You had to stop this. You had to stop this before it was too late, before any last form of autonomy of your own story, your own trauma was stolen from you—

“Sometimes,” Kilmov continued with a chuckle, revelling in Bucky’s furious expression. “Dreykov would mess with the programming… just so we could hear them screa—”

Your hand flashed to your thigh, fingers ripping the knife free from its hidden sheath with a desperate grip. For a fraction of a second, an eternity stretched thin, you saw it. The blade catching the red wash of neon, polished steel flaring crimson as you brought it down in a brutal, committed arc, aiming where you knew his femoral artery lay—

But he had expected it.

Kilmov’s fist came out of nowhere, a savage backhand that connected with a sickening crack. Your knife flew from your grip, clattering across the floor.  White-hot pain detonated across your face, so bright it obliterated thought entirely. Your vision burst into sparks, the world lurching violently sideways as blood flooded your nose and mouth in an instant, metallic and choking. You gasped reflexively—and inhaled it, going down hard.

Your knees buckled first, then your palms slapped the floor, skidding across something sticky as your body collapsed forward. The impact rattled your teeth. Your breath came in broken, panicked pulls, lungs burning as your vision doubled and swam. Blood poured freely now, running hot over your lips, down your chin, dripping onto the floor beneath you. The taste of iron was everywhere, sliding down your throat no matter how hard you swallowed.

Your head rang, a shrill, high-pitched whine drowning out everything else.

Above you, Kilmov loomed.

You barely registered him straightening, barely saw his hand dip inside his jacket as he reached for the pistol tucked there. Calm now, methodical, already preparing to finish what Dreykov had started years ago.

You didn’t even have time to scream.

A gunshot shattered the room, and you flinched, unsure if the bullet was destined for you—

That was, until Kilmov’s head came apart.

There was no warning—no drawn-out moment, no dramatic pause—just an explosive, wet rupture. Bone and blood burst outward in a violent spray, painting the mirror behind him in a grotesque arc of red. The glass shattered with a deafening crash as the bullet punched through, shards raining down alongside chunks of skull and matter that slapped wetly against the couch.

His body folded.

He collapsed beside you in a boneless heap. Blood poured freely now, pooling fast, spreading across the floor until it seeped around your fingers, warm and slick. You stared, stunned, as it touched your skin.

Your ears were ringing violently, the echo of the shot bouncing inside your skull. The room tilted. You tried to push yourself up, but your hands slid uselessly in the crimson smear, palms slippery. Your breath tore in and out of you, ragged and sharp, adrenaline clawing painfully at your ribs

Bucky’s shoes appeared in your blurred field of vision, then his knees hit the floor.  He cupped your face, thumbs smearing away blood that just kept coming, no matter how much he wiped.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice shaking despite the steel in his eyes. “Hey, look at me. Look at me.”

You did, but you couldn’t help the venom that tore through you—survival instinct lashing out, looking for something to bite. 

“Why did you do that?” You snapped. The sound of your own voice startled you with how ugly it sounded. “We needed him!”

It landed like a physical blow. You watched it hit him in real time, saw his shoulders stiffen, his hands falter before they dropped away from your face entirely. Remorse already blanketed you, smothering what little breath you had left. You knew the answer, you knew why he pulled the trigger—Kilmov was going to kill you, well and truly put a bullet in the back of your skull, and now you were punishing Bucky for it? But it was too late now, the words were already out, the snarl and teeth bared already perceived. Bucky withdrew, kneeling back on his heels. 

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” He muttered. “What's done is done.”

He turned, already moving, already gone somewhere cold and procedural. Guilt churned violently in your gut, mixing with the nausea already roiling there as he reached for his comms. His hands were steady, frighteningly so, muscle memory taking over where emotion had been shut down.

“Mission aborted, we need extraction now,” he said into the mic, voice flat. “I repeat, we need extraction. Over.”

“We need to do something about this body—” you mumbled, side-eyeing the corpse beside you, already feeling panic claw up your throat as your breath came in ragged pants.

“We don’t have the time.” He couldn’t even look you in the eyes as he spoke. 

“Bucky—” You begged.

He was adjusting his suit jacket now, already tucking the gun away, already resetting himself as you remained on the floor beneath him, shaking uncontrollably.

“Bucky, we can’t just leave—” Your voice broke. It cracked wide open, splitting something deep in your chest as a sob slipped out before you could stop it. You sucked in a shuddering breath, mortified and humiliated as your vision blurred completely. 

You were crying. 

You were crying in front of him. 

Down on all fours. Covered in blood—covered in literal brains. 

His head snapped toward you then, as if the sound startled him. Rage flared across his face, and as he stepped toward you, you realised his hands were shaking.

“We need to go,” he said. And for the first time since the shot rang out, his voice wasn’t steady at all.

His hand locked around your wrist, and he hauled you upright, already moving, already dragging you back the way you’d come. You registered it distantly as you tore through the back hallways, busting through the doors into the main club. It swallowed you whole, lights too bright, music too loud, bodies pressing in. 

You were bleeding openly, sobbing uncontrollably as you blindly followed Bucky into the sea of bodies. Heads turned, faces twisted in confusion as blood streaked down your mouth and chin. Fresh tears blurred your vision, spilling without permission, chest hitching. 

“Keep moving,” Bucky growled back at you, not unkind but urgent. 

He didn’t slow, didn’t let go. He carved a path through the crowd with the sheer force of presence, shoulder-checking men who protested, ignoring the shouted complaints, the startled gasps. A dancer you vaguely recognised reached for you instinctively, eyes wide.

“Oh my god—are you—?”

Bucky swerved around her, pulling you close to his side, his arm briefly bracing your back when your knees threatened to fold. You stumbled, the bass from the speakers pounding through your skull. The club blurred into fragments, flashing neon, spilt drinks, laughter, and someone shouting for security. Your tears kept coming, streaking through the blood and makeup on your face as you fought to keep your feet under you.

Bucky, knowing he couldn’t just drag you through the front door, pivoted, pulling you behind the main dance stage, bursting into the dancers’ prep area.

Chaos erupted.

Girls shrieked, scrambling to cover themselves, grabbing robes and towels as Bucky charged through like a freight train. Someone screamed your name—not your real name, your cover name—another voice yelling what the fuck happened, but you were already past them, tugged through mirrors and makeup lights and the sting of hairspray in the air.

Your heel caught on the threshold as you hit the back door—

You went down hard, the impact jarring straight through your bones, pain flaring white-hot in your knee and ankle. You barely had time to register it before Bucky swore and hauled you back upright by sheer force. One shoe stayed behind, lost in the process as Bucky continued to tug you along, limping. He didn’t slow. The door banged open and cold night air slammed into your face, stealing your breath as you stumbled into the alley, one foot bare against damp grit and broken glass. The sounds of the city, cars honking, distant sirens, and chatter engulfed you as the bass of the club became distant. 

The others were waiting near the end of the alley. Sam hovered near the corner that led to the main street, half-hidden, eyes scanning for the extraction vans. Tony paced like a caged animal, hands raking through his hair, jaw clenched tight. Steve stood rigid beside Natasha, tension radiating off him in quiet, coiled lines as he muttered.

They turned as one—and froze.

For half a second, the alley went dead silent.

You were a wreck. Blood streaked down your face unchecked, your nose still pouring, tears cutting tracks through smeared makeup you hadn’t meant to cry away. Your dress hung wrong on your body, one strap twisted, hem riding up, one heel gone, your knee scraped raw and bleeding. You were shaking so hard you could hear your teeth chatter.

If anyone spoke to you, if anyone gasped your name in concern or horror, you didn’t hear it. Bucky let go of your wrist abruptly, jaw ticking as he stalked toward Tony just as the billionaire exploded.

“What the fuck was that?” Tony barked, arms thrown wide. “You were in there five seconds—we didn’t even breach—”

The world tilted.

You took two unsteady steps before the vertigo slammed into you full force, a violent lurch that made the alley roll and warp like a ship in heavy seas. You caught yourself against the brick wall, palm scraping rough stone as your vision blurred and narrowed. The bass from the club still echoed faintly, blending with the ringing in your ears.

Somewhere nearby, voices rose—Tony swearing, Bucky’s snarling back in response, Steve trying to cut between them—but it all sounded distant, distorted, like it was happening several rooms away. Your breath hitched, sobs clawing their way out of your chest as the panic began to coil tight and merciless.

The nausea surged.

It started low, a sickening churn that rolled up through your gut. Acid pooled at the back of your throat. You lurched forward instinctively, hands outstretched, trying to reach him, trying to reach Bucky. Your Bucky. Embarrassment burned sharp and relentless as you stumbled, your thoughts spiralling faster than you could grab hold of them.

Why had you snapped at him? Why had you allowed the fear to seize you? You were furious—at yourself, at the world, at this whole fucked up situation that had dragged you back into something you had fought so hard to bury. You had tried to change and tried to be better. Tried to be more than what they had made you.

But standing here, bleeding and shaking, it felt like it had all been a lie.

When you searched for the source of the sickness clawing through you, only one thing answered: shame. Bucky, who had looked at you like you were something good. Something worth protecting. Bucky, who had trusted you, who had been lulled into the false security of thinking he truly knew you… He could see you for who you truly were now. For what you truly were. 

You were weak. 

Pathetic. 

Selfish. 

Afraid.

“He’s dead!” Bucky shouted somewhere in front of you, his voice slicing through the static buzzing in your ears. “I shot him. And I’d do it fuckin’ again if I had to—”

“You shot him?” Tony snapped back, incredulous. “You shot the one person we needed alive? Barnes, can you even hear yourself, you absolute fucking idiot—”

Steve stepped in immediately, blocking the men with his body as tensions and hackles rose. “That’s enough. Save it for the debrief.”

Tony was laughing bitterly, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this, I genuinely can’t believe what a royal fuck-up you are—”

Your stomach clenched violently.

You barely had time to turn before it hit.

You doubled over beside the dumpsters, retching hard, your body folding in on itself as bile burned up your throat and spilt from your mouth. The force of it made your head swim, your vision flashing black as blood poured freely from your nose, splattering dark against the concrete below. Your throat burned, your eyes watered, your whole body convulsed as another heave tore through you.

“Jesus—” Tony muttered. “Is she drunk? What the fuck is happening? Have I died and gone to hell—?”

Natasha was there instantly, crouching close, hands gentle but insistent as she tried to steady you, to brush your hair back from your face. “Hey—hey, it’s okay. You’re in shock—”

“Don’t,” you snarled, panic detonating through your chest. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

The alley went dead silent.

Tony cut off mid-rant, mouth still open, disbelief flashing across his face. Sam froze where he stood between Bucky and Tony, hands half-raised, eyes snapping to you. Even Steve stilled, the tension in his posture shifting like even he was startled by your outburst. 

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at Bucky to see his reaction.

Natasha flinched as if you had struck her.

Real hurt crossed her face before she masked it. She withdrew slowly, deliberately, palms lifting in a wordless show of surrender, eyes never leaving yours.

“I—” The word tried to form, shame crashing into you a split second too late. You didn’t mean—

But your body didn’t give you the chance.

You retched again, but nothing came this time. Your body spasmed uselessly, dry heaving, throat raw and aching as you gagged against empty air. One hand braced against the brick wall, knuckles whitening, while the other pressed uselessly to your stomach.

The vertigo surged as the adrenaline finally burned out of your system. Sounds became distant, muffled, like you were underwater. Behind you, voices overlapped—Sam stepping between Bucky and Tony, Steve pleading for calm—but it all blurred into noise.

All you could do was squeeze your eyes shut and let the panic take you, heart hammering wildly as the world spun and spun and spun—

You folded in on yourself.

Arms wrapped tight around your ribs like you could hold yourself together if you squeezed hard enough, you curled forward, forehead nearly touching your knees as another sob finally broke loose. It tore out of you ugly and unrestrained, a sound you didn’t recognise as your own. Your shoulders hitched violently, breath stuttering, lungs refusing to cooperate as panic fully sank its claws in. The alley felt too narrow, the walls pressing inward, the smell of garbage and blood and cold night air clogging your throat.

And the world, the world wouldn’t stop fucking spinning—

You rocked slightly where you crouched, hands clawing at your arms.

Then the alley exploded into motion.

Engines roared from the mouth of the street, headlights flooding the narrow space in blinding white. Vans screeched to a halt, tyres screaming against concrete as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents clambered out. 

You barely registered it.

Someone was shouting your name. Someone else was telling you to get up, to move. The noise pressed in on you from all sides, compounding the panic until your chest felt like it was caving in. You shook harder, teeth chattering uncontrollably, breath coming in shallow, broken pulls that didn’t feel like they were doing anything at all.

“I—I can’t—” The words came out strangled, barely audible beneath your sobbing. Your legs felt useless, locked in place, disconnected from your brain.

Then Bucky was there.

He strode straight through the chaos and scooped you up like you weighed nothing. One arm braced under your knees, the other solid and immovable around your back. The sudden change in position made your stomach lurch, but the moment your body left the ground, instinct took over.

You buried your face into his chest.

The scent of him cut through the fog just enough to anchor you. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead against his collarbone as if you could will the spinning to stop, as if hiding there might make the world quiet again.

“I got her,” Bucky said curtly as he climbed into the van. “Go.”

The doors slammed shut behind you, metal ringing loud and final as the engine revved. The van careened forward hard, tyres shrieking as it peeled away from the alley, the city lights streaking past the narrow windows.

Bucky sat with you in his lap, one arm locked securely around your back, the other bracing you against his chest as you shook violently. Your teeth clattered so hard your jaw ached. You clutched at his jacket with trembling fingers, breath hitching over and over as sobs continued to tear free.

He cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, careful not to tug. His other hand slid up and down your spine in slow, steady, deliberate strokes.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, close to your ear. “I’ve got you.”

You felt him press his cheek lightly against the top of your head, shielding you from the stares, from the noise, from everything.“It’s okay,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re safe. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-archive and turn on post notifications! <3

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we're so back

[artficlly]

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈ welcome to art's archive — 2025 ᝰ.ᐟ this is a little year-end round-up, a celebration, and a love letter to the bucky barnes fandom. i know there’s been a cloud of negativity hanging around lately with all the hate messages, and it’s so easy to get swept up in it...but the truth is? this fandom is full of insanely talented writers, creative minds, and genuinely kind people. so, I wanted to make something that focuses on that. this archive is my way of spotlighting the amazing things happening across the bucky x reader tag! the fics everyone’s talking about, the hidden gems and the writers who’ve been killing it all year. i’ll also be using this archive as a place to record my own blog updates! next year, if time allows, i might turn this into a more regular round-up and maybe even include an events section for challenges, collabs, and fun fandom happenings. if you’ve got a fic you love (or one you’ve written and are proud of!), tag me. i genuinely want to check it out! or if you’re hosting something or see something floating around, please tag me so i don’t miss it! thank you to everyone who’s been reading, writing, reblogging, screaming in the tags, or simply hanging out. this fandom wouldn’t be the same without you. here’s to more stories, more love, and more positivity in the year ahead. if you read or check out any of these fics, please remember to like, comment and reblog! us writers love to hear your thoughts and your favourite parts. reblogging is truly the economy of writing on tumblr, so don't forget to do that too <3

every few months, certain fics absolutely take over our dash! the ones you see reblogged everywhere, the ones your moots won’t shut up about, the ones that keep showing up in rec lists because they really are that good. this section is for the fics with 2k+ notes and the kind of writing that grabs hold of the fandom by the throat. these are the stories that have been dominating my timeline and half of the fic rec tags i’ve seen recently (for very good reason) if you somehow missed any of these while scrolling, consider this your sign to dive in <3

elevator, baby! — @aquaticmercy .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ the team thinks bucky has a crush on the tower’s interior designer. they don’t know that they’re already married.

rough day, baby? — by @brunchable .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ you get pampered by bucky after a long stressful day, he takes care of your every need, just so you can unwind.

substance f52.8 — by @blowingbarnes .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ how many times has steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?

sweet nothin’ — by @mcrdvcks .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ you're a simple brooklyn florist when bucky barnes enters your shop and changes your life forever.

two tickets to iron maiden — by @superbassbuck .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ you're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. that is, until one house party changes everything. when bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. you’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.

tears run down (my thighs) — by @barnesandashes .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ is getting wet a valid response when your boyfriend knows how to treat you right? or, bucky barnes being the poster child for gentlemanliness in the 21st century, that it's a turn on with how much he loves you.

vocal economy — by @houseofhyde .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ after a chance encounter at paris fashion week, you find yourself entangled in a web of sex, lies, and watchful eyes alongside the drummer of beloved rock band the howling commandos. a problematic boyfriend is a rite of passage for every pop-girlie… but bucky barnes is not your boyfriend, he’s your drug. no matter how hard you try, can you truly quit him?

one thing i love most about this fandom is how many incredible writers are creating quietly in their own little corners. tumblr’s algorithm can be… well, dumblr, which means so many beautiful stories end up flying under the radar. this section is dedicated to the “hidden gems”, aka, fics and series sitting under 1,000 notes (ideally under 500) that absolutely deserve more love. some of these were sent in by moots, others i’ve stumbled across/been tagged in myself, but all of them are written with so much heart, creativity, and talent. if you’re a smaller writer, or if you know a fic that fits this vibe, please tag me! I’d love to help more readers discover your work.

the hare, the hunter and the soldier — @opheliabbarnes .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ you've built yourself and your cat a solitary life far away from civilization. you lived off of hunting, two trips to the nearest store per year. that was how you preferred it.. just silence, solitary, peace, quiet. you never thought this would be so rudely invaded by log stealing soldiers with a colourful shield, a broken leg and the story of a lifetime.

so easy (to fall in love) — @daydreamgoddess14 .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 1985. when your estranged father dies, you inherit his crumbling vegas lounge - the golden city. you haven't set foot in there since you were a kid, and you fully intend to sell it off as soon as the paperwork clears. but when you arrive to assess the mess, you discover the one thing keeping the place barely alive: bucky barnes, the lounge’s resident crooner, swaggering his way through cigar smoke in gold chains, open shirts and sunglasses. Who even wears sunglasses inside anyway? you want to shut it all down. he refuses to let it go.

plus one problems — @mrsbuckybarnes1917 .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ when your best friends demanded proof that your ‘perfect’ boyfriend wasn’t imaginary, there was clearly only one solution— fake a relationship with the grumpy-but-gorgeous neighbor across the hall. bucky barnes was many things: ex-assassin, world-class brooder, and definitely not your type. but when he needed a wedding date to avoid his meddling friends (the illustrious sam wilson), your mutually beneficial arrangement seemed to be foolproof.

not a fairytale kiss — @azriona .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ this is not your typical love story. typical love stories don’t involve sex pollen, accidental pregnancies, doombots, failed HYDRA medical experiments, or red-headed witches who may or may not be trying to help. despite all this, you and bucky are determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. even if you think he feels the same. even if it kills you. (spoiler alert: it might actually kill you. good luck with that.)

there are worse games to play — @s-sh-ne .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ bucky barnes has lived most of his life by the capitol's word, so when it all comes crashing down, he escapes halfway across the country to the presumably abandoned twelve. except instead of destruction, he finds a woman with a home filled with flowers and soap. someone capable of seeing him as more than just the mindless capitol's pawn.

hummingbird — @mscottontail-stash .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ you thought enrolling in a quiet zurich boarding school would let you escape your father’s criminal empire. when his enemies attempt to abduct you, they are annihilated by a fearsome, blue-eyed, metal-armed soldier who takes you instead. caught between ransom and rescue, he is your captor, your protector, and your only tenuous chance to survive.

the fifth kennel — @vunblr .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ she brings home a cynical hybrid no one wanted: a missing limb, a brutal past, and zero interest in making things easy. he didn't ask to be rescued, doesn't want her pity or her stubborn refusal to back down. what begins as an act of conscience becomes a tense dance of boundaries, old instincts, and... unexpected connection.

let the rain fall — @mrs-elsie-barnes .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ bucky and steve are looking for some new agents to join their team and your CV is incredible, so why are you holed away in the office? your need for quiet and peace feels shocking in the always busy compound, but bucky finds himself seeking you out more and more.

the brooklyn boys — @buckets-and-trees .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ bucky meets a female reader in the park, they don't hit it off. on another day, steve meets a female reader at a sandwich shop, and they do hit it off. relationships grow, feelings grow, then they collide.

high isn’t enough — @heldbybarnes .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ after a too-close pass in the cage, steve and bucky stop pretending they don’t want you. at the bar after the show, they corner you, confess everything, and one locked storage-room door later—the rider’s high has nothing on them.

point of impact — @cheekybarnes .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ in your world, the avengers are fiction—comics, movies, nothing more. then a lab experiment goes wrong, and you wake up mid-civil war with no way out and no script to follow.

a series of horny events — @pinksplace .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ the five times you think about fucking bucky barnes, and the one time he thinks about fucking you.

suburban legends — @lunexiax .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ you're harbouring more than just a crush on your best friend - you're completely in love with him. it's too bad that bucky is too busy entertaining other girls to see you as anything more than a friend. when you make the difficult decision that it's time to move on, does it push him to see what he never has before?

go go dancer! — @barnesonly .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ out of all the possible places in the world, the congressman ends up in a strip club. he tries… really tries to stay composed, yet the moment his eyes land on you… it’s over. but one private dance cannot cause any harm… right?

no rest for the wicked — @elixirfromthestars .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ when the notorious brooklyn ripper strikes again, you’re more determined than ever to finally catch him by any means necessary. even if it means teaming up with your vigilante neighbor bucky, who's wanted by the very institution you work for.

there’s something in the trees — @54nboo .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ bucky barnes and steve rogers have hunted every cryptid around the globe except one— you, the elusive mothman. now that they’ve found their way to west virginia, they’ll stop at nothing to find you.

he’s in your head, i'm in your heart — @lovemesomebucky .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ someone can only handle so much before they become numb. can only handle so much hurt and anger before it consumes them. you couldn't, wouldn't, become that. you had to get away.

not for you — @kqtholins .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ he can’t be yours when tomorrow asks for more than you can give.

the sparrow and the soldier — @herejustforbuckybarnes .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ same girl, same goal, different name. leaving Gotham had meant a new beginning. she had left behind the mantle of batgirl, no longer one of the sidekicks of her father. she changed the batsuit for a notepad and writing for the local newspaper. now, the city needed help, someone who, unlike the avengers, dealt with street-level threats. but since batgirl was in the past, a new vigilante had to step up. or a new threat is rising in the city, people are going missing, and the avengers are hitting a dead end trying to stop it before it's too late. now is the time for them to seek help in the hands of sparrow, a new vigilante that had been helping them from the shadows, never seen but with apparently eyes and ears everywhere, unaware that who they are looking for is the oldest daughter of bruce wayne.

spectrophilia — @not-neverland06 .ᐟ ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ t𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗. d𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛. i𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎? a𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚜, 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗? s𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚜. b𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢. i𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎. o𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗. n𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞. e𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍.

this year was huge for me as a writer! honestly one of my most productive, fulfilling, and chaotic-in-the-best-way years on this blog.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ i wrote 10 one-shots ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ started two brand new series — lessons in lovemaking and wolves at the gate ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ hit 5,000 followers (!!) ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ launched my sideblog @artficlly-archive ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ and my biggest fic of the year? this is (not) okay, currently sitting at a whopping 16k notes ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ following right behind it is the lessons in lovemaking series, which has: nearly 5k notes on the masterlist, over 10k notes on the first chapter and 21k notes across the whole series so far! ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ i also absolutely obliterated my writing goals this year: 222,869 words written! doubling the 100k goal i set for myself ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ and i even did a personal NaNoWriMo in january, writing 54k in one month

the love you’ve shown my work this year has genuinely floored me, especially since i disappeared for nearly four months while juggling uni and some health stuff. coming back to so much support, enthusiasm, and kindness meant more to me than i can express. thank you for sticking around, for reblogging, screaming in my tags, and hyping my fics even when i was quiet.

so what’s coming in 2026?

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗f inish the lessons in lovemaking series, only two chapters left! ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ wrap up my other series smog & spirits (just a few chapters until the end!) ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ finally finish + post my two long-term wips: i who have known death and the daughter of the rotsál ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ more one-shots, and possibly some sequels ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ post my entry for the bwa (bucky writer's association) fairytale collab ╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ run more events, including the continuation of my spin the trope challenge and a couple of secret collabs yet to be announced.

to finish off this beast of a post, here's a little snippet/teaser from my wip long live the queen!

And standing at the edge of the weary, old wooden docks stood the only soul who had come to receive you. No fanfare, no banners, nor priests or husband-to-be, but a knight. Or, rather, a mountain of a man covered in steel.  Your breath caught, though you were not sure why. He was utterly still, armour dented and scratched, the beginnings of rust blooming along the seams from sea-salt and age, a heavy fur mantle cloaked over his shoulders. His helmet was a monstrous thing, carved with the faintest suggestion of a grim face, the eyes slits shadowed so deeply you could not tell whether a pair of human eyes lurked behind them or something else entirely. He could have been a statue if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, like a sentinel guarding a tomb. You wondered—briefly, bitterly—if you were the corpse he was waiting for. Only when you dared a hesitant step closer did the knight stir, like a beast waking from a centuries-long slumber. A low rasp of breath echoed beneath the helmet, metal hissing against metal as he shifted his weight. A sailor behind you snorted softly. “That’ll be your escort, my lady. Sir Barnes.” The gangplank was lowered with a heavy thud, and Sir Barnes ascended towards you. Each step heavy, but not graceless. You realised, as he drew near, how truly enormous he was—taller than any man you’d ever seen, as if built to withstand the blows of giants.  And he did not bow. He simply paused before you, head tilted down ever-so-slightly, waiting.

[artficlly-archive]

a little (more like a beastly) personal project! give it a read, check out the recommended fics and see what my plans/goals are for the coming months <3

[artficlly]

hide & seek [one-shot]

marvel au tb*!bucky x fem!reader a simple game of hide and seek for bragging rights turns heated when you and bucky cram into the same hiding spot.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, v fingering, sexual tension, gags/underwear gags, forced proximity, soft dom!bucky (at times), kissing, angst, grumpy!bucky, smug!bucky, there's some plot if you squint, flashback/memories, thunderbolts* au, no use of y/n, gif does not represent readers physical looks, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: hello! i've been on break awhile but this idea has been haunting me for months. still busy with uni, rip but i'll be on break again soon. thank you all for your kindness and patience! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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In all the months you’d worn the patchwork title of Avenger, or Thunderbolt—whichever shiny new label Alexei was spewing that week—you could only recall one moment where Bucky Barnes had truly seen you. 

Most of the time, you were convinced you existed somewhere in his periphery. A stray Val had deposited on his doorstep, and he hadn’t yet figured out the return policy. An obligation disguised as a teammate. 

That was the problem with Bucky: he was a reluctant leader. One who wore the mantle like an ill-fitted coat. Some days, you wondered if he carried it like a punishment. Like you were his punishment. He scowled through the endless missions, debriefs and press conferences, shouldering the team’s chaos as though it were his personal penance. And whenever his gaze happened upon you, it lingered—not warmly, not cruelly—but just long enough to remind you that Bucky Barnes had no fucking clue what to make of you. 

It might have been easier to stomach if you didn’t catch yourself enjoying that scowl, or the way his eyes stripped you bare before dismissing you entirely.

You had been a late addition to the lineup, shoved into the mix courtesy of Val after she remembered you were another loose thread she hadn’t clipped yet. The others hadn’t exactly welcomed you with open arms—with the exception of Alexei, who would talk to a brick wall if it listened—no, the rest of them had eyed you like you were a trap waiting to be sprung. Cautious. That was the word. Cautious that Val had planted you as a spy, a saboteur, a fuse already lit and burning, placed directly into their laps. 

And you, if you were honest with yourself, hadn’t exactly helped their suspicions. 

You were awkward, brash in ways that rarely landed. Your humour had a habit of falling flat, your sarcam subtle enough to be mistaken for sincerity. It took weeks before the ragtag crew stopped stiffening every time you opened your mouth, bracing for a punchline to turn into a knife. 

You had always made people nervous. Not just because of your ineptitude at social interaction, but because of something much deeper—a fundamental unease sewn into the fabric of who you were. Their worries about you being a spy weren’t entirely unfounded when your greatest power was the one thing that guaranteed distrust: invisibility. The ability to vanish at will. To linger unseen. Unsurprisingly, it made people jumpy, especially a messy group of reluctant heroes with more skeletons in their closet than the natural history museum. And whether you were present or not, your teammates always seemed half-convinced you were right there in the room with them, hidden in plain sight, listening to secrets that were never meant for you. 

But over time, suspicion had given way to camaraderie. The wary glances, the stiff silences, the subtle double-checks that you were actually gone when you vanished… those had softened into something resembling friendship. Bob shared in your awkward humour, Yelena tolerated your vanishing act with an eyeroll. Even John had relaxed enough to grumble in your general direction without scepticism lacing every word.

But Bucky? He seemed inexplicably drawn to you, whether he was conscious of it or not. If it wasn’t the staring, it was a lingering—an ever-present awareness of where you were. At first, you’d told yourself it was distrust, his refusal to let you slip too far from sight in case you were truly up to something. But as the edges of that apprehension dulled with time, you were left with a more unsettling question: did he still see you as he had on day one, untouched by everything that had passed between you? Or was it something else entirely that kept him close?

And now—thanks to your own mouth and self-imposed hubris—you were shoulder-to-shoulder with the man himself

It had started innocently enough. Team bonding. Some backhanded comment from Alexei about the lack of wholesome group activities (though, Alexei’s idea of wholesome was sparring until blood was drawn). From there, the conversation had spiralled into a half-serious list of corporate-retreat level nonsense: trust falls, blindfolded obstacle courses, and Alcoholics Anonymous-level sharing circles. 

Then, inevitably—as was a recurring pattern with the group—the conversation turned competitive. One misplaced claim from Yelena, stating she’d wipe the floor with everyone in a game of hide-and-seek, turned the sarcastic mumblings and cackling into chaos. Ava had scoffed and remarked she wouldn’t stand a chance. And you, naturally, couldn’t resist chiming in. ‘Hello? Invisibility? This isn’t even a contest!’

That was all it took. The discussion devolved into a full-blown shouting match, arguments about rules and loopholes. Until Bucky, exasperated and weary, muttered: ‘Why don’t you just play the damn game instead of arguing?’

You’d seen the regret in his face the second he said it, jaw tightening as Alexei leapt up, already claiming seeker.

And now you were stuffed into a wardrobe, pressed against the back panel between coats, invisible and smug in the knowledge you’d already won. That was until Bucky found you almost immediately. No hesitation, no circling the room for show. He just swung open the door like he’d known all along, stepping inside and shutting the world away without a word. 

“You can’t hide in here with me—” You hissed, powers flickering out as you reappeared.

He shifted in place, his broad frame swallowing the narrow space, arm brushing yours as he settled in beside you. You held your breath, staring anywhere but at him, determined not to acknowledge how hot the air suddenly felt, or betray the way your body registered every inch of him. 

“Thought you said you were gonna win this thing?” His voice was low, close enough that you felt it against your ear. “Figured I might as well join you in victory.”

“You’re a leech.” You huffed, though it came out thinner than intended. “How’d you even find me anyway? You could’ve at least pretended to struggle before waltzing in—”

His reply was almost a smirk, gone before it fully formed. “I knew exactly where you’d go.”

That snapped your head toward him before you could stop it, temple brushing the cool wood. His face was far closer than you’d anticipated, close enough that you caught the sharp lines of his jaw in the dimness, the steady weight of his gaze pinning you where you stood. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you whispered.

His gaze flicked down, raking over you in a way that felt deliberate. Your pulse stuttered, traitorous.

“Means,” he said finally, voice low, the corner of his mouth twitching again, “you’re not half as unpredictable as you think you are.”

You scoffed weakly, trying to mask the thrum in your chest. Because the truth was—however ridiculous as it seemed—you had been in this exact position before. And the more you thought about it, the less you believed he’d simply stumbled upon this spot. No, Bucky Barnes wasn’t a man who relied on accidents. He’d chosen this spot, chosen to shut himself in the dark with you, close enough to feel your every breath. Not for some cheap, shared victory… but for the very same reason you had. 

—

Two months ago, Val had organised one of her endless galas for the sponsors of the New Avengers. In theory, it was a celebration of progress. In practice, it was a parade of donors, minor politicians and people who thought they were charming because they owned half of Manhattan. You and the rest of the team tried your best not to get too sucked into Val’s charades, but unfortunately, the Avengers Tower did need to get its funding from somewhere. 

The tower hummed like a hive beyond the walls, champagne glasses clinking, rich laughter and polite conversation stretched thin. 

You’d lasted all of twenty minutes, maybe less. Your fake smile had started to ache into something closer to a grimace by the time you slipped down a side corridor, ducking into one of the storage rooms the team used for overflow gear. 

The room smelt faintly stale, with a vague scent of dust and polish. Boxes were stacked high and crooked to the ceiling on one side, while others were scattered across the room in various stages of unpacking. You perched on one, a wooden crate stamped with something that looked suspiciously like a Stark logo. The expensive silk of your dress pooled around your thighs, the slit up the side suddenly feeling extra reckless in the cool air. You bent over one leg, frowning at the bent buckle on the strap. The clasp refused to catch, no matter how carefully you coaxed it. 

With a sigh, you fiddled and twisted the stubborn metal. It was nearly impossible to get a proper grip on the bloody thing with the perfectly manicured nails Val had insisted you had to match your outfit. You had laughed when the others had told you about Bob’s blonde moment under Val’s influence, but now you could only feel sympathy as you had fallen victim to her controlling ‘artistic vision’—

You jerked upright, nearly sliding off the crate as the door creaked open. 

Bucky Barnes filled the doorway—broad shoulders haloed by the dim hall light, black suit cut sharp against the rugged line of him. For a heartbeat, he scanned the room on instinct, quick and assessing, until his eyes found you. Surprise flickered there, gone almost before you could be sure, replaced by the cool, unreadable calm you’d come to expect. 

If you were the kind of person who bruised easily, you might have taken offence. From the day you’d joined the team he’d been courteous but distant, all clipped nods and careful silences. You’d long decided not to take it personally—Bucky distrusted everyone at first—but it didn’t stop the occasional sting. 

“Jesus,” you muttered, pressing a hand to the deep V of your neckline where your heart still thumped. “Thought Val had sent someone to drag me back.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something dangerously close. “If Val were going to send anyone, it wouldn’t be me.”

A beat passed and you anxiously watched him. 

“Relax. I’m hiding too.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the admission. Your head dipped as you glanced down at how you were sitting, and tried to subtly pull some of your skirt back over your thighs where the fabric had ridden up. “Bucky Barnes, party fugitive… didn’t expect that.”

His gaze lingered on you a beat too long before he stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him. “More common than you’d think.” He admitted it as if it were a guilty confession. He leaned a shoulder against a tower of boxes, watching you with that steady, unreadable look that always felt like it saw more than it should. 

You chuckled, feeling yourself burn up under his gaze as you eased back onto your perch. “Guess that makes two of us.”

An awkward silence washed over both of you, filled only by the muffled party noise. You searched your memory for another time the two of you had been alone like this and came up empty. The thought sent a flicker of heat to your cheek, and you ducked your head again, pretending to fuss with the stubborn buckle. 

“Something wrong with it?” His voice was closer now.

You jumped when you looked up—he’d crossed the room without a sound.

“The buckle….the buckles bent.” You stuttered, clearing your throat as you gave your foot a pathetic little wiggle. “Cheap metal. Or maybe I’m just cursed.”

“Let me see.”

Before you could protest, he lowered himself onto the boxes beside you. The cardboard dipped under his weight, bringing his shoulder almost flush with yours. His scent—cologne and faint leather filling your senses. 

“Foot,” he instructed quietly, extending a hand. The vibranium plates caught the light in muted golds and blues.

You swallowed hard, mouth opening and closing as you fought for an excuse or reason not to, but came up empty. Heat crawled up your neck as you placed your leg across his lap. His cool fingers slid beneath your calf, steadying your leg, while the warm flesh of his other hand bracketed your shin. You felt every point of contact, his calloused palm against bare skin, the faint vibration of hidden mechanics within the vibranum as he thumbed the bent clasp back into place. It made you jump, just enough for his grip to tighten. 

“Hold still,” he murmured, and you followed his command, lungs empty. 

The room shrank to the sound of his breathing and the slow, deliberate press of his thumb. The buckle yielded with a clean snap.

“Good as new,” he hummed, but didn’t move his hand. 

The metal plates cupped your ankle, thumb tracing the curve of your shin as though testing the smoothness of the skin. Slowly, almost lazily, his fingers slid higher, brushing the edge of your knee. A shiver climbed your spine, betraying you before you could hide it. For a breath, you could’ve sworn the air between you tightened.

Your pulse thundered. 

He looked up, eyes darker now, mouth parting as if to speak—

“Where the hell are they?” Val’s voice rang down the hallway, the unmistakable click of her heels following suit. “Honestly, where do they disappear to every time I need them?”

You both jolted upright. 

“Shit,” you hissed, and without thinking, gripped his wrist. There were little to no hiding spots in the room, not with it being practically bare except for the stacks of boxes and crates. Your only hiding spot loomed to your left, a tall, free-standing cedar wardrobe. Before either of you could process your actions, you yanked the door open and dragged Bucky in after you. 

He didn’t protest as you both crammed inside, bodies pressed from shoulder to knee, the dusty scent of old clothes wrapping tight around you as you shoved the door shut just before the hallway light spilt in. 

A soft, involuntary giggle escaped you, quickly swallowed by his palm as he clamped a gentle hand over your mouth. His other arm braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

Val’s footsteps paused outside. The door handle rattled once. You held your breath, Bucky’s palm firm and cool against your lips, his chest rising steady against your back. After a tense beat, the handle released, and Val’s voice retreated down the hall in a huff. 

“Unbelievable.” 

The silence left behind was electric.

Bucky slowly lowered his hand, the faintest brush of his fingers grazing your jaw. Neither of you moved, the heat of his body pressing through the thin fabric of your dress. A quiet laugh trembled out of you, shaky and breathless. He answered with a low rumble of amusement, though his eyes never left yours. 

When you finally dared to process your position, you truly realised how close he was—nose inches from yours, his breath a slow heat on your cheek. The laugh died in your throat. Neither of you moved.

Then, abruptly, he straightened, the spell breaking with a sharp inhale. He nudged the door open and slipped out first, his usual composure returning, though a faint pink hue brushed the tips of his ears. 

“See you back out there,” he murmured, voice a touch rougher than before.

—

The wardrobe seemed to shrink with every breath. Cedar walls pressed closer, coats brushing your arms like restless hands. You shifted, just a tiny adjustment to ease the cramp in your knee, trying to find space that wasn’t there. Every movement dragged you nearer to him, chest to shoulder, thigh to thigh, until there was no mistaking the heat bleeding off his body. 

“Not half as unpredictable, huh?” you whispered, partly to break the silence, partly to smother the pulse hammering at your throat.

Bucky tilted his head toward you, the faintest shadow of a grin touching his mouth. Even in the dark you felt the weight of his gaze. “You prove me right more often than you’d think.”

“Huh, You really think you’ve got me all figured out?” You challenged.

“Maybe.” His voice was rough, like gravel rolling over steel. Too low for anyone outside the wardrobe to hear, too close for you to pretend like it didn’t curl down your spine. 

Your laugh came out softer than you meant, threaded with nerves. “Pretty cocky for someone hiding in my spot.”

You heard him suck his teeth with a small chuckle.

“Cocky,” he echoed. “Or maybe I’m just observant.”

You tried to summon a quip sharp enough to sever the tension, but the words fizzled as his arm shifted—casual, maybe—but the brush of his knuckles against your wrist felt anything but. Just a touch, the barest drag of skin on skin, yet it sent heat flooding through you. 

You didn’t move away.

It was ridiculous, standing there in the dark, pretending not to notice the way your heartbeat had gone feral. You wondered, fleetingly, if he could hear it, if the silence were loud enough to betray you. And maybe he did, because as you leant back instinctively, spine pressing against the back panel, he followed that inch without hesitation. 

Your throat went dry. 

Your silence must’ve given you away. His gaze dropped, snagging briefly on your mouth before snapping back up as if he hadn’t meant to look. 

And then—god help you—his knuckles brushed your wrist again. Not an accident this time. Slow, deliberate. The feeling of it rolled through you and made your breath stutter. 

“Bucky—”

It came out as a warning, but it didn’t sound like one.

“Yeah?” His whisper rasped, smoke and frayed restraint.

The wardrobe might as well have been collapsing. Everything was pressing in until the only air left was the kind you had to steal from each other. 

And you did.

One breath, you were staring at him like the ground had vanished beneath you. The next, his mouth was on yours—hard, desperate, all the months of denial funnelled into a single, breathless crash. His hand caught the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your ribs ached against his chest. There was nothing cautious in it, nothing restrained. Just the dizzying reality that you had finally crossed the line you’d been circling for too damn long. 

The wardrobe shuddered as his mouth slanted over yours with a force that made your head knock the wall, coats swaying like startled witnesses. Your gasp broke against his lips just long enough for his tongue to sweep against yours. White-hot ricocheted through you, the cool of vibranium splayed low at your hip, dragging you forward until there was no space left. 

“Fuck—” you breathed, the word melting between sloppy kisses.

He groaned, low and guttural. It vibrated straight down your spine, and he deepened the kiss like he’d been starving for it. Stubble scraped your jaw and chin. Your hands, useless until now, finally found him. You clutched at the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers skimming down to the taut muscle beneath. He exhaled sharply at the contact, his whole body tightening, as if restraint hung by a single thread. 

The wardrobe creaked, a hinge whining in protest. 

Neither of you cared. 

He broke from your mouth only to trail along your jaw, down the column of your throat, teeth grazing just enough to draw a gasp that melted into a whimper as his tongue soothed the spot.

“Bucky,” you repeated, half warning, half plea. You clutched his shoulders now, nails catching the fabric. You didn’t even know what you were begging for—more? Mercy? Or just for him not to stop?

His grip tightened, holding you still. His voice came coarse against your skin, ragged with want. “You drive me fuckin’ insane.”

His words rattled through you, and before you could answer, his mouth was on yours again. Your mutual moans were swallowed in the heat, like he wanted to prove it. Claiming, tasting, and you gave back just as fiercely, matching the rhythm.

His hand had crept beneath the hem of your shirt now, calloused fingers splaying against bare skin, the cold edge of his metal thumb skimming the curve of your ribs. You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, panting into the dark, head spinning.

“I thought—” you whispered, swallowing against the rasp in your throat, “—you didn’t like me.”

He laughed under his breath in disbelief. His nose brushed yours as he leaned back in, lips grazing your jaw. “You think I’d kiss you like this if I didn’t like you?”

Your stomach flipped, heat coiling low. 

“Bucky—” you hissed again, half warning, half plea.

He lifted his head, eyes catching what little light filtered through, pupils blown wide. His lips were swollen and glossy, breathing uneven. 

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, the words brushing your lips. “And I can’t stay the hell away from you.”

His hand slid higher, up your side, thumb grazing the curve beneath your bra, waiting to see if you’d stop him.

You didn’t. 

Your head tilted back against the wood as his other hand slid lower and lower down your stomach. You knew where it was going before you even felt the metal press between your thighs, and your body betrayed you, arching up into the touch.

“Shit—Bucky—” you gasped, the words dissolving into a moan as his fingers slipped under your skirt and pushed your underwear to the side. 

“Shhh,” he cooed, mouth hot against your ear. “You’ll get us caught.”

The sound you made next was nothing like quiet as his fingers slipped beyond the thin lace, finding wet heat. Thick digits swept through your folds, a bolt of pleasure shooting through you as he grazed your clit. He swallowed your needy noise with another kiss, teeth clashing against yours as he pushed two fingers inside, stretching you. Your legs trembled, knees knocking the coats around you. You clawed at his shirt, finding only muscle to hold onto.

“You’re so wet already,” he growled, voice low like it angered him to admit it. “So noisy too, I thought you wanted to win this game?”

You tried to answer, but the sound snagged in your throat as a strangled whimper. Panic and want tangled so tightly in your chest your couldn’t tell them apart. Bucky’s hand slid away only long enough to catch the band of your underwear and drag it down the smooth line of your thighs.

You wordlessly obliged, a hand gripping his shoulder as both of you awkwardly manoeuvred in the tight space.

The wardrobe was too small for anything graceful. You hip knocked his ribs as you braced against him. He bent lower, fingers tracing down the back of your legs as the fabric resisted, snagging at your knees. You bit back a breathless laugh, part nerves, part thrill.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. His hand steadied your calf, palm hot where it curved beneath your knee. The other worked the delicate fabric over the arch of your food and the heel of your shoe.

By the time the thin scrap of lace slid free, your chest was rising too fast. You pressed harder against the wooden panel, bare and dripping beneath your skirt. 

“Open.” he ordered. 

You drew in a startled breath, eyes wide, and parted your lips before you could think better of it. With a smirk, he pressed the balled scrap of fabric into your mouth as a makeshift gag, his knuckles grazing your cheek in the process. The taste of yourself hit your tongue, shame, excitement and heat roaring in your stomach. Your body clenched around nothing, desperately craving the return of his touch.

“Better,” he murmured, smug. His hand returned with deliberate precision, tracing slow, deliberate patterns along the inside of your thigh. You whimpered as his fingers slid back inside you with little warning. With better access now, he was merciless, curling deep. His palm ground against your clit, sending shocks through you with every pump. 

You writhed against the wood, muffled sounds spilling around the balled-up fabric. Your fingers clutched at his back, sliding under the hem of his shirt until felt the hard plane of muscle beneath. His breath caught as you raked your nails down his back. His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking and biting hard enough to leave bruises in his wake. 

Your hips bucked into his palm, shameless now, chasing every rough curl of his fingers. Your cries were muffled, teeth sinking into the soaked fabric between your lips, eyes squeezed shut as the coil of pleasure built in your gut. Every nerve ending was on fire, the wardrobe filled with the sounds of your muffled whimpers. His fingers moved impossibly fast, curling and pressing with an intensity that had you seeing stars. 

“Bucky—please…” you gasped, choked by the fabric, every word a tremor. 

His breathing was ragged, chest pressing your back into the panel wall, jaw tight as he drove you higher, teasing, coaxing, refusing to let you slip into oblivion too soon. Your hips jerked, grinding against him, desperate for more, begging for release.

His voice was hoarse against your ear, and every word he muttered, every shift of his body pushed you higher. “God, you’re so close, aren’t you?”

You back arched instinctively. Tears prickled the corners of your eyes as your nails scraped along his shoulder blades, your legs trembling and barely keeping you upright. 

You were teetering on the edge, pleasure coiling in your stomach, eyes rolling back as your body surrendered. A whine escaped your throat, soft and pleading, and Bucky caught it, groaning low, one hand pressed against your hip to steady you. 

“I—I can’t—” you gasped, hips jolting, “so close—oh, fuck—”

And then—just as the pressure inside you was about to break, walls clenching hard around his digits—a sound spilt the air. 

The storage room door had creaked open—

Panic ripped through you, and with an involuntary whimper, instinct took over. You vanished in a shimmer of displaced air, leaving only the faint disturbance of your breathless desperation.

Bucky’s head snapped towards the wardrobe door, eye flashing with irritation and amusement, but he didn’t falter. He had to act fast. His hand withdrew in a slow, reluctant drag before you could finish, your juices left smeared across your inner thighs. Your body spasmed against nothing, the climax slipping from you as you gasped out a ragged, frustrated whine. 

The choked noise slipped past the fabric in your mouth before you could stop it.

“Quiet,” Bucky hissed under his breath, brows furrowed. His eyes cut toward where he knew you still hovered invisible against the wardrobe wall. 

The door swung open wide with a cheerful slam.

“Ah, Bucky! Found you!” Alexei declared, grinning, completely unaware of the scene unfolding before him. 

Light spilt into the cramped wardrobe. Bucky leaned casually into it, shoulder filling the frame, a picture of nonchalance that did nothing to hide the faint flush at his throat.  

“You’re good at this, Alexei,” he said smoothly—too smooth. The faint curl of sarcasm in his voice was almost imperceptible. 

Alexei beamed, oblivious. 

“I know! I tell them all and they don’t believe me, I say ‘I am best seeker. Lena should know, we would play game when she was small!’” His voice faded as he turned back towards the hall. “Come, I need help to find others.”

Bucky let the wardrobe door swing shut with deliberate ease, unfazed, leaving you in the dark. Even as you heard his footsteps fade, the storage room’s door clicking shut, you knew, deep down, that this game was far from over. 

---

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new oneshot!

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letters of devotion [one-shot]

marvel band au drummer!bucky x waitress! reader

you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm (consentual), oral (f receiving), fingering, p n v, unprotected sex, praise kink, explicit consent, aftercare, reader is horny lol, daydreaming smut scenarios, beefy bucky, band au, diner au, love letters, fangirl/obsession, lowkey depressed/sad reader, bucky is a menace, bucky matches reader's freak levels, use of the petname sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hi, thank you for 5k followers! as a treat, have this absolute filth. i think this is the closest you'll ever get to smut w no plot from me lmao, i went through every stage of grief writing this. inspired by dinner in america + spun my prompt wheel and got band au / beefy - not proof read.

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You were starting to think your obsession with the Winter Soldier wasn’t just unhealthy, it was pathological.

Two hours into your shift at Sal’s Diner, buried in the itch of your polyester uniform and the reek of burnt coffee, you’d already drifted off into fantasy more times than you could count on both hands. Daydreams clawed at the edge of your attention like static, buzzing louder with every second you spent beneath the flickering fluorescents. You’d nearly poured hot coffee straight into a trucker’s lap. His barked ‘watch it!’ still rang in your ears as you’d scrambled with a rag, your hands shaking as liquid pooled across the table. You’d forgotten table four’s extra side of bacon, missed table six’s banana smoothie with extra whip.

You hated this place. Hated the chipped pink tiles, the dusty jukebox that hadn’t worked in years, the scent of grease that soaked into your skin no matter how many showers you took. But more than anything, you hated the sameness of it all, the way this town never changed, never grew. How every face that passed through the diner was one you recognised, and worse, how they all recognised you.

You were twenty-something, with nothing to show for it except a minimum-wage job and a slowly decaying sense of purpose. Your apartment was a shoebox with paper-thin walls and a view of a brick wall. Every night, like clockwork, the baby next door shrieked, the couple upstairs screamed and stomped, and the couple across the hall fucked like they were being paid for it. You’d eat something microwaved and vaguely beige, drink cold coffee you forgot you poured, and zone out to reality TV you weren’t really watching. Housewives screamed through muffled speakers while your brain quietly rotted.

Everyone else’s lives were in motion—marriages, babies, master’s degrees, weekend getaways with friends and Instagram sunsets. Yours was stuck on pause, the buffer wheel spinning endlessly. You kept saying yes when Sal asked you to cover a double, because what else did you have to do? You had no plans. No passions. No clue what you even wanted.

You had tried. God, you had tried. College ended in a quiet breakdown and a withdrawal form. Relationships fizzled before they even warmed. Nothing stuck. You felt like you were wading through a fog that everyone else seemed immune to, like they all had a compass pointing to some clear, shining future, and you were just circling in the dark.

If anything still lit you up, it was music.

It was the only thing that made you feel. You were always listening, earbuds in as soon as you left work, blasting bass-heavy playlists on your way home, tapping your fingers to invisible rhythms behind the counter. You hummed under your breath while restocking napkin holders and scrubbing dishes to the beat of crashing drums. Music drowned out the ache, the boredom, of everything you didn’t want to think about. It was the closest you got to peace.

And your salvation came in the form of one band: The Howling Commandos.

They were everything you weren’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetic. All raw vocals and snarling guitars, like rebellion captured in sound. You clung to their music like a lifeline. Their songs made you feel invincible, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds at a time. You stalked their socials like a religion, hoping they'd announce a show in your town. Underground gigs, secret venues, cryptic posts…the mystery only made you want them more.

And they were hot. Unbelievably so. You didn’t even know what they looked like. They performed in ski masks, their identities always hidden, but that just added to the appeal. They were anonymous, untouchable. A fantasy you could project anything onto. Big, muscled silhouettes thrashing under stage lights, voices full of rage and sorrow. 

And the Winter Soldier, the drummer—he was your favourite delusion of all.

He was the biggest, a towering shadow behind the drum kit, all brute force and brooding stillness. Maybe it was just the size of him that drove you wild, the thick bands of muscle in his arms, the way his thighs flexed as he worked the bass pedal. His hands were massive, wrapped tight around his drumsticks like they could break bones just by holding on too hard. You’d close your eyes when one of their songs hit its peak, feel the rhythm pounding in your chest, and imagine those hands wrapped around your waist. Pressing down your hips. Spreading your thighs. Keeping you still while he—

The shrill clang of the service bell sliced through your fantasy.

“Oi, girl!” Sal’s voice barked from the kitchen, all gravel and phlegm. “Plates for table three! Move it!”

You blinked hard, swallowing the heat that had risen to your cheeks. “Sorry, Sal,” you muttered, forcing your legs to move, dragging yourself away from the milkshake machine with the weight of a thousand unmet fantasies.

Because the truth was... yeah, you were obsessed.

Not just a fangirl. Not just a casual listener with a couple of favourite tracks. You were consumed by the Winter Soldier. The mystery, the sound, the brutal power behind the drum kit. You had no musical talent yourself, no rhythm in your bones, no dreams of making it big. But still, music was your only lifeline. And him? He was the rope you clung to when it felt like you might finally let go.

So, you found your own way to contribute. Your own warped form of expression. Your own art.

Love letters.

It had started innocently enough. Just a few pages of breathless admiration, scrawled out after long shifts while your brain buzzed from caffeine and exhaustion. You confessed your devotion to the band, to the music, to him. You wrote about how their songs made the world feel bearable. You poured out thoughts like they were diary entries, lyrics from a girl whose life was anything but lyrical. You didn’t expect a reply, you weren’t stupid. You imagined he probably received plenty of letters from fans. But the act of writing? It helped, it made the loneliness less loud.

But the longer you went without hearing back, the longer you worked the closing shift in a sweatbox diner and watched your life go nowhere, the more unhinged the letters became.

Passion turned to desire. Pages and pages of filthy, desperate confessions. You wrote about how you wanted him to bend you over your shitty couch, how you’d beg if he made you. You described exactly how his hands would feel gripping your hair, how his voice would sound in your ear as he pushed into you. You stopped holding back. The words poured out of you like something exorcised.

And then came the photos.

You’d found an old thrift-store polaroid camera, the kind that spat out little grainy prints with bad lighting. On your braver days—the lonely, horny, bored out of your fucking mind days—you’d strip down in your bedroom, the blinds barely tilted shut. You never showed your face. That wouldn’t be on brand, you gave him anonymity right back.

Your body became the message. Lace underwear clinging to your hips, the curved lines of your thighs spread wide. Some days you kept it tasteful, just the bare suggestion of skin. Other times, when the ache got too strong and the fantasy too vivid, you’d pose with your fingers between your legs, soaked and aching, back arched.

You’d kiss the pages with bright red lipstick, spray your favourite perfume, and seal them tight in mismatched envelopes.

You called them Letters of Devotion.

And maybe, deep down, beneath the layers of lust and delusion, you still hoped he’d reply. That he’d see your letters—your alias, your handwriting, your stories—and feel something. Anything.

Maybe you were a little crazy.

Or maybe it was the only thing keeping you sane.

—

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the diner windows had gone completely black, where the parking lot was empty save for a few tired trucks and one lone streetlamp flickering. Your feet ached in your shoes, cheap sneakers with soles worn thin from double shifts and the way you dragged yourself around this place like a ghost. You’d been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, fueled by lukewarm coffee and pure spite. Even the radio had given up playing its same old loops and was spitting static.

The bell above the door jingled, and you glanced up from the counter, expecting maybe the regular who came in late for grilled cheese and three cups of black coffee. But instead, four men walked in.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

They didn’t look like locals. Not the usual crowd of truckers or farmers passing through. No, these guys were something else. All broad shoulders and heavy steps, tattoos trailing up their forearms and necks, worn boots and dark jackets dusted with road dirt. One of them had a scar splitting through his eyebrow. Another had arms so thick he barely fit into the booth. 

Your gaze snagged on one in particular.

He slid into the booth facing you, his leather jacket creaking as he settled in, and you swore the breath stalled in your lungs for a beat too long. He was massive. Broad through the chest and shoulders, thighs spread wide like he didn’t know how to sit small. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his mouth pulled into a neutral line—neither a frown nor a smile. Serious. Watchful. His hair was dark and thick, ruffled like he had dragged his hand through it a few too many times. 

You forced yourself to move, grabbing your notepad and approaching with a practised smile that felt barely glued to your face.

“Welcome to Sal’s,” you said, as cheerily as you could force. “Kitchen’s closing soon, so if you want something hot, order now.”

One of them, the one with the scar, grinned and cracked a joke about ‘always liking it hot’, but you barely registered it. You were still stealing glances at him. He didn’t say anything, just looked up at you with those cool eyes, and nodded toward the menu. 

“Burger and fries. Black coffee.”

“Sure thing,” you managed. You scribbled it down, turned before they could see the way your cheeks flushed.

Behind the counter, you leaned against the milkshake machine, heart still thudding, mind absolutely not on the order. You watched them from the corner of your eye. They spoke in low voices, murmuring to each other, intense and focused

And all you could think about was him.

You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the size of him, the stoic vibe, the fact that his shape reminded you of The Winter Soldier. Maybe it was the way he didn’t talk unless he needed to, the way he moved like his body was too powerful to be casual. Or maybe you were just so sleep-deprived that your brain was automatically generating pornographic content to keep itself entertained. You could imagine him behind the drum kit, imagine his face behind the ski mask. Maybe you would hold onto this memory, think of his stormy blue eyes when your core was hot and wet, fingers already scrabbling for your polaroid, ready for another Letter of Devotion as you came and came again at your own hand—

Your eyes drifted back to the booth. 

You imagined what it would feel like to be pressed against that chest, what it would sound like if he whispered in your ear with that voice. What it would feel like to have his hand sliding up your thigh beneath your diner uniform. You imagined him fisting your hair, guiding your head as he fucked your mouth slow and deep, until the cheap linoleum beneath your knees squeaked—

You were so deep in the fantasy that when you blinked, he was looking at you.

Direct. Curious. Like he knew.

Your heart skipped. You jerked your gaze away so fast you nearly knocked over the salt shaker. You busied yourself behind the counter, wiping an already clean surface, trying not to combust.

—

Eventually, the guys finished eating. Paid in cash, left a decent tip. One of them winked at you on the way out. He just gave you one last lingering glance as the bell over the door jingled again, then disappeared into the night.

You exhaled, a little dazed. Tried not to think about the heat still curling in your stomach.

And then you noticed it.

In the booth, the one they’d just vacated, sat a black backpack. Left behind, half-tucked beneath the table like someone forgot it in a rush.

You looked out the window. Their taillights were already gone.

Somehow…it felt like a sign. 

You rounded the counter on instinct, hands moving on autopilot as you stacked plates and wiped down the booth, the backpack heavy in your peripheral vision. You slipped into the kitchen, scraping leftovers into one of the giant bins, trying to look busy while Sal shouted down the phone near the walk-in freezer. Something about plumbing. Something about the hot water. You weren’t really listening. Not with your thoughts spinning like a carousel.

Your fingers twitched with anticipation.

Had he left it behind on purpose?

Maybe it was nothing, an honest mistake. Just a man in a hurry, too focused on the road ahead to notice what he’d forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been distracted. By you. Had you gotten into his head the same way he’d buried himself in yours? Had he been sneaking glances the way you had? Imagining things?

God, the possibilities curled hot between your legs.

You were elbow-deep in soapy water when Sal came stomping back in, muttering curses. 

“Dahla’s moanin’ that the hot water ain’t workin’,” he barked, grabbing his keys off the hook. “I gotta run. You good to lock up?”

You nodded, barely looking up. “No problem.”

He grunted in the barest minimum of thanks and was gone within the minute. You waited, counting the seconds until the crunch of his boots on gravel faded, until the cough of his truck engine roared and peeled off down the road.

You all but bolted to the front of the diner, heart hammering in your throat. You hadn’t even locked the front door. The open sign still glowed in the window like a forgotten thought. You didn’t care. Your hands were still damp from the sink as you reached for the bag, tugging it up onto the counter with a soft thud.

It sat there, plain and unassuming. Black canvas, one shoulder strap fraying. Just a backpack.

You stared for a second.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A note? An ID with a name you could finally put to that face? A number scrawled on a napkin meant only for you?

Your lip caught between your teeth as you slowly tugged the zipper down.

The contents were disappointing at first. A couple of old t-shirts, faded and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. Crumpled food wrappers. A phone charger. Some receipts. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing romantic. Your heart dipped—

Then froze.

Nestled at the bottom, slightly bent at the corners, was a thick bundle of envelopes. Cream-colored. Handwritten. Lightly smudged ink. It wouldn’t have been that strange if it weren’t for the fact that you recognised them. 

It was the smell of the perfumed paper that hit you immediately. You knew that smell. The faint trail of your favourite perfume, sweet and smoky. The red lipstick stain pressed into the corner, your shade. That was your kiss. Your handwriting.

Your fingers moved with nervous urgency, fumbling as you grabbed the stack and rifled through it.

Your letters.

At least a dozen of them. All opened. 

You seized one at random, and your hand trembled as you pulled the page free. A small clatter followed as a polaroid slipped loose and hit the countertop face-up.

You felt the heat rush to your face like a punch.

You. 

It was you. 

One of the more explicit ones. Black lace panties, expensive, a splurge from when you were still clinging to the idea of romance. Your thighs spread wide. Your hand, barely hidden behind delicate fabric, buried between your folds, caught mid-motion. Your other hand was out of frame, probably holding the camera. You remembered that night vividly. Remembered how worked up you'd been, how starved. You hadn’t just been horny, you’d been aching, lonely.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you slowly unfolded the letter, the edges soft from wear. Like it had been regularly reread. Your cursive spilt across the page, desperate and messy. A confession. A fantasy—

I had a dream about you last night.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was a memory from some other life. One where you knew me, touched me, ruined me like you were meant to.

You bent me over the arm of my couch. One hand flat on my back, keeping me down, keeping me still. The other between my legs. You didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. You slid your fingers through my pussy and hummed like you liked what you felt. Then you pressed two fingers inside me, slow at first, then rougher, curling them just right until my legs shook and I moaned like I’d break apart.

You didn’t stop. Not when I came. Not even when I begged. You made me take it, over and over, until I was soaked and shaking, face pressed to the cushion, drooling into the fabric while you watched. While you owned me.

And only then did you unzip your jeans.

You didn’t say anything. Just dragged the tip of your cock through the mess you’d made of me and pushed in, inch by inch, nice and slow. I remember crying out, legs spreading wider like my body already knew what to do, like it wanted to be ruined by you. You fucked me deep. Kept me bent over. Kept that hand wrapped around my throat when I tried to lift my head.

And when I finally looked back at you, barely able to keep my eyes open, you grabbed my jaw and made me say it.

‘Tell me who you belong to.’

And I did. Over and over. 

I woke up soaked through my sheets, hand still between my thighs, still aching. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I can’t stop imagining this. Wanting this. Needing it—

“Why are you going through my stuff?” A deep, gravelly voice jolted you back to reality. The letter slipped from your fingers and fluttered back onto the counter

You hadn’t heard the bell.

Hadn’t heard the door open.

Hadn’t realised the man you’d spent the last hour wet and restless for was standing just a few feet away. Arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted, expression somewhere between amused and dangerous.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the thick, electric panic that was blooming behind your ribs.

“I—” 

You fumbled for words, your voice catching and unravelling as heat rushed up your neck. “You left it behind. I thought maybe I could find ID or a name or—I wasn’t trying to—”

Your voice faded as he took a single step forward. Just one. He was already towering above you. You stood frozen behind the counter, gripping the edge. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or drop to your knees.

And then, against all your better judgment, the words tumbled out.

“Why do you—how do you have these?! I didn’t write them for you, I wrote them for—”

You cut yourself off. Because you were watching it happen in real time, the slow curl of understanding at the edge of his mouth, the glint of something unholy blooming in those stormy eyes. A smile pulled at his lips, knowing and wicked.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, half-horrified, half-aroused. “Unless… unless you’re him. The Winter Soldier—”

He stepped closer, until the edge of the counter was the only thing between you and the solid heat of his body. His gaze dragged down your face, your throat, like he was memorising you.

Then he leaned in, just slightly, and spoke, low and lethal.

“I read every single one.”

Your entire body flushed hot.

Every. Single. One.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out, just the soft stutter of your breath as your brain struggled to catch up. You were painfully aware of your appearance. The grease-slicked apron, your hair pulled back in a lazy bun, the sweat still drying at your temples from a long shift. You were supposed to be invisible here. 

But now he was here. Standing over you. Real. Breathing the same air. And he’d read it. All of it. All the filthy, aching, needy things you’d never even said out loud.

“You…” you rasped. “You read them?”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You think I just collect random strangers’ letters full of desperate, pretty little fantasies?”

His voice was quieter now, just above a whisper. It curled around your throat like a hand.

“I started reading the first one on tour,” he went on. “Thought it’d be funny, another obsessed fan. But then I kept reading…kept waiting for more to arrive.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You don’t hold back, sweetheart. Not even a little.”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t think—I never thought anyone would actually—”

“—read it?” he finished, one brow raising. “Come on. You write shit like that and don’t expect it to crawl into someone’s brain? The way you describe it, how you want it… fuck.” He leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear. “You got no idea what you’ve been doing to me. You’re like some kinda genius, some kinda fuckin’ succubus. Do you know how many songs I’ve tried to write about you, about those fuckin’ photos?”

Your knees went weak, pulse thudding behind your ribs like a warning bell.

“Which one was your favourite?” you asked before you could stop yourself, breathless and reckless. 

His grin returned, dark, indulgent. “The one where I make you cum over and over again,” he murmured. “And you beg for it, like a good girl. And you beg until you're so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moan and take every last inch of me.”

Your breath hitched.

He studied your face, then slowly, very slowly, reached out and picked up the polaroid you’d dropped. He held it between two fingers, glancing down at it with a hum of approval.

“You still have these panties?” he asked casually, like he was asking for a drink recommendation.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked up from the photo, and his expression turned serious in a way that made your stomach flip.

“What’s your address, sweetheart?” He asked.

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I’ll come by after you close up,” he added, voice low, fingers tapping on the counter. “You let me in and I’ll do everything you wrote about, hell, I’m ready to beg for it just lookin’ at you.”

—

You weren’t sure how you made it home without crashing your car.

Your hands shook the whole drive, knuckles white around the wheel, still sticky from the milkshake syrup you’d forgotten to wash off. The radio played something mindless, but you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat thudding behind your ribs like a fist.

You didn’t even turn the lights on when you burst through your apartment door. Just kicked it shut behind you, peeled off your apron, and headed straight for the shower. The water was too hot, scalding your skin, but you welcomed it. You scrubbed with your nicest soap, dragging the loofah hard over your flesh. Like you could wash off the diner grease, the lingering smell of cheap coffee. 

You towelled off in a hurry, slipping on lotion while your skin was still damp.

The panties were easy, the black lace ones from the photo. No bra. Just a thin cotton tank top, the kind that clung to every curve.

You paced your apartment like a storm was coming.

Checked your reflection.

Then checked it again.

Clean sheets. Dim light. The curtain pulled just enough. You caught yourself reaching to tidy the bookshelf, then stopped. What the fuck were you doing?

He didn’t care if your books were alphabetised. He was going to ruin you.

The knock came just after midnight.

You froze.

Your feet carried you to the door before your mind could catch up. You stared through the peephole, breath caught.

Still in that worn leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to fill the frame. His eyes were darker in the hallway light, but they still found the peephole like he knew you were watching.

Your fingers curled around the doorknob and tugged it open. 

He looked at you, eyes dragging down your bare legs, the hem of your tank top, the curve of your breasts beneath it. His jaw tensed like he was trying not to say something filthy right there in the hallway.

“You wore them,” he said at last, voice rough.

You swallowed. “You said you liked them.”

He stepped inside without another word, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You stood barefoot on the rug, heart hammering in your chest as you looked up at him, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You parted your lips to speak, to say something, but you never got the chance.

Because he was on you in a second.

He crossed the room in two steps, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips as he shoved you against the wall. His mouth crashed down on yours, tongue sliding past your lips. 

You melted into him instantly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, back arching to press yourself closer. When he finally pulled back, you were panting, dazed, lips wet and parted.

He carried you to the bedroom without asking and dropped you onto the bed, stepping back just enough to shrug off his jacket.

You whimpered. You didn’t mean to. It slipped out, needy and desperate, before you could stop it.

“Take off your shirt.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed. You pulled the tank top over your head, exposing your bare chest to the warm lamplight. He watched you like a man starved, his eyes dragging slowly from your flushed face down to the curve of your breasts. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs already, the lace of your panties damp and sticking to you.

He stripped his own shirt next.  “Lie down.”

You sank into the sheets, heart pounding, legs already falling open.

He crawled over you, his face right above yours. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, then slid down to wrap gently around your throat.

“You want this, sweetheart?” he murmured. 

You whimpered again, nodding, thighs instinctively rubbing together.

“Words,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, I want this.”

He smirked, and then he dropped his mouth to your chest, biting softly at your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower. He kissed your ribs, your stomach, licking and dragging his teeth along every inch of skin until he reached your panties.

He hooked a finger under the waistband, met your gaze, and then ripped them off.

“Still my favourite pair,” he muttered, tossing the ruined lace aside. 

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue hot, thorough, relentless, he licked into you like a man on a mission. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wide, keeping you in place as you writhed beneath him. You sobbed, fingers digging into the sheets, your hips lifting off the mattress before his hand came down hard and held you still.

Your first orgasm crashed into you fast, so fast it stole your breath, tore the sound from your throat. You choked on it, body arching, tears prickling at your lashes.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even when you whimpered, not even when you trembled.

“I said over and over again,” he reminded you, dragging his tongue up your slit with obscene precision. “Beg for the next one.”

“Please—fuck, please—” you sobbed.

“That’s better, good girl.” The praise scraped low from his throat, barely audible over the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy.

You were already shaking, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hands fisted in the sheets. But he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. His tongue worked you ruthlessly, slow when you needed fast, fast when you couldn’t take it. He read your body like a song he’d memorised, like he was playing you just to see how many ways he could make you fall apart.

He licked deep, flat and hard, then flicked his tongue tight against your clit until your hips jerked. Every time you gasped or moaned or bucked against his mouth, he made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he muttered between strokes, his voice ragged.

You choked on a moan, your back arching off the mattress, but his hands clamped down and held you there.

“I can feel it,” he said, breath hot against you. “You’re close again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Fuck—please—”

“Not yet.”

He pulled back just enough to slide two fingers into you, thick and unforgiving. Your whole body snapped. He hooked them expertly, rubbing against that perfect spot deep inside, his mouth still latched to your clit, and your orgasm hit so violently you couldn’t even speak. Your cry caught in your throat, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure splintered through you.

You collapsed against the bed, panting, twitching, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.

He licked through the aftershocks, fingers still curling inside you like he was searching for more.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled. “You said you wanted this. Said you wanted me to ruin you. That I could fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”

“I did—I do—fuck—I do!”

“Then take it.”

He leant back on his knees just enough to watch what he was doing, his fingers fucking in and out of you, soaked to the knuckle. Your juices dripped down the insides of your thighs, your pussy glistening in the warm light, flushed and swollen. He looked wrecked watching you, his cock straining hard against his pants.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers out with a slow, slick pull that made you whimper. “Look at this fucking mess. You’re dripping, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, a sob tearing loose from your throat.

“I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Please. I need you inside me—please—”

He moved fast.

One hand on his belt, jerking the buckle loose. The clink of metal echoed through the room, followed by the sound of fabric hitting the floor.

He stood at the edge of the bed, fully naked now. His cock was thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, the veins along the shaft standing out as he wrapped his fist around it and stroked once with a tight grunt.

You couldn’t look away.

“I’ve been hard since the diner,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked on your wrecked body sprawled across the sheets. “Sat in the truck reading that last letter again, just thinking about how wet you’d be for me. How sweet you’d sound when you begged. How I’m gonna write that fuckin’ song about you, how I’ll write a whole fuckin’ album about you—”

You mewled again, tears slipping down your cheeks now, your thighs twitching open wider on instinct. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I’ll say it. I’ll say anything. Just give it to me.”

He climbed over you slowly, bracing himself on his elbows as he lined up at your entrance.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dark with hunger. “You’re gonna take every inch.”

And then he pushed in.

You cried out as the head of his cock stretched you open. Your back arched off the bed, fingers scrambling at the sheets, your body twitching from overstimulation. Your pussy clenched tight around him on instinct.

“Shhh,” He murmured, his voice ragged as he held himself still. “You can take it. I know you can.”

He slid in another inch, slow, dragging, splitting you open around him.

You keened, helpless. The stretch burned, but the pressure—the way he filled you so deeply, so perfectly—made your toes curl. Your walls clamped down around him, greedy, desperate, already milking him without meaning to.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re tight. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands flew to his back, clawing at his skin, dragging down his spine. He was heavy and solid, his cock thick and pulsing as he fed you more inch by inch.

“Please,” you gasped, legs trembling on either side of his hips. “Please, fuck me—just do it—”

He let out a rough groan.

And then he sank the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a hard, final thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

Your body spasmed beneath his as he filled you to the hilt. 

He moaned above you, one arm sliding under your back, pulling you tighter against him, locking your bodies together.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice shaking. “How perfect you take me?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping free, your hips rolling up to meet him before you even realised.

And then he started to move. Each thrust dragged the full length of him through your soaked pussy, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with unrelenting precision. You cried, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he groaned, fucking into you harder now. “Already so fucked out, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, hands slipping uselessly across his slick back as he took you. His pace built, thrusts snapping forward faster, harder, making the headboard bang softly against the wall. 

“Beg for it again,” he panted against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “Let me hear you say it.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—need it—need you—”

“That’s it.”

He shifted, changing the angle, sliding one hand beneath your ass and lifting you to meet his thrusts. The new position had you screaming, your body jerking, clenching tight as your orgasm slammed into you so hard it felt like falling. You convulsed around him, sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body begging without words.

But he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, through your crying, through the way your body trembled and tried to curl in on itself. He held you open, held you down, every thrust bruising and perfect.

Your vision blurred. Your voice broke.

And still he kept going.

“You said you’d let me,” he growled. “Said I could fuck you until you couldn’t think straight.”

“You can,” you cried. “Please—just don’t stop—please—”

His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your scream as he finally lost his rhythm, his thrusts turning sloppy, urgent, his cock twitching inside you.

And then he came.

Hot and relentless, spilling inside you with a groan so wrecked it made you see god. He buried himself, grinding in as he filled you, a string of curses a rough whisper in your ear. 

You didn’t even realise you were crying again until he brushed the tears from your cheek.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You took it all. Just like I knew you would.”

You didn’t know how long you lay there, trembling and spent, your body still flushed and twitching in the aftermath. You couldn’t move. Could barely think. You were splayed across the mattress, your skin slick with sweat, your thighs sticky and sore, your pussy still aching from the stretch of him.

A large hand brushed damp strands of hair away from your forehead, gentle fingers stroking through your hair with surprising care. “There she is,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, bleary-eyed, lips parted but no words came. You were too fucked out to string together a thought, let alone a sentence. Your body was heavy, bones turned to syrup, and you felt the flutter of tears threaten again.

He leant over you, his skin warm where it pressed against yours, and kissed the side of your temple. A lingering kiss, soft and steady. One that said, I’m not in a hurry.

“You did so well,” he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed. “You know, I never even asked your name.” Your voice was hoarse, practically gravel from all the screaming and moaning.

You felt him smirk softly. “It’s James, but all my friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, almost dreamily. “Suits you.”

Silence fell over both of you as you nuzzled his shoulder, dazed.

He stayed close, his hand never leaving your body, sliding down your arm, over your hip, then back up again. A slow, idle rhythm that kept you tethered to reality.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I read every word you wrote.” He finally whispered, enough to jolt you back to full consciousness. 

Your breath caught, eyes opening, but he kept going.

“I tried to write back, wanted to...” His thumb swept over your cheekbone. “I’m just no good with words, not in the way you are. Different from writing songs, I don’t know why. Was scared I’d fuck it up somehow, scare you off.”

He watched your face, his tone softening even more.

“I think I’ve spent this last year looking for you, whether I realised it or not. Like I knew I’d find you.”

Your chest ached. Your lips moved, trying to speak, but you only managed a faint, broken sound, a gasp, a sob, maybe a laugh. You weren’t sure. You were too far gone, too full of him, too unravelled.

“And now that I’ve found you?” he said, voice dropping low. “I’m not letting you go.”

With a shaking hand, you brushed a few fingers across his forehead, down his temple to the stubble of his jaw. His breath caught at the motion. “Yeah? You’ll take me away from this place? Make me happy like in my letters?”

A huff of laughter escaped his nose. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”

---

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[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

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[artficlly]

show me again [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x mutant!reader

you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand. 

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)

A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things. 

One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.

Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.

And three, he didn’t want to be here.

He made no effort to hide that fact.

You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.

The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.

But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.

What even was normal?

This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.

There never would be again.

The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.

You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.

You hadn’t asked why.

Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil. 

This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.

The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.

“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.

Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.

He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him. 

Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves. 

His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.

His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass. 

He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.

Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.

You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next. 

“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.

Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.

You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.

“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”

Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.

Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.

You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.

You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.

—

The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely. 

Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.

Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.

The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food. 

On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster. 

You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today. 

Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.

You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.

Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.

Mystery soup it was. 

Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.

You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.

—

You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.

“Food. For you,” you said simply.

He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express. 

“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.

You shot him a look.

“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.

“Sit down.”

You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.

“Bland.” He commented.

You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.

“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it. 

It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up. 

“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”

Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.

“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.” 

“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.

Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.

You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”

He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.” 

You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word. 

Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.

“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”

You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.

“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing. 

It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.  

“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”

“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.

Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.

“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”

Your throat closed up.

He thought you were part of it.

He thought you were one of them.

“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.

You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.

Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity

You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting. 

The cages.

The screaming—

Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.

“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.

“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.

Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him. 

But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.

Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.

But the voice in your head always whispered something else.

You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving. 

You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.

Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.

“Fuck you.” You seethed.

You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.

—

A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.

You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.

When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice. 

You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own. 

If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.

You already hated yourself enough.

The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour. 

Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.

You wanted to scream.

It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.

You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.

You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.

It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”

He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.

“No.”

You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.

“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”

He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.

His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes. 

“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.

Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

Interesting.

You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.

“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.

The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.

You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.

The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.

“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.

He was a storm.

Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.

This was your only shot.

“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop. 

You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.

“What the fuck are you—”

But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.

The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.

And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—

The world tilted.

You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.

You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.

When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.

“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.

You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”

Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.

And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.

“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.

But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.

“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”

Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.

“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.

“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.

His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.

“Put me the fuck down!”

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”

“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”

“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”

“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”

You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”

“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”

You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.

He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.

You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.

Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.

The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.

You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.

Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.

“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”

—

Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path. 

He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.

You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”

“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”

You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”

But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.

“Sit. Down.”

You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.

Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.

Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”

Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.

He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—

You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.

He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.

“Stop squirming.”

“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”

“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.

That shut you up.

You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.

He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.

Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.

“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”

A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise. 

You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.

You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.

He stared at you.

“Are you even listening?” he barked.

You jumped. “Sorry—what?”

“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”

You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second. 

“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”

Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.

The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.

“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”

You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.

He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.

The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.

“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”

You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”

That stopped him cold.

His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.

“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.  

You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash. 

“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.

“...Yeah.”

You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.

“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”

You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.

He was flinching from you.

Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.

Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?

And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?

When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.

What if this was different?

What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.

Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?

Would it make you… better?

Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.

His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.

Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”

He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.

His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.

You didn’t dare look up at him. 

Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen. 

He didn’t flinch.

That was the point.

The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief. 

He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.

You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.

“You’re a—”

“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”

The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.

“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”

You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.

“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.

“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his. 

But he didn’t let it go.

Of course, he didn’t.

Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.

Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.

It was that he cared.

Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.

“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”

You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”

When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.

“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”

His brow creased. “Pain?”

“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—” 

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. 

“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”

His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.

“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.” 

You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.

Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.

“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.

“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.

His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece. 

“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.

“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm. 

“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”

You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.

He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”

That startled you more than it should have. 

“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”

Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”

The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.

“No, I… I get it.” 

Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”

He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.

“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”

You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.

—

Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.

Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.

It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.

And the weather wasn’t helping.

The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.

“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.

You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.

It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.

Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret. 

His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.

He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.

But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile. 

You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.

“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”

Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.

Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.

“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps. 

With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.

You opened your mouth to argue—too late.

The hem of your dress was already lifted.

“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.

“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.

You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.

He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”

You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.

“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”

“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.

His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.

Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.

“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”

Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”

“I’m not babying you.”

“I feel like dead weight.”

His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”

That made him pause.

His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not. 

Your heart kicked in your chest.

You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.

He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.

“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”

You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”

His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”

And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.

You bit your lip, cursing yourself.

His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.

And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—

You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.

He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.

Your face burned.

You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.

So much for subtle.

You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath. 

He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.

He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.

Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.

“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”

The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.

“Shit—ah—”

A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.

“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”

You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.

“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”

You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”

You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.

His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.

“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”

You exhaled, long and slow. 

“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”

He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”

You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.

—

Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.

You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.

So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.

He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.

Your breath caught mid-page.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.

And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.

You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher. 

Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.

You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.

You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—

“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.

He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.

Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.

He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.

You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.

“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.

Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.

His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—

Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.

The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.

You jolted in fright. 

Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.

Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put. 

“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”

You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.

You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.

When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.

He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.

You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.

“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”

You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.

“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”

“I just—you let it burn you.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”

But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.

You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.

Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm

“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”

Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.

“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.

You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.

And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.

“Can you feel that?” you breathed.

He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”

You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”

You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.

His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.

“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.” 

His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.

“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”

Your brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”

You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.

“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”

His hand stilled against your face.

“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.

“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.

Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.

For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static. 

“Come here.” 

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”

“Just... closer.”

You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.

When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”

Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.

God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.

You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away. 

And then you took the plunge.

“Let me… let me show you something.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”

You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.

He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.

You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”

“Show me again.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”

His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.

“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”

You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.

“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”

His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”

You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.

You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.

And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.

“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”

Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.

A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.

His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.

Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.

And then something snapped.

Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.

One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.

He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.

Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.

Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.

Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.

His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.

You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”

You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.

He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.

When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.

And when his pants came off—

You stopped, just for a second.

Your breath hitched.

He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.

“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.

Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.

His reaction was immediate.

A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.

The pleasure took him like a tide.

And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.

“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.

He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.

Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.

He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.

“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”

You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”

Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.

So you showed him.

Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.

You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.

You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.

“I… you fucking minx—”

His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.

For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—

But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.

With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.

He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.

“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”

You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.

“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.

That was all it took to break him.

“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.

“God, Bucky—”

He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. 

“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.

Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. 

Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”

His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”

“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering. 

You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.

“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”

“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.

“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”

Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.

His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”

His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.

That was all it took.

Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.

Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.

Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”

He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks. 

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.

You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”

You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”

He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”

You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”

---

hi, if you made it to the end, holy shit congrats. if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.

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lessons in lovemaking part 5 is next <3 :)

[artficlly]

➞ 2K FOLLOWER CELEBRATION

hello everyone! firstly, i just want to say thank you all so so much for supporting me and my fics! it means so much to me that all of you take time out of your days to read my work, comment, reblog and send me messages to my inbox! i've been having such a crazy fun time writing recently, and i have so many ideas and fics to come. thank you again, i appreciate you all so much!

to celebrate reaching 2k followers, i’ve created four moodboards, each one inspired by a different genre, trope, or plot i’ve been itching to write as an au. i’ll be holding a poll so you can vote for your favourite! the moodboard with the most votes by the end of the week will become my next fic, either a longer one-shot or possibly a multi-parter, depending on where the story takes me.

can’t wait to see which one you choose! | main masterlist

➞ ONE

➞ TWO

➞ THREE

➞ FOUR

pick your poison:

one

two

three

four

Voting ended onMay 21, 2025

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<3 theres a week to vote !! more fics / updates coming soon

[artficlly]

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part four]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, nudity, female masturbation, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, safe word/motion use, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, major arguments, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10k

A/N: it's ready early! thank you everyone for the support. um i'll keep it brief but this is a pretty rough, angsty one. please trust and bear with me. it will get better. thank you for putting up with my silly ideas. also a big thank you to @soelstress and @buckybarnesfic for reading this over for me and giving feedback while i was pulling my hair out a bit! as always, sorry for any typos!

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In the split second it took for you to twist around, an arm half-heartedly lifting to cover your chest, Steve’s complexion had lurched from deathly white to a deep, mortified crimson. One hand clamped desperately over his eyes, as if that could undo what he'd already seen. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, floundering for something to say, before he choked out a strangled “Sorry!” and spun around so violently he almost took the doorframe with him.

The silence that followed was somehow worse. Beneath your hands, Bucky turned to stone, all his warmth leeched away, as if he'd been sculpted into a gargoyle mid-breath. You remained straddling his lap, dress tangled around your waist, nipples peaked against the air. 

“Well,” You muttered dryly, glancing down at him. “That’ll give him something to think about during his little jogs around the compound.”

Bucky didn’t laugh. 

His eyes were wide, glassy. He jerked his head towards the door, then back to you, panic flickering across his features. “How much did he—What do I—”

His hands left you completely, raking his hands down his face, as if he could claw the moment out of existence. You caught it then, the way his shoulders started to shake, breath stuttering in his chest, fingers balling into a fist as he pressed his knuckles against his forehead. You reached for him gently, two fingers grazing his wrist, the start of a soft coaxing, just enough to try and ease his hands away from his face. But he caught your wrist mid-motion.

You went still, dread curling behind your ribs.

His grip was trembling, the cool metal of his vibranium fingers tightening around your skin. Wordlessly, he motioned, three firm squeezes in quick succession.

Stop. 

You were already sliding off his lap, kneeling in the tangle of half-kicked sheets and discarded pillows next to him in a futile attempt to give him more space, but it was already too late.

“Bucky?” You breathed, and he visibly flinched. You were unsure where the panic had pulled him, nor what thoughts drowned him, but you knew you couldn’t let him stay lost. “Bucky, talk to me.”

“I can’t, I can’t—” He gasped, voice thin like every breath was a fight. 

“Bucky.” You interrupted him firmly. “I need you to breathe.”

The super soldier ignored your instructions, crumpling in on himself as you hovered, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse. His breaths were coming fast, too fast. You could hear how each intake rattled in his chest, lungs not fully expanding as his body was quickly switching into a fight-or-flight mode. 

“He’s going to be upset.” Bucky managed to choke out, his voice breaking.

“Why would he be upset?” You pushed, keeping your voice steady and calm. “He’s your friend.”

“I don’t know, I just…” His voice was rising, near frantic. He was tugging at his hair now, stuck in a panicked spiral of his own making. 

“You’re panicking. You’ve had a shock,” you said quickly. “That’s all it is. Just breathe, okay? In and out, like we always do. We’ve done this before, remember?”

His chest heaved, a desperate sound clawing up his throat.

"I can't... I—”

"Just breathe," you repeated quickly. You needed to make yourself small, unthreatening. You dropped off the side of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him. "Bucky, look at me."

His eyes were wild. You reached out, gently, just brushing his kneecaps with your fingertips. "Let's rationalise this for a second, okay? You’re safe. Nothing bad happened."

He shook his head in short, jerky movements, like he couldn't even hear you over the roaring panic inside his skull.

"He's gonna hate me," he gasped, chest spasming. "I—fuck—he's gonna be disgusted—"

"Hey, hey, stop," you said firmly, voice low and steady, even as your heart hammered in your own chest. You pressed your palm lightly against his thigh. "Steve is not disgusted. Embarrassed? Sure. Mortified? Definitely. But not at you, Bucky."

"I—he—" He couldn’t even get the words out anymore. His hands tore away from his hair to clutch at the sheets twisted around him. 

You frowned, your mind racing as you tried to decide your next move. The shift had happened so fast. Alarm prickled at the back of your neck. You needed him to come back to you, to breathe, to move, to thaw out before he became solid ice.

You leaned closer, gently but firmly capturing his wrists in your hands. Your fingers curled around the tense line of his forearms. His skin was clammy under your touch, his pulse erratic just beneath the surface. You drew his arms down, guiding them from where they hovered and settling them across his lap. 

"You’re not in trouble," you repeated, slowly and carefully. "Nothing bad is happening. Steve just walked in at the wrong time. That’s all."

He made a broken sound in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. His vibranium hand was twitching uncontrollably against your grip.

"You’re okay," you whispered. "Look around. We're still here. No one's yelling. No one's mad."

He shook his head again, tiny tremors wracking his whole body.

"You're not back there," you added quietly, knowing exactly where his mind wanted to go. "You're Bucky Barnes. You’re safe. You’re home."

The words seemed to reach some small part of him. His breathing was still ragged, but he cracked his eyes open, glassy and rimmed red.

"There he is," you murmured, giving his wrists a soft squeeze. "Hi. Still with me?"

He nodded shakily.

"Good," you praised, shifting your grip to run a hand slowly up his arm, grounding him. "Breathe with me, Buck. In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth. Easy. Like we always do."

You exaggerated the breath yourself, making it big and obvious, hoping he'd mimic you. You tried not to let your mind flicker to how ridiculous the situation was, you half-naked, the remnants of arousal now a cold, wet patch in your underwear as you guided a super soldier through his panic attack. Was he in over his head? Were you in over your head? He had used the safe motion. Had you pushed him too far this time—? 

No. No, you had to remind yourself. It was all fine, all controlled and okay until Steve walked in. He was the unpredictable element. Each time you and Bucky had lessons, he was handing you a piece of himself, handing you all of his trust. He was vulnerable in these moments, entirely raw and exposed. And you hadn’t even taken a second to ensure the damn door was locked, too caught up in the moment, the thrill. Why had you done that? Why were you allowing yourself to be so easily swept away?

It took a few tries, several messy, half-choked inhalations, but finally, finally, he caught the rhythm. You sat there with him, counting out soft beats under your breath, refusing to let your thoughts drag you under.

When the worst of the tremors had faded, you eased back just a little. Bucky shook his head slightly, another ragged breath escaping him, but this time there was something like life in it. His hands were still shaking, but he wasn’t clawing at himself anymore.

"You're okay," you soothed. "We’re okay."

"I’m sorry," he croaked.

"You don’t have anything to be sorry for," you replied simply. "It’s not your fault. Steve should’ve knocked. If anything, I should be charging him rent for getting a free show."

That dragged a real, if frail, smile out of him.

You grinned back, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead gently.

“Listen to me,” you leaned in closer. “Let me talk to him. I’ll get Steve to come back. We’ll clear it up, face it head-on. It’s only going to make it worse if we pretend it didn’t happen.”

His blue eyes met yours, unsure. The colour looked almost unnatural, too bright against the bloodshot whites. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Bucky,” you replied, voice firm with conviction. “You think I’d ever do something to hurt you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak, but you saw the tiny shift, his fists uncoiling, his breathing slowing, no longer tearing through him like it might rip him apart. You stood, tugging your crumpled dress back up to cover your chest again, hooking the thin straps over your shoulders.

Bucky stared down at his hands, gears in his vibranium arm whirring slightly, still sat among the dishevelled sheets. You knew he was overthinking, already surrendering to worry in those brief seconds. Against your better judgment, you reached out, cradling his head in your palm as you forced him to look up at you, shell-shocked and miserable. 

“I’ll be back," you promised. He blinked up at you, throat bobbing with a hard swallow, and you had to trust he believed you. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his temple, fingers dragging across his jaw as you pulled away. You could’ve sworn he tilted his head to follow you, chasing your touch as you marched towards the door. “And hey, atleast next time we’ll remember to lock the fucking door.”

You weren't sure if he replied or if he even heard you. Some part of you, the jaded, self-destructive thing that had learned it was safer to be alone, whispered that maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. And that perhaps it was for the better. You’d survived so far, tearing down anyone who got too close, keeping parts of you locked away in solitude for your protection…You crushed that thought before it could bloom any further and slipped barefoot into the hallway. Steve hadn’t made it far, and you caught him halfway to the elevators. 

"Steve! Steve, can we just talk?"

He didn't even turn around, just threw a hand up over his shoulder. "I don't think I want to know what I just walked in on—"

"Listen," you snapped, stepping sharply into his path before he could retreat any further down the hallway. He tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored him without hesitation, cutting him off cleanly. He shifted again, impatient, but you were faster, darting to block him completely. You planted yourself firmly in front of him and crossed your arms, chin lifted in a challenge. You were sure you looked a right state, hair messy, lips swollen, and the remnants of your makeup smudged. "He’s freaking out in there, okay? He thinks you’re mad at him. Please just come back and reassure him it’s fine—"

“Is it fine?” Steve cut in, slicing clean through your rambling. The edge in his voice made you falter, your brows knitting together in confusion. 

Was he… angry? 

Steve Rogers was ever the serious figure in the compound, tightly wound, controlled, the kind of man who dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’. But you’d never heard his voice drop in such a way before—low and tight, his jaw clenched and his posture stiff, as if he was stewing on something unspoken. 

“What?” You managed to stumble out.

Steve looked you up and down, unimpressed. His arms crossed over his own chest in a mirror of you, biceps bulging against the fabric of his sleeves. “What you’re doing. Is it really fine?”

You hesitated, thrown completely off-balance. This wasn’t anywhere on the radar of reactions you’d prepared for. You’d expected embarrassment, maybe a flustered apology, half-hearted but well-meaning. Perhaps even a flash of happiness, pride that Bucky was finally confident enough, safe enough, to take a step forward in his life. You’d braced for fist bumps, for some awkward bro code moment, whatever the hell men did. What you hadn’t prepared for—what hadn’t even occurred to you while you were coaxing Bucky through his panic—was that Steve’s anger wasn’t aimed at Bucky. It was aimed squarely at you.

Steve watched you expectantly, and all that tumbled out of your mouth was a bewildered, “I don’t understand?”

“Listen, I don’t think there is a polite way to put this…” Steve said, voice low, tight with restraint. His weight shifted forward like he was gearing up for a fight he didn’t want but felt he had to have. You braced yourself instinctively, steeling yourself with a deadly calm, ready for an outburst, accusation, or insult. But to your surprise, when he spoke again, it wasn’t anger that flooded out. 

It was fear. 

Fear that you had no problem deducing came from a desire to protect Bucky, not just from H.Y.D.R.A., any other foe or the world as a whole, but to protect him from you. 

“He’s vulnerable. If this goes south, it could break him.”

“You don’t think I know that?” you shot back, sharper than you intended.

Steve’s eyes flickered with surprise, but from the way he was gritting his teeth, it didn’t take a genius to tell he disapproved. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to hold back everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.

“Just—” His voice cracked slightly. He ran a hand down his face, visibly struggling. “I need you to understand. Ever since we got him back, I see pieces of him. Fragments of the man I used to know.” 

He paused as he motioned vaguely into the air, as if he was trying to stop the floodgate of words spilling from his lips.

“And it kills me, it kills me every day, knowing we’ll never get all of him back. That parts of my best friend are just… lost forever. I don't know what H.Y.D.R.A. took from him—hell, maybe none of us ever will—but what I do know is that he’s hanging on by threads. Whatever you’re doing with him is a bad idea.”

He swallowed thickly, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to desperation. “It won’t just hurt him. It'll undo him. And I can't…I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you play with his emotions like that. I don’t want you damaging him any further than he already is—-”

Any sympathy you felt for Steve quickly drained as you felt heat rising up your neck, and before you could stop yourself, you snarled, “I’m not damaging him—”

You knew this look. 

The thinly veiled judgment behind it. 

It had followed you like a shadow from the moment you were freed from Dreykov’s clutches. You weren’t oblivious to the way people glanced at you when they thought you weren’t looking, the way prejudice soured even their best intentions. You were not naïve. You were not feeble enough to stand there and be quietly condemned.

“Are you sure?” Steve cut back, ignorant of the frustration now festering in your gut. “He’s not ready for whatever you’re pushing onto him—”

You pinched the bridge of your nose as you struggled to hold onto your temper, but it was slipping through your fingers fast. You could see it in the stubborn line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I’m not pushing anything onto him!”

You took a hard step forward. The movement made Steve tense, like he half-expected you to swing at him, but you didn’t. You just stood your ground, daring him to keep going, daring him to say something worse.

“I think this attitude is part of the problem, Rogers," you bit out. "How is he supposed to overcome anything, experience anything if you baby him? If you cut him off before he has the chance to grow? I’m not hurting him, I’m just helping him.”

Steve opened his mouth like he had a retort ready, but whatever words he had dried up halfway to his tongue. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, finally sagged open in helplessness. His whole stance wilted slightly, shoulders bowing under the weight of doubt.

“I don’t know...” he muttered, the words dragged from him reluctantly, like they tasted sour in his mouth.

You didn’t give him a chance to wallow. The anger was already riding too hot in your blood, crackling in your chest.

“He consents. Every time. I check with him every time.” You hissed. “Because I know how important that is to him, because it’s important to me too, but that’s a topic none of you will ever address, is it?”

Steve stared at you, breathing heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling like a man trying desperately to hold onto his last thread of composure as you continued your rant. “We never go past his comfort zone. I never pressure him. I never trick him. I respect him. Why would you even think that?”

His mouth contorted into a scowl before he finally answered, “because I don’t know you.”

You recoiled a fraction, brow lifting in disbelief. You could’ve sworn there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, like he was watching something familiar but hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet. You stared back at him, heat flushing your face, and when you finally found your voice, it came out quieter, but no less biting.

“No, you don’t,” you spat, the words ripping from your throat. “I know I never put the effort in, but you can’t say you ever tried either.”

The hallway fell into a suffocating silence. The kind that rang in your ears. The kind where neither of you wanted to be the first to speak, where the air between you burned with the things you couldn’t unsay now. Steve’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes flashing with a storm of emotions he clearly didn’t trust himself to voice. He finally just looked away, the tension radiating off him like static.

It would have been so easy to leave it like that, to turn your back and let Steve stew in his distrust. But that wouldn’t help Bucky. And he was the only thing that mattered right now.

So you spoke up, catching the thinnest, fraying thread of truce before it would fade entirely.

“Look, I don’t care what you think of me," you tried to calm your voice, keeping your tone neutral despite the fire licking up your spine. "I don’t care if you even like me to be honest, but what I do care about is that if you say you’re his friend, if you say it’s your job to look after him, then I need you to go back there and reassure him before he spirals.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. A rare, raw show of uncertainty from Captain America himself, usually so sure of himself and his actions. “You’re... you’re probably right.”

Before he could hesitate, before he could get cold feet, you reached out and grabbed his arm. His muscles went tense under your grip, but you didn’t let that deter you. You pointed a finger at him, close enough that he had no choice but to meet your glare head-on.

“Don’t treat me like the villain because I care.”

Steve gave one stiff nod, but he said nothing. You stared at him a second longer, making sure it stuck, before you finally released him with a shove of your hand.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and stalked back down the hall. You didn’t look back to see if Steve was following.

You didn’t need to.

His footsteps, reluctant but steady, fell into place behind you.

The silence prickled along your skin as you navigated quickly back to Bucky’s apartment. His anxious face plagued your mind, the way his breathing had turned shallow and scared, like a caged animal. 

The door to Bucky’s apartment was still ajar, just a crack, like he'd been too afraid to close it. Or maybe he hadn’t even noticed it was open at all.

You pushed gently at the handle and stepped inside.

Bucky was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, hair half-clinging to the sweat still damp on his temples. His shirt was still wrinkled from earlier, his vibranium hand flexing unconsciously, twitching in small stutters as though trying to grasp at something he couldn’t hold.

His eyes lifted the moment he heard the door creak, wild, wide with nerves, and then they landed on Steve.

“Hey Buck…” Steve started, voice soft.

“Steve, I can explain—“ Bucky’s words spilt out in a tangle of panic, but Steve raised a hand, halting him.

“It’s alright,” Steve said quickly, the kind of quick that begged not to make it worse. His eyes scanned the room like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “I’m not mad. I just… didn’t expect it.”

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a weak, crooked sort of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “So, uhh… how long has this been happening?”

“Since the gala,” Bucky muttered.

“The gala?” Steve echoed, blinking. “You two really hit it off then, huh?”

You resisted the urge to groan. There was a pause, awkward and brittle.

“So are you like dating or—”

“No—” You and Bucky answered in perfect, rapid unison.

Maybe too fast.

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve raised both brows, then glanced between the two of you slowly, clearly re-evaluating everything. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his jaw while you picked hard at the raw skin around your nails. 

“Alright,” Steve said after a moment, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand. It’s a whole new century, Buck. I guess we gotta adapt to the times.”

He was trying, that much was clear. His voice gentle, his posture no longer combative, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite let up. It was the kind of compromise only a man like Steve Rogers could offer—discomfort wrapped in compassion.

You opened your mouth, the words slow to form on your tongue. “We’ve just been… I’ve just been…”

You hesitated. Your eyes flicked to Bucky, trying to read him, trying to decide whether he wanted this out in the open, whether he’d say anything at all. But his body locked up like it expected pain, arms folded, metal fingers curled tight. His expression was a mix of shame and fear.

He looked like a man staring down a loaded barrel.

“We’ve just been fooling around,” he cut in, voice flat and even. “Nothing serious.”

Nothing serious.

You tried not to flinch, tried not to let the words sting like salt in an open wound, nor assess why you felt that way. You didn’t understand why it hurt so much, considering you had repeated those same words to Natasha not long ago. He wasn’t lying. What he said was true, even if he carefully sidestepped the messy reality of the lessons. That was a whole other rabbit hole Bucky clearly wasn’t ready to admit to Steve. Maybe not even to himself.

Still, you forced yourself to nod along, pretending the hollow feeling in your chest wasn’t there. Pretending you hadn’t gotten a little too attached to this— to the lessons, to the quiet understanding, to the broken man sitting right in front of you.

Steve’s gaze shifted between the two of you, his mouth tightening. He didn’t press, but the flicker in his eyes said enough. He noticed something, but he just wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge it.

“Alright, I believe you,” Steve said carefully. “You told anyone about this?”

“Just you,” Bucky muttered, still refusing to meet his friend's eye.

You shifted your weight, the guilt gnawing at you sharp and immediate. You forced a breath through your nose, nails digging into the tender skin around your thumb. Neither super soldier seemed to notice the way your jaw tightened, or how the metallic taste of iron bloomed across your tongue from how hard you bit down.

You couldn’t keep lying. Not now. Not after everything you had just preached about trust and care, not if you wanted Bucky to keep believing in you. You had to tell him. In the spirit of being truthful, you would tell him. You had to own up to the fact that you had foolishly confided in Natasha, that you had allowed her to get under your skin, left yourself vulnerable in a way that could very well undo everything you had built together.

The word caught your throat on its way out.

“Well...” you interrupted, voice soft, bracing yourself.

Both men turned to you, and you already regretted your decision. Steve straightened subtly, his arms crossing over his chest as he glanced between you and Bucky with wary eyes, as if already preparing himself to referee whatever was about to happen. But it was Bucky’s reaction that truly cut, his whole body going rigid where he sat, muscles locking beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. His brow furrowed, deep lines creasing his forehead as he stared at you with a mixture of confusion and something rawer, something alarmingly close to hurt.

“You told someone?” he questioned, voice tight.

“No, it’s just... Nat,” you admitted, the words spilling too fast, too desperate to soften the blow.

Bucky's face twisted. “You told Natasha?”

“No! She, uh, kinda pieced it together?” You fumbled over your words, blindly and furiously picking at your nails.

“What?” 

“Look, you’re not exactly subtle,” you rushed to explain, feeling Steve shift awkwardly at your side as the conversation nosedived. “I was going to talk to you about it first, but then she cornered me, and I didn’t know what to say—”

“When?” Bucky cut in, voice rising. “When were you going to talk to me about it?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, exasperated with yourself more than him. “I was trying to figure out how to bring it up—”

“You lied to me.”

“No, I was just—” you tried, stepping forward instinctively, but the look he gave you rooted you to the spot.

“I asked you if you had said anything to Natasha or Yelena,” Bucky interrupted, voice low and wounded, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “And you said no.”

“It just didn’t feel like the right time—” you mumbled weakly,

Bucky rolled his eyes, a sharp, bitter sound escaping him. He looked past you, to Steve, as if hoping for some escape.

“So Natasha knows,” he muttered darkly. “And then we can assume Yelena probably knows as well—”

“Nat wouldn’t say anything—”

Bucky’s laugh was hollow, almost humourless. “Do you know that? For sure?”

“Why are you so worried—”

“Because I don’t want people to know!” he snapped, voice cutting sharper than you thought he could bear to be with you. “Are you not embarrassed?”

You recoiled in shock.

Steve exhaled a breath that came out sounding suspiciously like a curse, entirely unexpected and out of character for the golden super soldier.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you asked, voice steady despite the way your chest ached.

Bucky opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes darted away, landing on the sheets crumpled around him like they held some escape, some answer. His whole posture shrank inward, collapsing in on himself.

You didn’t let it go. You couldn’t.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you repeated, louder this time, forcing the question into the space between you.

Bucky still wouldn’t look at you. His shoulders hunched, head bowed. Scolded dog—but for once, you didn’t find it cute. 

“Are you embarrassed by me, Bucky?” you asked directly. 

“No,” Bucky said immediately, shaking his head. “No. That’s not what I meant—”

“It sure sounded like it,” you scoffed. 

The silence that settled over the room was uncomfortable enough to make Steve squirm, the blond opened his mouth to try to smooth over the situation. You stopped him before his tongue could even form a syllable, holding up one finger as you stared across at Bucky. He blinked up at you with an expression cut somewhere between guilt and horror as he realised there was no coming back from what he had just implied. The insult had hit, the damage done, and all that was left was a chasm between you. 

“I should go,” you said at last, voice clipped.

“Now, hold on—” Steve interrupted, stepping forward slightly. 

“No, it’s fine," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You two should talk alone anyway."

Bucky's head jerked up slightly at your words, expression stricken. He didn’t move from where he sat, just watched silently as you crossed the room with stiff, deliberate motions. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your bra from the floor, nor when you collected your coat and shoes from where they had been haphazardly tossed.

At the door, you paused, squaring your shoulders before gesturing vaguely between them with a small, almost pitying smile. Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, not angry, not scolding, just exhausted.

“Remember, in and out. Use your words. Talk to him, sort it out.” you reminded him, voice gentle but unwavering. “You’re on your own now.”

“Wait—” Bucky reached out instinctively, voice cracking under the strain, but it was too late.

You snapped the door shut behind you, cutting off whatever apology or excuse he might have tried to offer.

—

You’re on your own now.

The words had echoed through your mind like a curse, looping over and over.

They whispered back every time your phone lit up. They rang louder when Natasha tried to corner you with soft girl-talk after long missions or training sessions. They surged again whenever Steve hovered too close after briefings, or loomed beside the coffee machine like he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you alone.

You’re on your own now.

You were beginning to think those words weren’t for Bucky but for yourself.

It was your mess—a slow-burning wreck of your own making. Bucky had reached out in the aftermath, trying to bridge the silence with texts asking to talk, explain, and understand. You’d read them, every one, then locked your phone and buried it like that would bury the damage too. You were too exhausted. Too goddamn ashamed of how much you’d let him in.

You’d broken your own rules and now, predictably, you were bleeding for it.

Two weeks later, you were doing better, or at least performing the illusion well enough that no one dared question it. You’d buried yourself in work with single-minded fervour. What started as six-hour recon missions inside Karpin’s club had stretched to eight, then twelve. You hadn’t missed a shift or turned in a report that wasn’t pristine, timestamped, and drowning in intel. You were producing results so efficiently that it bordered on obsessive. Another compromise, another calculated smile, another night letting your soul rot beneath the thump of bass and leering stares in the club’s smoke-slicked VIP rooms. Progress came steep and you were the currency.

The black dress you wore clung like regret, stitched tight across your thighs and chest, sweat seeping through the synthetic fabric. Glitter clung to your skin like a rash, and your heels had carved angry grooves into the backs of your feet. The thick eye makeup you’d smeared on hours ago had begun to crumble in the corners, leaving your reflection a cracked porcelain doll in the glass door you passed. But none of that mattered. You just wanted to make it to your apartment, scrape yourself clean, and pretend, if only for a few hours, that you hadn’t given up everything just to feel nothing.

You slapped the final handwritten debrief into the data analyst’s hands, your signature barely legible. 

Another mission done, but you had the sinking feeling your day was far from over, mainly because Steve was standing by the elevators with a little too much casual ease. The kind that wasn’t casual at all. He’d been lingering since you arrived to complete your debrief protocol, hovering just close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to call it out. Hands shoved in his pockets, one foot angled toward the hallway like he was trying to look like he had somewhere else to be, even though he didn’t. He was waiting, watching, hoping to intercept.

You knew better than to take the elevator. Not just because it was a coffin on cables, but because he would follow. You could already picture it, his voice low in some lame attempt not to spook you, trying to reason with you, explain himself, maybe even apologise. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want any of it. Not his concern, not his guilt, not whatever sense of responsibility he’d suddenly found like loose change in his pocket. He’d said his piece two weeks ago—said you weren’t good for Bucky. So what was this? Regret? Or worse, another excuse to tear into you?

You ducked your head, ignoring the burning ache in your heels, and made a sharp turn toward the stairwell.

“Hey,” came Natasha’s voice, too light, too amused.

You didn’t stop walking. What was this? Some kind of coordinated attack? 

“Trouble in paradise?” she added, like this was a game. Like any of this was remotely fucking funny.

“Jesus, give it a break.”

“Not when you keep moping around like you’ve had your heart broken—”

“My heart isn’t broken—” you snapped without turning, pace only quickening.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realise things were so serious between you and Barnes. Let’s just talk about it—”

You stopped at the stairwell door, hand on the bar. Your spine went rigid, and you turned slowly, fixing her with a scathing look that could've flayed skin. She faltered under the heat of it.

“Oh, fuck off, Nat.”

Her smirk dropped. And just like that, you shoved the door open and disappeared into the stairwell.

Two weeks of silence, two weeks of pretending, two weeks of giving everything you had to missions because it was easier than sitting still. Easier than thinking about how much you’d given away and how little you had left.

You should’ve talked to him. Should’ve answered. Should’ve tried.

But you hadn’t. You hadn’t had the strength, or maybe just hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable one second longer than necessary. Because once you were vulnerable, once you opened that door, you couldn't un-feel what was felt. You couldn’t un-know the way he looked at you. 

You hit the fifth landing when it happened, and your heel caught.

A sickening skritch, and your ankle jolted back, yanked by the spike of your stupid, overpriced, Stark donated shoe catching in one of the grid holes in the grated metal step. You cursed, gripping the railing, yanking once, twice—harder.

It wouldn’t budge.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your hands trembled as you crouched down, fingers scrabbling to free it. The heel was wedged deep in the hole, warped just enough that it wouldn’t twist loose. You gritted your teeth, tugging again. Nothing.

The pressure inside you, simmering, festering, unspoken for days, snapped like a wire. You stood abruptly and kicked your other shoe off with a grunt, the heel clattering against the wall with a hollow thud. Then you grabbed the stuck one with both hands, tore it loose, and flung it with everything you had.

The shoe hit the concrete wall with a loud crack, then fell limp to the landing.

You let out a dry, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and dropped to sit on the step, barefoot, legs shaking. No tears came, but the pressure behind your eyes stung. You pressed the heels of your palms hard into your face, breathing ragged through clenched teeth.

You’re on your own now.

—

The shower hadn’t helped.

You’d stood under the stream far too long, letting the water scald down your shoulders and rinse away the tension, the sweat, the last remnants of Karpin’s perfumed hell. Now, dressed in an old t-shirt and soft shorts, you stood at the foot of your bed. The sheets were untouched, cool and smoothed from disuse, undisturbed like a hotel room no one had ever checked into. You blinked at them like they might blink back.

You hadn’t been sleeping well. Not for weeks. Then again, sleep had never come easily. Most nights, you crashed on the couch, half-dressed, half-conscious, the TV humming in the background. There was something final about beds, something about the unspoken history soaked into the mattress and pillows. 

With a small, habitual sigh, you pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, curling slightly onto your side, picking absently at the skin around your thumbnail. You winced when your nail caught a sore patch, your skin already raw and torn, but didn’t stop until the sting sharpened.

You reached for your phone, trying to distract your nervous hands. The light burned your eyes, too bright in the dark room, but you navigated by muscle memory. Messages. His name. Your thumb hovered, heart slowing as the thread opened.

The last ones sat like ghosts, pale and greyed, still waiting for a reply.

Just talk to me.

Please?

I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that.

Can we please talk?

You stared at them, lips parting slightly. That sick little ache twisted low in your ribs. You scrolled past, skimming quickly until the tone shifted, until the anger and desperation faded into something older. 

Are you still awake?

Come over?

Can’t sleep.

Still can’t sleep.

I made tea. It’s too strong. You’ll hate it. Come fix it?

You could almost hear his voice, tired, soft, and just a little grumpy, the way it got when it was too late and he didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to say it.

You scrolled further, reading the back-and-forth, the playful jabs, the dry jokes, the quiet check-ins he always offered at the end of your missions, even when he already knew the details. You closed your eyes and saw it clearly, his apartment cast in low, amber light, the muted hum of the fridge, the TV murmuring. His arm would hang lazily over the back of the couch, like he wasn’t obviously waiting for you. 

You could picture how his lips would twitch into a grin when you finally walked through the door. The quiet press of his hand against the small of your back as he led you past the threshold. How he had grown more confident with each night, how he laughed now, full and unguarded, at the sarcasm that used to make him flinch. How he looked when he was unravelled beneath you, breathless, red-cheeked, eyes blown wide.

You didn’t know when your hand had slipped beneath the sheets.

But now it was there, curled between your thighs, brushing past the waistband of your shorts as memory and longing swelled in your chest like a bruise. His voice in your ear, the way he would shiver when you whispered to him. The little whines he tried to swallow down.

Your fingers found slick heat, and your breath hitched as you brushed against your clit, circling slowly, gently. You kept your eyes closed. It was easier that way. Easier to summon the image of him pressing kisses to your sternum, the chill of his vibranium palm cupping your breast, thumb skimming over your nipple. You could almost feel it.

A soft moan escaped your throat as your fingers dipped lower, working in a rhythm that was steady but hollow, a poor mimicry of what you really wanted. Still, you chased it—chased him—through every flicker of heat and memory.

You ground the heel of your palm against your clit and gasped into the pillow, hips twitching upward. 

“Bucky—”

His name slipped from your lips, barely a breath.

And everything stopped.

You froze. Fingers stilled. You sat up sharply, yanking your hand away like it burned, chest rising and falling beneath the old cotton of your shirt. You would’ve thrown your own damn traitorous hand across the room if it wasn’t attached to your wrist.

You stared into the dark, lips parted, throat tight, wondering how the hell you’d ended up here, half undone in an empty bed, chasing a ghost who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

—

You stepped into the gym, the doors swinging shut behind you with a dull thud. The air greeted you like a punch to the lungs, rubber mats, dried sweat, and stale air conditioning. Your routine had become muscle memory by this point. Drop the bag by the bench. Roll your shoulders. Stretch until your bones stop screaming. Pretend everything is fine.

Except it wasn’t.

You blinked against the harsh fluorescents, scanning the space. No flash of red hair. No high blonde ponytail bobbing by the punching bags. No snide commentary lobbed across the sparring ring. Just quiet. Not peace, it was never peaceful, but that suffocating kind of silence that settled just before the ground gave out.

And then it did in the shape of Steve Rogers.

“They got pulled last night,” he said, emerging from the weight racks where he and Sam had been mid-stretch. “Mission came in late. Left before sunrise.”

You nodded once, jaw tight, masking the drop in your stomach. Of course they did. Of course, they left. Probably Nat punishing you for being a bitch to her by the stairwell.

Steve offered a vague, practised smile, too quick, too knowing. “But don’t worry. We’re subbing in.”

Your gaze flicked to Sam, who gave you a friendly wave. Then to Bucky, who was hunched over, lacing up his boots with a quiet intensity that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes caught yours for only a second, just enough for you to register the damage. He looked as wrecked as you felt. Pale, bruised beneath the eyes, mouth tight. He hadn’t slept properly in days. Favouring his right side again, you could see the subtle strain as he stood up, rolling his shoulders in faux nonchalance. 

You hesitated. “You’re... stepping in?”

Steve shrugged. “We usually run around this time anyway. Figured we’d help cover.”

You glanced back toward the exit. The door was still there. Still functional. Escape was still an option, and you were a pretty good liar when you wanted to be. But selfishness was a slippery thing, and you didn’t move.

So you nodded, slow and controlled. “Right. Okay.”

You dropped down into a lunge, one knee kissing the mat, the other bent clean above your ankle. You held it steady, focusing on your breathing as your muscles slowly stretched awake. 

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, using that easy posture he adopted when he wanted to appear relaxed. It only made you suspicious.

“What do you three usually run on Mondays?”

You shifted into a hamstring stretch, straightening your front leg and folding over it with practised ease. “Sparring,” you said, voice calm despite the tightness in your shoulders. “Nat’s idea. She says it sets the tone for the rest of the week.”

Steve gave a small smile. “Great. You’ll go with Bucky.”

You stilled mid-fold, hands hovering above your shin. The mat felt suddenly unstable beneath you.

Lifting your gaze slowly, you tried not to flinch visibly. “Is that… necessary?”

Steve tilted his head. “Why? Is there a problem?”

Sam raised a brow but said nothing, sensing the tension but clearly not sure what to make of it. You sat back on your heels, drawing your arms overhead in a stretch you didn’t need, using movement to mask your hesitation.

“No,” you said evenly, rising to your feet. “No problem.”

Across the room, Bucky had stilled, his jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking as he shot Steve a single, withering glance. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The reluctance in his movements said enough as he pushed up from the bench, slow and stiff, like gravity was suddenly working against him.

This wasn’t training. This was theatre. A stage set under fluorescent lights and recycled air. And Steve? Still over by the weights with Sam, pretending to be engaged in some idle conversation? Their voices were hushed, but their eyes flicked over too often, too deliberately? This had been arranged, choreographed behind your back like some well-meaning intervention. You wondered who else knew, who had caught wind. Had Sam pieced it together? Had Yelena? Was this their way of ‘helping’?

Bucky stepped into place across from you, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at his sides. He shifted, rolling his shoulders in a slow motion. The right still caught slightly. He still hadn’t gone to physio, that was clear. Stubborn as ever. Just one more thing for you to worry over.

“Ready?” he asked at last. His voice was dry, flat. 

You swallowed the knot in your throat and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”

The first few rounds were predictable. You struck low, swept a leg, and knocked him off balance. He grunted, hit the mat, and bounced back up without a word. Then it was your turn. He twisted past your arm, hooked your leg behind his, and took you down in one smooth motion. You landed hard, breath puffing out of your lungs in a curse.

The fourth time you clashed, your forearms locked, both of you panting, he finally spoke.

“You always fight this sloppy when you're pissed off?” he muttered.

You bared your teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He pushed off with a sharp motion, shoving you back with more force than necessary. You staggered but caught yourself.

“You said we were done,” Bucky said, jaw clenched, circling you again. “Figured that meant you wouldn’t be sneaking glances at me every five seconds.”

A guttural laugh left your lips as you stepped in, aimed low and fast, but he blocked you easily. “I’m sorry, are you embarrassed, Barnes? Must be so embarrassing for you to have someone like me near you—”

“Don’t say that,” he snapped.

You hesitated just a second too long, and he used it, sweeping in, gripping your arm, twisting you toward the floor. But instead of letting the momentum carry, you pivoted mid-fall and slammed your elbow into his side, dragging him down with you. You both hit the mat in a tangle, limbs locked, breath heavy. Your chest pressed to his. His fingers curled tightly around your wrist. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm.

You shoved off him roughly and stood, pacing back toward the centre, sweat prickling down your spine, adrenaline and something uglier twisting in your gut.

“You really wanna do this?” you said, voice hoarse.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flashing. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Your blood roared. 

Steve called out from the other side of the gym, something about keeping it light.

But it was too late.

You charged again.

No more feints. No more dancing around it. You drove into him with a fury you hadn’t realised had been coiled so tightly in your chest. Bucky blocked, returned, shoved—your bodies collided again and again, a flurry of jabs, kicks, twists, and takedowns. Your knuckles ached from where they connected with his forearms, your legs trembled from exertion. Neither of you held back anymore. This was the type of sparring that Nat was desperate to get out of you, messy, dirty plays that she praised.

He got a hit in against your ribs. You grunted and retaliated with a kick that swept his leg, sending him crashing to the mat. He growled, rolled, pulled you down with him, and suddenly you were grappling, arms locking, muscles burning.

Then he flipped you.

You hit the mat hard. Your breath left you in an abrupt wheeze.

His weight came down over you, solid, full-body pressure, his knee between your thighs to brace, his forearm across your collarbone pinning your shoulder. His hand gripped your wrist, and your other hand was caught somewhere beneath your own hip. The mat pressed into your spine. His face loomed above yours, his jaw clenched tight, and his breath fast and uneven.

You struggled.

At first, it was instinctual. A jerk of the hips. A twist of the arm. Trying to buck him off like you always had before. The sparring was routine, muscle memory, a thing you’d done with a dozen people a hundred times. But Bucky was heavier than you remembered. Stronger. His grip was too tight, his weight too much. Maybe you’d never quite realised how gentle he had been with you before, how soft and malleable he made himself when both of you were in bed.

Something primal and old stirred in the pit of your stomach. 

Your limbs started to go rigid. Your throat tightened. You blinked, but the edges of your vision were already going dark, tunnelling inward, compressing the world into a narrow box with no air. His weight pressed down on your hips, his knee solid between your thighs, your shoulders pinned in place. You couldn’t breathe. You tried sharp, gasping inhales, but it wasn’t working. The more you pulled in, the more the air seemed to thin.

Your body twitched beneath him, useless, trapped, every muscle locking up. You felt yourself whimper, but it barely escaped your throat. You bit down hard on your lip to stop it from turning into something worse.

You tried to scream, to yell his name—Bucky, stop, stop—but no words came out. Just pressure and panic and the unbearable rush of tears behind your eyes. They brimmed but didn’t fall. You refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

He didn’t move. Didn’t notice. He thought it was part of the fight. He thought you were still in it.

You tried to suck in a breath and choked on it.

You lifted your hand, every motion sluggish and jerky, and tapped three times on his forearm. 

Bucky froze.

His entire body went still like someone had hit a kill switch. The pressure lifted instantly as he pushed himself off, retreating back on his knees. His face was alarmed, eyes wide and scanning.

You sat up slowly, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Your hands were flat against the mat, supporting your shaking frame. Your lungs worked overtime, trying to stabilise, trying to ground yourself. Your face flushed hot, not just from exertion but also from shame.

“Hey…” Bucky reached a hand toward you, but you cowered before he could touch you.

You forced yourself to your feet, knees stiff, stars swimming across your vision. 

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just knelt there on the mat, his eyes locked on you, searching your face like he was trying to read between the lines, like the truth might be scrawled somewhere in the way your mouth trembled or how you blindly picked at your nails.

His expression had dropped into something taut and drawn, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His brain catching up with what the tap meant—what it truly meant.

“Shit,” he breathed.“I didn’t know. I—I didn’t see it.”

He looked like he might be sick. Like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t. Knew he shouldn’t. His weight shifted, knee lifting like he was going to get up, close the space between you, but you took half a step back before he could. That was enough. He stayed where he was.

You hated how badly you wanted to fall into him.

Your whole body screamed for it, for safety, for the press of arms you trusted around you, for the warmth of him. For the feeling of a steady heart under your cheek, a voice in your ear telling you you were okay, you were here, it was over.

But you didn’t move. You locked your arms around your middle instead. Drew in a breath so deep it scraped your ribs raw and shoved everything down.

Still, your eyes lingered on him for a beat too long. On his worry. His guilt. His panic. He had remembered. He had known what the signal meant, even after all this time, hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned it and hadn’t made you explain.

And that—that meant something.

Slowly, with herculean effort, you rolled your shoulders back and let your face go blank as Steve and Sam approached. 

“What are you two doing?” Steve asked, brows drawn together. He didn’t sound accusatory, just cautious, like he was testing the temperature of a room already on fire. “I told you to spar, not kill each other—”

“I—” Bucky started, lifting his hands slightly, almost in surrender. His voice was steady, but there was a slight tremor beneath it. You heard it. He was trying to smooth it over, or maybe like the words had just slipped from that place inside him that wasn’t guarded. He ignored Steve, eyes firmly locked onto you. “You alright, doll?” 

He said it with such casualness. Casualness that indicated he didn't realise what had just slipped past his lips. It was instinct, probably. 

Still, it hit you like a slap.

You didn’t even get the chance to level him with a look of ‘well-you’ve-gone-and-done-it-now’ before Sam’s head whipped around, armed with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and horror.

“What did you just call her?” 

Bucky said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line, and you swore you saw the slightest tinge of red creep up his neck. Steve exhaled through his nose, loud and irritated, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting whatever scheme he had been plotting. Whatever it had been, it was clear to you that Sam hadn’t been brought up to speed. 

“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly. 

You didn’t look at anyone, just grabbed your bag from the bench and turned, heading for the locker room without a word.

Behind you, silence lingered on the mat.

—

Tony’s penthouse glittered like a scene from a luxury magazine shoot, all sleek lighting, glass walls, and a sky full of stars pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Music thumped low and rich through the space, some jazzy, remixed classic that Tony swore gave the night ‘class’. Outside, New York burned electric, skyscrapers blinking like a million eyes. Inside, the air reeked of expensive cologne, champagne, and politics.

You stood by the bar, posture poised, gown clinging perfectly in all the ways it was meant to. The colour was deep and dark, with a silky fabric cascading down your body like liquid shadow, explicitly chosen to flatter, distract, and hide. Your hair was swept into a neat updo, not a strand out of place. Lipstick matched the shade of your nails, the polish partly to distract from the skin you had picked raw. Sleek, practised, controlled. You looked the part.

God, you hated looking the part.

But the board had insisted. Visibility. Cohesion. Unity. The Avengers, Agents, Consultants, Freelance, everybody needed to be seen tonight, in public, together, smiling. To show the sponsors, the donors, the shareholders or whoever the fuck had power that everything was fine. That the world was still being held together by its favourite, dysfunctional little family.

You sipped your drink and nodded when someone from marketing passed by and forced a tight-lipped smile when a UN delegate’s assistant asked for a photo—laughed, genuinely for a moment, when Yelena shoved a canapé into Kate’s mouth mid-sentence and nearly made her choke.

Thor had clearly been overindulging in full Asgardian regalia and a black bowtie hanging comically loose around his thick neck. He was halfway through recounting an epic battle tale to a group of mortified interns, sloshing golden liquid onto the white rug as he gestured too grandly, his booming laugh echoing off the glass.

You laughed with him. Or, rather, around him.

You weren’t drunk, hadn’t dared allow it. The buzz you wore tonight came from anxiety. You had perfected the art of looking like you were fine. Fine in heels. Fine in silence. Fine in a room full of people where the one person you couldn't stop thinking about was also pretending he was fine.

You were on your millionth fake laugh when Steve stepped up beside you.

“I come in peace,” he said quickly, hands raised, like he expected you to throw a punch.

You shot him a flat look and started to turn away. “Whatever it is, Rogers, I’m not in the mood—”

“Hey—” he cut in gently, lowering his voice. “Nat was looking for you. Said she wanted to talk. Something important. She’s out on the balcony.”

That made you pause.

You glanced at him, reading his expression, trying to discern if there was more to it. But Steve had always been a terrible liar. This wasn’t his idea. There was definitely something sketchy about it…but you’d bite.

“…Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass on the bar. “Thanks.”

You peeled yourself from the crowd's edge, careful not to make eye contact with anyone too important or drunk. The floor beneath you pulsed faintly with the bass of the music, the champagne-fueled laughter, the click of heels and the hum of fake conversation. 

Out of habit, your eyes scanned the room for him. You didn’t even mean to. It was muscle memory by now. A flicker of dark hair. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that stood out, even when he was trying not to. But you didn’t see him.

Maybe he left. Perhaps he found a corner to vanish into, away from all this noise.

You dodged a passing executive with a knowing smile and a polite excuse, dipped past a photographer angling for candids, and spun gracefully on your heel to avoid getting cornered by a senator’s wife with a diamond necklace and a mile-long list of questions.

Finally, you reached the balcony doors and slipped through them.

The cool air of the balcony kissed your bare shoulders the moment the sliding door clicked shut behind you. You exhaled. Finally, quiet.

Except—

He was there.

Leaning on the glass railing, gazing out over the city, hands braced as if the skyline could offer answers.

He didn’t turn at first. Just stood there, tall and tense, framed by the hum of the city lights below. His suit fit too well, with sharp lines and immaculate tailoring, the black lapels catching faint glints of light. The tie was knotted tight against his throat like a collar, strangling something feral just beneath the surface, like dressing up a wild, wounded animal and calling it tame.

You knew how much he hated this, the attention, the stiffness, the shallow, gleaming pretence. He hated how the suits itched, how they never accommodated his arm, and how they made him feel on display. Something was jarring about seeing him like this. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back and perfectly parted. Like someone had tried to iron out all the edges and polish him into something smooth and forgettable, it didn’t work. It never did.

And then you saw it—the glove. Smooth black leather over his left hand. Hiding it.

Shame. Fear. Judgment. You knew what that glove meant, what it had always meant. Just another mask he was forced to hide behind, or maybe a mask he forced himself to hide behind. And even now, he felt ashamed among people who called him a hero, who toasted him with champagne and wanted him in photos. And maybe he was right to feel wary, not to get too comfortable around the puppeteers who pulled all the strings.

It broke your heart.

Your heels clicked softly across the balcony tile as you approached. Bucky turned at the sound, startled.

His eyes locked on yours.

You stopped a few paces away, your breath catching for just a second. His gaze darted to the door, then back to you.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly, arms folding over your chest, “Nat came to you and told you Steve was looking for you on the balcony?”

Bucky blinked. “How did you—?”

“Because Steve just came to me,” you said, arching a brow, “and told me Nat was looking for me on the balcony.”

He swore softly under his breath and looked away, exhaling like he’d been sucker-punched. The wind tugged at his jacket, and his hand ghosted near the balcony rail.

“I think we’ve been set up.” You hummed.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quickly, already stepping back. “I can go—”

“No, it’s okay.” You cut him off. “We should talk.”

---

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[artficlly]

read between the lines [one-shot]

college marvel au frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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I’ve been tutoring Bucky.

Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

Ugh. Anyway.

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary. 

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again. 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

But maybe… in the best way possible.