This one’s for bravery! This one’s for bedtime stories and this one’s for carrying me on your shoulders.
Dad!Bucky
Summary - Rainy Sunday → girls turn Bucky's vibranium arm into their craft canvas — stickers, glitter glue, tiny painted flowers. They call it beautiful; he sees it as their love made visible. He proudly wears it everywhere, refuses to wash it off, and treasures every piece long after it fades. His arm, once a burden, becomes his favorite thing — because they made it so.
Warnings - fluff, dad!bucky, domestic setting, war injury (metal arm) all soft and healing.
Writers notes - whole lotta fluff 🥹.
No proof read or word count. I appreciate you 🫶🏻
It’s a drizzly Sunday afternoon—too gray and wet to go outside, so the living room floor is spread with every craft supply the girls could drag out of the cupboard: sheets of shiny stickers, tubes of glitter glue, little pots of safe paint, ribbons, and sparkly gems.
“Daddy, sit still! Don’t move!” your oldest insists, gently guiding his vibranium arm onto the cushion between them. Bucky just huffs a soft, fond laugh and settles back. “I’m not going anywhere, sugar. Do your worst.”
They treat his arm like the most precious canvas in the world. First they run their small hands over the cool, smooth plates, tracing the lines and seams like they’re mapping something wonderful. Bucky watches their faces—utterly focused, soft and bright—and his heart swells so much it almost aches. He’s spent so many years seeing this arm as something heavy, something sharp, something to hide. But to them? It’s just Daddy’s arm, and it’s perfect.
The youngest starts first, carefully peeling off stickers: unicorns, stars, tiny flowers, little hearts. She presses them one by one along his forearm, chattering happily. “This one’s for bravery! This one’s for bedtime stories! This one’s for carrying me on your shoulders!” Bucky listens to every word, nodding solemnly. “Best job I’ve ever had,” he murmurs, and she beams like he just gave her the world.
Then comes the glitter glue. Lots of it. Swirls and stripes, little dots along the edges. It dries tacky and bright, catching the light so his whole arm glimmers. Your oldest even paints tiny, delicate flowers along his wrist, her tongue poking out in concentration. “There,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “Now you’re beautiful, Daddy.”
Bucky looks down at his arm—once a weapon, now covered in rainbows, sparkles, and tiny, lopsided blooms. His throat feels tight. He lifts them both in a hug, careful not to smudge anything, and presses soft kisses to their hair. “You two made it the best thing in the whole universe,” he whispers, and he means it more than anything he’s ever said.
When you come home later, you have to bite back a laugh. His metal arm is completely covered—bright, messy, wildly colorful. But what gets you is the look on his face: pure, unashamed adoration.
He refuses to wash a single bit off. Not before dinner, not before bed, not even when Steve drops by and raises an eyebrow. Bucky just holds his arm up proudly, glitter catching the light, and says, “My girls did this. Isn’t it amazing?” He sounds like he’s wearing a medal of honor.
At night, when they’re asleep, he sits by the window, gently touching the stickers and the paint. Some will peel, some will fade—but he doesn’t mind. He remembers every small hand, every giggle, every “I love you, Daddy” pressed into cool metal. For the first time in his life, this arm doesn’t feel like something that was done to him. It feels like something that belongs to them.
And when the last sticker finally falls off weeks later? He doesn’t let you throw it away. He tucks it into a little box on his nightstand, right beside his dog tags, your first polaroid together and the photo of the girls —proof that even the hardest, coldest things can be made soft and beautiful, if you let them be loved
Summary: Returning to the HYDRA base in Washington, Bucky has some trackers removed but finds out more of what was done to him. Allowing the Soldier to be brought out again he receives new instructions to keep Joanne safe.
Length: 6.2 K
Characters: Bucky, Fury, Coulson, Barton, several OMC.
Warnings and other notes: Anxiety, anger, destructive response. When I was planning this transitional chapter, I wanted Clint Barton to be involved in helping Bucky, given that he helped Natasha leave the Red Room, and that he came to Germany during CACW to help even though he supposedly had never laid eyes on him before. Although I have stuck to canon as much as possible, much of what happens in this chapter "could" have happened because we really don't know how Bucky got from the United States to Europe. Was he capable of doing it on his own? Absolutely, but perhaps he got help. As always, the medical treatment is completely fictional.
<<Chapter 24
Inside the room another man, with light brown hair and blue eyes waited. Noting the man's physical condition and the alert way he had about him, Bucky gathered he was a highly trained and lethal operative. The man nodded curtly at Bucky but didn't identify himself or shake his hand. He was all business. On the table in front of him, beside one of Bucky's go backpacks, were several documents, some notebooks, several blank envelopes, and several passports.
"Any problems, Agent Barton?" asked Fury.
"No." He gestured to the documents. "A list of safe houses in Europe. As of yesterday, they were all secure and unknown to the CIA, FSB, or any other international security agency. You said that the subject required blank notebooks for memory retrieval." He pointed to those then opened the envelopes showing several currencies nestled in them. "American dollars, Euros, British pounds, and what other European currency I could scrounge together from some of our safe houses, other than rubles." Next, he picked up the passports. "We studied your existing passports to avoid using the same names and birthdates, but did use the pictures with some minor tweaking on them so that they wouldn't show up on facial recognition software." He handed them to Bucky, watching as he checked through them. "Your clothing is as you left it. There are no trackers in any of it. You'll be on your own." He looked at Fury, who nodded at him to continue. "There is a list of phone numbers you can call if you ever want to be extracted. I would recommend that you memorize them in case you ever lose the notebooks. All of the calls will be routed to me. I know you won't recognize me, but I'll be the one who comes to get you if it comes to that. I've had a lot of experience in successfully extracting operatives from other agencies. I'll repeat all of this to you after your treatment."
He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and turned it on, revealing it to be a black light flashlight. Shining it on the inside cover of each of the hard bound notebooks revealed several phone numbers, along with the words, JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES - SN32557038, FOR EXTRACTION. Handing the flashlight to Bucky, he and Fury waited as the super soldier examined everything, then repacked the backpack himself. Hefting it onto his shoulder Bucky looked expectantly at them.
"What now?"
"A quinjet ride to the bank building in cloaked mode. Then you'll undergo the memory reconditioning process, and I'll recite the words that bring the Soldier out then give you your instructions." Fury reached inside his coat, producing a pamphlet from the Howling Commandos exhibit and handing it to Bucky. "I'm going to tell you to remember what you know about Steve Rogers. If anything goes wrong, we both know he'll be there for you, no questions asked, and you'll need all the help you can get."
They left through a second door, taking stairs up to the roof where a quinjet waited. Fury sat in the back with him, while the other man, Barton, sat in the pilot's seat and did the pre-flight checklist before starting it up. Gesturing to Bucky to strap in, Fury adjusted the straps on his own seat.
"This is the most dangerous part as your body trackers will be traceable if they are still functioning. Once we're in the bank building, we'll activate the dampening field there. I've called in as many people as I can to patrol outside the building and keep intruders out while your trackers are removed or disabled and then when you undergo the process. Hopefully there will be enough commercial truck traffic out there to keep them occupied chasing those signals."
"The scientists that you're bringing in ... do you have names?"
Bucky recalled that most of the medical and scientific staff were not abusive to him like the security staff were. They were still afraid, not just of him but of Pierce and Rumlow, but like Dr. Cameron, did nothing when he was being abused. When he was injured, they tended to his wounds, although Rumlow would often downplay his injuries. When his arm malfunctioned, they fixed it. But when he was being corrected, or beaten, they stayed back, unwilling or unable to intervene. Fury named four men including Dr. William Cameron.
"He was cryo staff," said Bucky, interrupting the other. "He was at the farmer's market near Arlington."
"During interrogation he said he was being trained on the memory process. He did admit he saw you at the farmer's market. Said he didn't report you to anyone in HYDRA after."
"He lied. Those two men who showed up at the county building said he told them to go there." Bucky looked out the window as they approached downtown Washington, D.C. "I don't remember him being there for the memory processing. I don't want him touching me."
"Fair enough," replied Fury. "I am going to bring it up again when we get there and see if he incriminates himself."
"Approaching the landing pad," said Barton. "After you disembark, I'll run through the checklist to secure the quinjet and be down there as soon as I can."
He lowered the aircraft onto the landing pad on the roof of the building, then waited as Fury and Bucky left the quinjet by the ramp, before starting his post-flight checklist. Fury led Bucky towards a door on the rooftop where a SHIELD agent in a black suit and a uniformed agent waited. Bucky had never seen either before, but Fury seemed to know them and addressed the man in the suit.
"Coulson," said the former SHIELD Director. "Wasn't expecting you. Report."
"Building is secure. The technicians have confirmed that the device is functioning." He glanced at Bucky with recognition but without fear. "They expressed concern about the Sergeant not being properly prepared for the process. Sorry."
"They meant drugged," replied Bucky. "They kept me on different drugs to control me and keep me compliant."
"I know." Agent Coulson looked resigned. "I was also concerned when you were first out of custody, but you seem to have recovered well."
"Sergeant Barnes doesn't want Dr. Cameron involved. He remembered him as being on the cryo team and apparently sent those two men to the county building after the farmer's market sighting."
"Interesting," replied Coulson. "The other technicians didn't correct his assertion that he was involved in the memory process, but they could have been coerced to remain silent. Is it possible you just don't remember?" He looked at Bucky, who shrugged but still displayed his distrust of the man. "Do you think he would be capable of sabotaging the process?"
"One way to find out," said Bucky. "Put him through it at the lowest setting." Both Fury and Coulson looked at each other. Although neither expressed a significant change in their facial expressions, Bucky recognized they did react to his suggestion, not dismissing it out of hand. "If he hasn't sabotaged it there wouldn't be permanent damage with one application, just some... discomfort."
"Do it," said Fury, without hesitation.
The three of them went down the stairs to the top level of the bank, leaving the other man to wait for Barton, then walked to the elevator. As soon as they came out of the stairwell, into the main part of the building Bucky could smell the faint but familiar scent of his time there. His olfactory senses, heightened from the serum, was aware of the mingling odors of old blood, urine, vomit, sweat, and the chemicals that made up everything ever injected into him, including the drugs used to control him. After so long away from this building the assault the scents made on his senses was noticeable. It must have shown on his face while they waited for the elevator as Fury watched him closely.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"No, but I'll deal with it," replied Bucky. "It's bringing up old memories."
By the time the elevator door opened on that top floor, Bucky could hear his heart pounding, and his rate of breathing increase. Closing his eyes, he stepped gingerly into the elevator, then tried to regulate his breathing as the elevator went down to the basement.
"Steady," said Coulson, softly. "In for ten, out for ten."
Glancing at him, Bucky saw the shorter man breathing in slowly, holding his breath for a moment, then letting it out at the same rate. Appreciating the support, he mimicked the man, and his sense of anxiety lessened. By the time the doors opened, he wasn't aware of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
"Thank you," he murmured to Coulson, as he stepped out, receiving a nod of acknowledgement from the man.
At the doors to the vault where the memory processing device was located, Bucky stopped again. The last time he was here, after getting his arm splinted, he couldn't go back in there. Now, he had no choice, not if he wanted to keep Joanne and the baby safe. Neither Fury, nor Coulson pressed him; waiting patiently for when he was ready. Their patience reinforced that he was in control of everything and somehow that thought strengthened him. Putting his hand on the door, he pushed it open and stepped into a place that had appeared only in nightmares for the past several months.
It was just as he remembered it. The walls were covered in hundreds of brass safety deposit boxes, some opened, others closed. Under the lights of the room, the brass made everything seem bathed in a sickly greenish yellow hue. In the centre, the black metal halo of the headpiece was in the raised position, while the black metal and vinyl padded treatment chair was bolted to the frame, its titanium restraints open and waiting for him. Two computer screens were placed on each side of the apparatus. Dr. Cameron stood impassively near it, along with three technicians, who looked nervously at Bucky as he entered and stood there. Two armed SHIELD guards stood to the side.
"I want the trackers removed or disabled first," said Bucky. He ignored Cameron then looked at Coulson. "There is a tracking unit in the guard room, just down the hall. It's in a black box. You should be able to confirm the function of the trackers after."
The senior agent looked at one of the others, who left, returning several minutes later with two black boxes. He opened each one to Bucky who pointed to the second. Fury looked to the technicians.
"Which one of you knows how to remove or disable the trackers?" One of them put his hand up reluctantly and stepped forward, watching Bucky intently. "You're up first."
"Soldat," he began, gesturing to the chair.
"It's Barnes," said Bucky, glaring at him. "I have a name and it's not Soldat, Soldier or Asset."
"I'm ... I'm sorry," replied the man. "They never let us know your real name. Said it was need to know." Bucky nodded. "You'll have to sit in the chair. All the scanning equipment is built into it. You'll need to take your shirt off for the upper devices for the best contact with the sensors. The lower devices can be scanned through your clothing."
Placing the backpack on a chair, Bucky removed his jacket, long sleeved shirt, and T-shirt, laying them on top of the backpack. His anxiety increased as he looked at the chair, but the technician waited for him, afraid to intervene. When Bucky finally sat, the man began to strap Bucky in but the look he received frightened him and he dropped the strapping.
"You often lashed out during work on your arm or interior systems," he croaked. "Um. I'm afraid that you'll hit me."
"I won't hurt you," said Bucky, then he made eye contact. "Did I hurt you before?" The man shook his head. "I promise I won't hurt you now. I stopped taking the drugs they had me on so I'm mostly stable." He looked impassively at the man. "Mostly."
Fury and Coulson smiled slightly. Standing in front of one of the computer screens, the man glanced at Dr. Cameron, then entered the commands on the screen, swallowed nervously as he activated the procedure that made the chair shift into a bed. He then watched the two screens in front of him as the scan began. One screen showed an outline of Bucky's head, but the scan didn't process anything leaving the inside view blank. Fury privately wondered if the halo could perform a scan of Barnes' brain. The other screen showed Barnes' body, with a blank circle on his left elbow and right hip, then a solid circle on his left knee, right chest and on his upper sternum.
"Explain these to me," said Fury.
"The blank circles are simple trackers," said the technician, "and they appear to have been disabled but we can check with the mobile scanner." He swallowed. "The solid circles function as stop switches that can also be tracked with the right equipment." Fury stared at him. "The one on the knee makes his knee give out, so that he can't walk. The one on his right chest will give him an electric shock; enough to knock him out but not enough to damage him permanently, kind of like an internal taser."
"And the one on the sternum?"
The man swallowed again, looking nervously from Fury to Barnes. "It's a kill switch; makes the aortic arch explode so that he bleeds out within seconds. It was meant to be used if the Asset ... Barnes, lost control and the other stop functions weren't enough to contain him." He hesitated. "So far as I know, only the knee switch has ever been activated. They also used tranquilizer darts, stun batons ...."
His voice trailed off. There was no point detailing the extent HYDRA went to in order to keep their Asset under control.
"Jesus fucking Christ," said a voice from the door. Barton stood there, his face showing the level of disgust that was internally felt by Fury and Coulson. He had come in unnoticed and obviously heard enough. "He's a human being. What gave you the right to do that to him?"
"Barton," said Fury. "Stand down."
"No, I'm not going to stand down on this." He came closer, looking at each technician in turn, then at the doctor. "You guys make me sick." He stopped in front of Barnes. "I'm sorry. If I had known about you, I would have come for you and got you out of their hands and no one would have stopped me. I would have blown them all to Hell."
Bucky smiled slightly. "Thank you but they would have sent me after you like they sent me after Steve Rogers, and you wouldn't have survived. I almost killed him."
"Well, that's true." He put his hand out to Barnes. "When you need me, you call me. I'll come running." Bucky shook it. "Now, can that kill switch be removed?"
"Not without open chest surgery but I can disable it and make it unable to be re-engaged." The technician looked at the screen. "The same with the chest and knee. They require surgery with full anaesthetic but can be permanently disabled here. The two trackers can be removed but I'll have to open an access panel on the arm." He looked at Dr. Cameron. "He can remove the hip tracker since he's the one who injected it into his hip bone, but it will require being cut open."
They all looked at the doctor who glared at the technician. Apparently, that hadn't been in the script.
"That's quite the jump from cryo team to memory processing team to injecting Barnes with trackers," said Fury. "You've been holding out on us." He looked at the three technicians. "Tell me, is it possible that he could sabotage the memory treatment in order to kill or severely injure Sergeant Barnes?"
For a moment no one said anything then the first technician faced Fury.
"Yes," said the technician who just ran the sensors on Barnes. "He wanted to be more involved in all aspects of treating the Asset and was always watching and asking to assist. I'm not covering up for you Cameron. It's bad enough that I have to live with what I've been involved in." He looked at Bucky. "I'm truly sorry. I know that's not enough, but I am, and I'll spend the rest of my life doing what I can to make up for it, even if I end up in a super maximum prison." He gestured to the halo. "This halo can run a scan that shows the brain implants. Most were inserted in the late 1940s after the ... Barnes' initial treatment by the Russians when he was retrieved. They were ... experimenting with targeting the parts of the brain that would provide the best results for the memory processing treatment since he recovered so quickly from their efforts. The serum increases the self-healing factor, so the brain was constantly trying to heal what they damaged as they tried to destroy his original memories and personality. They found if they built up a significant layer of scar tissue that it would slow down the repair factor, but that buildup also caused issues with control and that's when they began medicating. They had a team whose only job was to produce drug cocktails that would keep him compliant until they turned him loose."
Bucky, who sat upright during the technician's hurried summary of what was done to him focused his gaze forward. It was one thing to remember what was done to him, but it was another thing entirely to hear the things he didn't remember. Even with the technician's obvious disgust at everything Bucky was subjected to, he was the closest person to him, and at that moment was very much in danger.
"Move," said Bucky, tersely. The man looked blankly at him. "MOVE!"
Barton pulled the man back, understanding immediately the warning being offered. Leaving the table, Bucky went straight out the door. One of the armed guards started after him but Fury called him back.
"Let the man deal with this in private," he said. "He's earned the right."
In the hallway, Bucky stood, feeling the rage threatening to overwhelm him. Advancing towards where the offices were, he stepped into the one that was Pierce's, noting the broken safe door from where he punched it out while looking for cash. There were no papers scattered around, so presumably Fury and SHIELD had already been through this room. Reaching for that broken safe door, Bucky ripped it off its hinges and used it to smash the wall sconces that were evenly spaced out. An empty bookcase was his next target as he hit the shelves with the edge of the door, sending wood shards scattering everywhere. From there, he focused his actions on Pierce's desk, using the heavy metal door as a hammer while punching with his left fist, putting holes into the expensive wood surface as easily as if it were made of cardboard. He systematically went through each piece of furniture in that room tearing them apart until he threw the safe door into the wall, embedding it halfway through the concrete-reinforced surface. Then he stood in the middle of the carnage, allowing the blinding wrath that had fuelled him to seep away.
"Cathartic, wasn't it?" asked Fury. Turning towards the door, Bucky saw him there. "I've never managed to do the kind of damage you just did but I'm sure it felt just as right as when I had my moment."
"Yeah? What did you destroy?"
"I finished off Pierce's cabin in the woods. You and Ms. Phelps made it easy by leaving the windows open to start the process. Whose idea was it to put metal into the microwave?"
Bucky smirked. "She did that while I trashed the bunkhouse where they always kept me, waiting for their visitors. That place was known only to a few people. How did you find out about it?"
Fury stepped carefully into the room, coming to Bucky's side. "Some of the home movies on Pierce's laptop had a digital signature with GPS coordinates. I went there first. There are other sites I still have to visit. Nothing I say can ever make up for what was done to you. This latest revelation is just proof that mankind is really fucked up." He let out a frustrated breath. "For what it's worth, Cameron refused to go into the chair. He did sabotage the settings on the halo and refuses to change them, even with Barton holding a gun to his head. The other three can't undo what he did to the equipment to reset it. We won't be using it. The trip here wasn't completely necessary."
"Well, at least you know Cameron was more than just a cryo team doctor." Bucky rubbed his face, suddenly tired after being awake since the previous morning. "The man that apologized to me. They'll try to kill him, maybe the other two as well."
"Yeah, we'll do what we can to keep them safe. They're my problem, now." Fury gestured to the trashed room. "You done here?"
Bucky looked at the mess. "I'm done. Let's get these trackers and kill switches neutralized. I don't want anyone other than you, the guy in the suit and the one who flew the quinjet in the room while you bring out the Asset."
Returning to the processing room, the first thing Bucky noticed was that Dr. Cameron was gone. The technician who had revealed everything he knew nodded at Bucky, while the other two were assembling surgical equipment. As he sat in the chair, the first man lifted a panel off of his arm and carefully began probing into it. When he found the right spot, the technician put on a set of glasses to magnify the area, then put his hand out for another instrument, while the other technician held the first probe in place and the other checked on the screen, making sure they didn't touch the power source of Bucky's arm. Carefully, he extracted the first tracker, dropping it into a metal dish. Quickly, they tested the function of Bucky's arm, then closed it up, replacing the panel that had been removed.
"Do you think you could take the one in my hip out?" asked Bucky, looking intently at the first technician.
"I'll have to cut into you and expose the hip bone to extract it. It's going to hurt like hell, and I know you're unresponsive to pain medication. I'm not going to lie but I'm afraid you'll hurt me."
With a slight smile, Bucky put his hand on the man's arm, ignoring the little flinch he responded with.
"I trust you. You can trust me. I won't hurt you."
"Okay. I'll try but if it's too much to handle, tell me and I'll stop. You'll have to take your pants and underwear off to expose your hip. I'm sorry I don't have something to cover you up."
"They had towels in the VIP bathroom," suggested one of the other technicians. "There must be clean ones still in the storage room."
With a nod from Fury, one of the guards went to the storage room, coming back with an arm full of very expensive looking towels. Bucky undressed, was handed one of the towels and placed it underneath, then draped another over himself as he laid down on the table, exposing his right hip. As the computer technician positioned Bucky over the sensors the other two went to wash up. Escorted by the two guards, they returned five minutes later with their hands enclosed in more of the expensive towels. They each dried themselves, discarding the towels elsewhere, then allowed the computer technician to put a face mask on them, while they pulled on latex gloves.
"I know you're probably immune to bacteria," said the first man, "but it always bothered me that they didn't even try to perform basic sterile procedures on you. This isn't much better."
"It's alright." Bucky studied the man's face. "I just want it out."
As the exact position of the hip tracker was pinpointed to be on the crest of the ilium, the other two prepared Bucky's skin, cleaning it with an antiseptic, then rolling up several towels to fit beside him and around the site. A covered tray was wheeled over to them, and they opened it to a set of surgical instruments. With a nervous deep breath, both men worked together, slicing into the skin just over the top of Bucky's hip, hesitating when he breathed in suddenly. When the iliac crest was exposed, the second man put a small spreader into the incision, while the first asked for more light. Barton adjusted a light above them, angling its beam into the cut.
"I see it," said the first man. "Extraction tool."
It was put into his hand, and he lowered the tip into the cut, scraping around the device, then nodding as he slipped it under the edge and pried it off. Bucky, who hissed a few times but didn't move, was starting to sweat, drawing the attention of both men poised over his hip.
"You, okay?"
"I can manage. Just finish it."
Gingerly, the man brought the tool out, grasping the tracker at the tip of it and dropped the bloody device into the tray. He packed the wound to slow down the bleeding, then gently pulled the packing away to check whether Bucky's healing factor was already kicking in. With a nod, he picked up a needle with thread already attached.
"Dissolving thread," he said. "Specially designed for you. You probably used it in the field more than once. Just keep the incision clean and any remaining outside threads can be pulled out in a day or two. The hole in the bone will fill in over the coming week." After he finished and cleaned around the incision site before bandaging it, he sat back in his chair, a smile evident under his mask. "You did good."
"So did you," replied Bucky. "Are you sure you can't remove the one in the knee?"
"Yes, I won't even try," he replied apologetically as he removed his gloves and mask. "That one requires real surgery with anaesthetic as it's implanted inside your knee. Once it's removed the serum repairs the cartilage, but I don't know enough to take it out." He looked at the other two technicians who agreed with him. "I'm sorry."
The remaining devices on Bucky's body were disabled, and their access codes scrambled so they couldn't be rebooted. Barton double checked with the tracking equipment, confirming they were no longer functioning. Bucky looked at all three men for a long time.
"Thank you."
With their skills no longer needed, Fury nodded to the armed guards to take the three men out, but the first man stopped before they left and looked back at Bucky. There wasn't much he could say to the super soldier, but he smiled grimly at him, then left.
"Take your time before you get dressed," said Fury. "I take it you don't want me to say the words in here."
"No, I don't."
Bucky winced as he sat up, waited a minute or two, then stood up from the table, before leaning back on it. Reaching for his underwear, he pulled them on, then his jeans, and shirts. When he hesitated as he put on his shoes, Barton stepped forward, helping him by holding them steady, then tying them up. Smiling slightly at Barton, Bucky got up then led them all to one of the VIP rooms, explaining they were used for visiting HYDRA dignitaries from other countries, wanting to witness his treatment protocols.
"I had a thin mattress on the floor, a small chair and table in a windowless room, with an open toilet in the corner and a sink on the wall," said Bucky. "They fed me slop. The VIPs had private bathrooms, luxury sheets and gourmet food. Then I was put into cryosleep until the next time I was needed to kill an enemy, and they flew back home on a private jet."
"They spent millions of dollars on keeping you a slave," murmured Barton. "Bastards."
"Yeah ...." He turned to Fury. "You have all the words?" The one-eyed man nodded. "Was there footage of my transformation?" Fury nodded again. "You have to be specific in your instructions. Don't just say to lay low; specifically tell me I am not to kill, or to fight, that I am to fit in with the general population, find a job and live as a civilian. Remind me that I have spent the last few months learning to cook, clean and take care of myself but to forget the person who taught me because they are irrelevant. Emphasize that HYDRA is evil, and that they abused and lied to me to get me to do their dirty work. Tell me to memorize those phone numbers and tear out the pages they're on; that they are only to be used if I am in danger of being killed." He stopped, looking at Fury with agonized eyes. "Since I've been out of cryosleep for months, I really don't know if it will work but you have to think about everything when you're giving me instructions. When I am the Soldier, I am a blank slate, waiting to be written upon. I will remember what you want me to remember and hopefully forget what I must. I'm depending on you to make sure I go out there and know without a doubt that I am to avoid capture above all else. If you want to keep your existence quiet, you'll have to order me to forget you as well."
He rubbed his face with his hands again, completely exhausted from the lack of sleep, the emotional drain, and the toll on him from thinking of all that go wrong. Then he put the backpack on a chair and unpacked the things that Barton showed him, explaining they would have to do it again once he was the Soldier. With one more look around, Bucky sat on the bed, took several breaths, and looked up at the three men in turn, ending with Fury.
"I'm ready."
With a nod, Fury took his phone out of his jacket pocket and brought up the file they found on Alexander Pierce's laptop. Starting with zhelaniye he began reading the Russian words, watching Barnes closely. The dark-haired man tensed up considerably during the first few words, but was still in command of himself, then after the fourth word it was like a curtain on the stage rose and a new character introduced into the play that was his life under HYDRA. When the last word was spoken, Bucky's face was impassive, and his voice rumbled as he spoke his response in Russian.
"Я жду приказов." I am waiting for orders.
"Soldat," said Fury, in English. "This will be the most important mission you have ever undertaken, only this time you are doing it to protect yourself from detection. HYDRA has fallen and you helped bring them down. You finally acted upon their lies and falsehoods, rebelling against the way they mistreated you and used you to their own evil ends. They still search for you and above all else you cannot let them find you. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"From this moment on, you will not kill anymore, nor will you fight anyone unless your life is in danger. Instead, you are to live the life of a civilian by getting a job, a place to live and taking care of your own needs by yourself. For the past several months you have learned much about taking care of yourself but the person who taught you has been reassigned to another task and is no longer relevant to your future." Both Barton and Coulson looked at Fury when he said that. "You are to forget everything about her as if she never existed."
"Joanne," whispered Bucky, barely audible.
"She does not exist. Anytime you think of that person you will forget her name and her appearance. This is for your own safety. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. My associate will brief you on what has been assembled for you. Listen carefully and examine what he shows you."
Clint Barton stepped to the desk and called to the Soldier to stand with him. Just like he did in the office, he went through everything that had been prepared for Bucky. He told him his real name, birthdate, and his background as a soldier in World War II, a background that involved Captain America, Steve Rogers, who had recognized him. He showed him the pamphlet from the Smithsonian, explaining he had gone to the display there to learn about Captain America, the Howling Commandos and himself. Then he explained how Bucky would have to choose one of the new identities made for him to avoid being captured and never refer to himself as the Asset or the Soldier again. Bucky frowned.
"Do you have questions?" asked Barton.
"Questions are not permitted. The Asset ... I want to avoid correction."
Barton nodded. "I am not HYDRA. Questions are encouraged and will not be punished."
"All except one of these passports is for a European country. Am I to live in Europe?"
"Yes, that is why you have been given a list of safe houses in several different countries. You may choose your own location as we don't want to know where you are. It is safer for you. You have the abilities to travel unseen?" Bucky answered with one word. "Then use them and hide from us as well as HYDRA."
"Who are you with?"
Barton looked to Fury for permission before answering.
"We were SHIELD, but HYDRA infiltrated us, and we didn't know until it was too late to save our organization."
Bucky looked at Fury then. "I killed you."
"Yes, you did, and you are to forget that I am alive. I am irrelevant to your future existence. You are to go with this man. He will transport you to your new location. You can choose which safe house to live in or divide your time between them. You may even decide to live elsewhere independently. It will be your choice. You will truly be on your own but if you are approached by anyone from HYDRA you are authorized to stop them without permanent harm. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Repeat your mission to us."
Bucky repeated everything that was said to him. When Barton asked who trained him to live on his own, he shook his head.
"I do not know."
"Do you know any of us in this room?"
He looked at each one of them, then shook his head again.
"No, I do not know who you are, other than you are SHIELD and are assisting me to avoid recapture by HYDRA."
"Any last words?" asked Fury. Barton and Coulson shook their heads. "Alright, time to go."
Bucky returned everything to the backpack, then slung it over his shoulder. They all went to the elevator, riding it to the top, then taking the stairs to the roof. As Barton performed his checklist, Fury walked Bucky inside the aircraft and told him to buckle up.
"You may sleep on the flight," he said. "There are snacks and drinks in a cabinet, and you may help yourself if you get hungry or thirsty. From this moment on, you must live as a civilian and take care of your own needs. If you make a mistake, learn from it and don't make the same mistake again. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Bucky looked up at the strange man, thankful that he had managed to find someone to help him get out of the country. The man had already moved on to the pilot who was transporting him, presumably to confirm his own orders. Already, this "mission" that SHIELD was sending him on felt different than the ones HYDRA arranged. There was none of the fear of failure that was always drummed into him. Instead, there was anticipation, of successfully infiltrating normal society. Perhaps this was training for a bigger mission at a later date. Certainly, they were different than HYDRA, in a good way, and he hoped that when this mission was over, he would have a purpose with SHIELD. He would like that, very much.
Chapter 26>>
Series Masterlist
Please support the author by commenting or reblogging.
Explicit / Tags: John Walker Is A Disaster (Marvel), John Walker Being John Walker, Bucky Barnes Being Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has No Idea What He Started But He's Totally In, Accidental Innuendo, They need to COMMUNICATE, Awkward Conversations, super soldier problems, Sexual misunderstandings, Bucky Barnes Accidentally Flirts With John Walker...
Summary:
Bucky Barnes only meant to offer John Walker a helping hand.
He just didn't expect to find out that he might actually enjoy being the one to provide it.
"(...) He shook his head to emphasize his point. He could tell Walker that he liked the chatter, the moments they shared after a mission, or the times they found themselves alone in the tower, Walker working on his old truck, one Bucky could've sworn was almost as old as he was, though Walker took such meticulous care of it that it always looked far newer than it actually was. "I've been through something like that too. It felt like nothing could truly satisfy me."
"Hm... yeah..." Another sip of beer. Walker didn't even realize that two more mediocre swallows and he'd run out of his excuse to keep his mouth occupied. (...)"
Author's Note: Double update!!! Our favourite Mobster in full action! As always... Happy reading! 😘
Word Count: 1.149
Chapter Warnings: Violence.
The image of his wife, scarred and bruised in almost every part of her body was still engraved in his mind, even after all these months, and it was enough to make the mobster plot every sort of torture for the sadist who dared lay a hand on her. As if what happened to Rumlow wasn’t enough to make anyone have second thoughts about crossing him… Because he wanted to ensure that there wouldn’t be any more HYDRA related threat in the city he took it upon himself to lead the search. And immediately, he slipped into the terrifying Winter Soldier – Natasha had graced him with this nickname due to his cold, ruthless personality while he was working a job, whether it involved questioning, or putting a bullet into someone’s head. That was one of his many layers that he kept hidden from Odette because deep down he feared that she would leave him. But she was able to see past the murderous Mobster, and that was why she chose to stay by his side.
Now, she swore that she would stay out of his way while he was turning the city upside down looking for Rumlow’s right hand man, Rollins. Instinctively, she traced the raised skin on her collarbone, recalling the repulsive words that spilled from his lips.
But she was not affected by that anymore. She was able to put all that past her. Bucky would take care of him….
It took days of gruesome fights and tortures… Barnes was furious that small time gang members pledged their allegiance to HYDRA.
“I’m going to ask you again. Where. Is. Rollins?!” His voice boomed, as he stalked to the man that was restrained, sporting cuts and bruises from previous injuries; he had put on quite the fight before he was caught by Clint and his men… But Bucky did not exactly care.
“Screw you man!” The blonde- Walker- laughed, his breath knocked out him as the brunette mobster landed yet another blow to his abdomen. “Wrong answer you son of a bitch!” Downright violence wasn’t working… So he tried again, taking a deep breath.
“Now, I hate to be the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ kind of guy, and you seem like a man of many talents” He grinned darkly, pulling out a knife that looked like it had been sharpened quite recently.
“Now… I am going to ask you again…. Where. Is. Jack Rollins?” Barnes repeated nicking the blonde’s skin, drawing blood. Yet he refrained from pushing the blade deeper, hoping it wouldn’t come to that; he would hate to ruin another dress shirt with blood stains. Not to mention, he didn’t want his wife to have to see that. When Walker refused to rat out HYDRA’s new leader, Bucky decided to return the favour; he was going to brand Walker, the same way Rollins branded his wife. And he would return this good for nothing thug back to the douche that was looking to stir up terror in his territory. Because that’s what it was about. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place, right? Only this time, Bucky would put an end to HYDRA, once and for all.
“I bet she made all those pretty sounds… Rumlow had fun with her… And so did Rollins the next morning… Man, I bet that whore secretly liked it—” Walker was simply taunting, but the next second, a horrifying scream echoed in that dingy room. Bucky pressed the flaming burning crowbar, with his insignia on it, a red star. A symbol that brought terror to anyone who crossed the Barnes Mafia…
“Not a word about my wife, you sick bastard…” He growled, twisting the molten iron, taking immense delight in the cries of pain and the unintelligible pleas for mercy. But he would get none. Just like they showed his wife zero mercy when they humiliated her and made a tape of it. “FUCK!!!!! Alright, alright!!!! I will tell you everything you need to know!” Walker finally caved in, hissing in pain when Barnes pulled the crowbar roughly, leaving the smell of burnt flesh roam in the air. “Rollins is back in the old mansion where Rumlow ran operations. He is planning to reorganize HYDRA and create chaos!” The blonde struggled to breathe, with all the cuts and bruises. Something told him that Barnes wouldn’t be as merciful as he claimed…
“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The brunette sneered, contemplating whether he should plant a bullet between his eyes and be done with him. Which he did. He couldn’t have him running back to Rollins and warn him. “You—You said you’d let me go if I gave you what you wanted!” Walker screamed in aggravation, drawing a snicker from Bucky. “Did I?” He smirked, pointing the gun on his head, finger on the trigger until a loud crack echoed in the room. “Oops.” He shrugged seeing the bullet that lodged between Walker’s eyes who now laid dead, blood dripping onto the floor.
Several moments passed before the mobster was able to recollect himself. Yes, this job was violent, yes he knew that sometimes he had to go to the extremes to eliminate any potential threats on his family or his territory, but that didn’t mean he liked it. Steve was the one who found him hunched over the small worn-out desk where guns and smaller knives were strewn. He could see that this whole business was starting to take its toll on his friend. He could think of a way to get him to focus back on the mobster business, but he hated himself, for even daring to think about it, so he dismissed the thought immediately.
“You doin’ okay Buck…?” He asked carefully approaching said man.
“No, but when do I get to be alright?” Barnes replied slipping back to the cold mobster. Empty of any emotion, the brunette just gathered his jacket and disposed of the bloodied instruments of torture. All he wanted right now was to go back to his wife and get lost in her embrace. “I gotta do something first.” He then declared pulling out his phone to snap a picture of the corpse. That was a direct message to Rollins. Maybe he would stand down if he saw one of his top henchmen drowning in a pool of their own blood and disfigured beyond recognition. The message was pretty self-explanatory: “Leave New York or meet the same fate.” And without sparing another glance, he hit send.
“Tell everyone else we’re moving out. We’re done here.” He spoke completely void of emotion, simply wanting to be in Odette’s presence. He had inflicted enough violence and death for one day. Steve only nodded in agreement, watching as his friend walked away, lost in thought. But he couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind right now.
@world-of-aus I'm looking forward to your reactions. 🥰
Bucky Barnes has had many names. A baby. The baby. Our baby. James? James. James Buchanan? James Buchanan Barnes. Bubba. Jimmy. Jim. Bucky. Mr. Barnes. Jerk. Private. Sergeant. Sarge. Soldat. The Asset. Winter Soldier. Bucky? White Panther? White Wolf. Buck. James? Jim? Bucky? James Bucky Barnes.
summary: you and Bucky are the perfect couple , but you can’t get the nerve to tell him a very important thing
You and Bucky had been together for almost a year now and everything was truly amazing.
The two of you met at a congress , one of those balls where everyone wears the most elegant dresses and acted like the queen herself. It was a stupid thing really, a new statue was discovered and now inaugurated in a museum.
He spotted you while he was faking talking with the minister and there you were , most beautiful than the sun a purple satin ball gown , a the most beautiful thing ?
You looked completely out of place just like him. With a glass of Prosecco in one hand , you were the only one in the whole room to look at the statue. He gained the courage to talk to you, he fond out that you were of of the spies sent by the queen of Wakanda , when some tried to put a bomb in the hall you fought side by side.
And there you were , now almost inseparable especially now that you were a part of the Avengers now that king T'Challa was dead. Bucky grew a soft spot on you , he was a very sweet and kind boyfriend.
He made you coffee every morning , took care of you during missions , made sure you were always happy. It wasn't easy for him to open up with someone after all he is been trough , Hydra faked up his mind and it took month for him fully trust you.
But here you were completely and fully in love you couldn't ask for more .... could you?
Yes he was amazing and all but now even after a year of being together he still couldn't fuck you properly and now it was starting to bother you.
''So i was training with Bob and I mean he is getting better but he is still scared of hurting you , you know ? And I told him , Bob come on I'm a black widow you cant hurt me that bad! come o and- y/n are you listening me ? ''
the sound of your name wake you up from your thoughts , Yelena was looking at you with a concerned face
''Yes- sorry Lena I was listening ''
''No you weren't it was like you freezed and that spoon of yogurt mid air is dying of boredom , what is wrong y/n ? is everything ok? ''
''yes yes Lena everything is ok''
''No its not''
''Yes it is''
''No its not''
''Lena-''
''Talk to me , is the Sargent the problem?''
''No Lena everything is fine with Bucky''
''come on y/n , you're like a sister to me you know you can tell me anything''
you take a deep breath, you know she won't live you alone if you don't tell her and you really need to talk with someone about this.
You look behind your shoulder in he kitchen to see if anyone was listening.
''Its about Bucky''
''I KNEW IT''
'' SHH lower your voice!!' you whisper-yell
''sorry , sorry go on''
'' everything is good with him , he is sweet and caring and with what happened to him I fell like shit thinking about this''
''yes but you still didn't tell me the problem''
''when we have sex-''
''ew''
''Lena!''
''yeah sorry''
''when we have sex , he is really sweet and all , but- I need more , I need the passion you know what I mean? We always go slow he treats like I could break any moment. An when try to push him a little he always says that he is scared to hurt me- but in some kind of way I want to get hurt ''
your gaze falls down in shame and you continue to say
''I really feel bad because with all the Hydra stuff I get why he wants to do it like this but I-I ... I don't think I like it anymore...''
Yelena takes your hand in hers
''oh y/n ... but have you tried to talk to him about all of this''
you shake your head and say no. Yelena takes you in a sweet hug. The moment was absolutely ruined by Alexei standing neat the door eating sour cream chips.
You look at him in horror ''how long have you been standing there ?''
''Enough to know the winter soldier cant satisfy his woman , but don't worry back in Russia almost no woman is satisfied, not my women od course-''
''OH COME ON DAD''
''what? its true-''
you lift up from Lena's embrace
''ok ok please Alexei don't say anything to Bucky please...''
''don't worry I will not say a word to the soldier. ''
At the end of the day you were getting ready for bed in your room, that conversation long forgotten , you were exited to try the new body lotion that Bucky gifted you , vanilla and coconut scented , your favorite. Guilt spreads in your chest one more time, how can you be so selfish?
As you finished massaging the lotion you put on just a top and shorts as pjs. Interrupting you thoughts a knock at your door
''come in''
You lift your gaze to meet a very embarrassed Bucky that couldn't meet your eyes , and playing strangely with his hands.
''hey my love , are you alright ? ''
Bucky's eyes don't leave the floor as he closes the door and sits on the bed with you, you grab his hand and search his gaze to look at him in his beautiful eyes. Did he know ?
''I talked with Alexei''
shit. panic starts to rise in you
''I-I Bucky- im sorry I didn't mean to tell me im so sorry its not true I- ''
''Stop it''
words die in your throat
''is it true ? I don't ... uhm make you feel good?''
''Oh love ...I its complicated , you ... you make me feel good I swear , but I need something more my love , I need you-'' you close you eyes , take a deep breath and gain the courage to start talking.
''I need some more passion , Love god I need - I need you to be more violent I need to to make me feel like you cant get enough , that you get rough , anything ... ''
you look down face in your hands feeling like a monster, but Bucky stops you takes your face in his hands
''No love don't you feel bad... no ... you did the right thing . I am your boyfriend , you have to tell me this things. Whit what I have done as the winter soldier hurting you was the last thing I wanted to do , so when it came to make love with you I tried to be the most kind and gentle , but now if you want me to , I can be more...rough I would do anything to make you happy, even if that means rediscovering how to satisfy the woman I love but If I get too much o you want to stop just scream and let me know immediately so I can stop.''
This words made you more aroused than anything.
You kiss him , with so much force that you almost knock him out. Bucky answers with the same eagerness , your kiss now all teeth and tongue and he drags you to lay on the bed his full body on yours
''you smell amazing darling... put on the lotion I bought you? Naughty girl, your smell drives me crazy''
he starts to kiss your neck all the way to your collarbone, your hand in his hair pulling even more when he bites down on your skin
''ah..Bucky..''
he licks the sore spot and drifts lower his face now in your breasts , savoring and biting any bit of skin he can reach. You are in paradise , his smell is making you dizzy his mouth on your body sends shocks everywhere and all of the sudden his metal arm reaches up and in a second rips your top off
''Bucky!!''
he lifts his gaze
''I'll buy you another one''
and he continues to torture your your tits biting slowly at your turgid nipple and toying with the other one with his skilled fingers.
You are already fucked out , he really had this in him?
He lifts up from your hot body , removes his t-shirt and effortlessly makes you turn over and pushes your hips up against his. Your hands reach the pillows to grip something and you can fell him pressed on the inside of your thigh , hot , lightly grinding against you. Another many whimpers falls off your lips and his hands starts to massage your back, from your shoulders ... to your hips...then to the lowest part of your back ,his mouth follows him leaving kisses all over your spine then it happens
SMACK
air gets knocked out from your lungs , the spank now tingling all over your cheek a uncontrollable moan exits
''OH lord , FUCK!!''
''are you alright my love?''
his voice is soft against your ear while his hand massages that spot
''yes...more''
''more? what a dirty dirty girl you are ''
another one hits you , then another on the other cheek , and another ,and another and another...
You are helpless under him moaning like a whore so loud that you are obviously going to wake up someone but right now you couldn't care less.
He stops and tears apart your shorts and panties , you can hear him shuffling his sweatpants off and get behind you on the bed
''buck..''
''yes my love?''
''please...''
his fingers teasing you on your inner thigh close to your pussy but never touching
''please what baby?''
you don't answer , his hand now touching your clit and toying around
''answer me darling ,come on, please what?''
your head foggy you cant help but just moan and push your hips back towards him , but then ...
SMACK
a slap right there on your pussy
'' asked you something dirty girl , but you are already so fucked out that you cant answer me eh? Because you just want to get fucked like a bitch don't you?''
and finishing saying this he enters your body in just a slam of his hips, you feel completely full with him bottoming inside you, he sits still for a minute letting you adjust.
''please move...''
Bucky starts to move his hips slowly at first massaging your inside and when you thought he wouldn't go much far he sort to speed up and slam faster and faster and so much harder you cant help the screams and the rambling of his name you are letting out
'' Bucky.. Bucky ...Bucky!!!''
one hand keep you still by the hips and the other one? Well his other hand starts to slap your clit making your thighs tremble.
''Is this rough enough princess? ''
''yes yes yes yes... god Bucky just like that !!''
The bed is continuing to slam against the wall that you are almost scared to break it, bit you lightly turn around and see his fucked out face looking between your legs were your juices fromed a cream ring at the base of his dick drenching all of his pubic hairs. His torso is all sweaty and glistering by the amber light coming by your bedside lamp he looks so good like this, Adam apple going up and, down lips slightly parted panting and moaning a few strands of hair attached to his neck.
Then you feel , another spank , this time with his metal arm , god it felt so good that you feel your orgasm start to creep in. Your toes start to curl , your moans start to get louder and he can feel you squeezing his dick
and just like that you are coming all over him, spent and sore you hear him moan behind you
''fuck , fuck , fuck''
he gives you another push before coming inside you.
After a minute he removes himself from you and collapses next to you, out of breath
''did you like it my love? I wasn't to harsh was I? ''
''No love you were absolutely perfect''
you kiss him slowly on his lips and curl beside him until you both fall asleep.
The next morning you wake up with a still sleeping Bucky next to you , you take his t-shirt from the floor an another pair of shorts from your wardrobe since yours belonged to the trash now.
You go straight to the kitchen to grab some coffee and when you enter you already fin a smirking Yelena already looking at you
''Good morning y/n slept well ? Or should I say got laid well? ''
''LENA!!''
''What you woke up the whole quarter the least I could do is teasing you!!''
You both start to laugh but then but then you hear Bucky getting in the kitchen so you try to act normal. He gives you a kiss on the head and whispers good morning . He starts to pour some coffee in his mug when an very cheerful Alexei walks in
''Well seems like our soldier finally made his girl cum eh?''
Lets just say that Bucky dropped his mug on the floor.
Summary: Y/N works really hard as a secretary for the Avengers. A little too hard. When Bucky finds out why, he enlists some help from Shuri to help relieve some of Y/N’s stress.
Taglist: @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @sassandscribbles @bartonsparrow25 @highhopes1008 (I’m just using an old taglist from another fic cause I think y’all wanted to be on my general taglist. If not let me know. And if you want in let me know.) @drakelover78 @sclareclipse7 @secretdream2
Series Masterlist Masterlist
Y/N paced Rosie’s bedroom like a madwoman, tearing through every drawer, inspecting fabrics like they had personally offended her. “Mommy,” Rosie sat up on the bed, taking turns rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Why are you throwing my clothes?”
“I’m looking for special clothes,” Y/N explained, now digging through the tiny closet. “We need to look our very best today. AHA!” She exclaimed, triumphantly holding up a mint green dress with puffed sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. It was a handmedown from Mrs. Wen’s oldest granddaughter, meant to clothe Rosie for a couple of Easter egg hunts at least.
Rosie tilted her head, confused. “It’s not Easter.”
“I know,” Y/N retrieved a pair of frilly socks and shiny black Mary Janes. “But it’s still a special day.” She laid the clothes carefully on the end of the bed, walking around to kneel by Rosie’s side. “There’ll be a princess at work today.”
Rosie’s eyes widened. “A real princess?” She gasped.
Y/N nodded. “Princess Shuri of Wakanda. And Bucky said we get to meet her.”
Rosie stared at her, amazed. “Is she the lady with the pretty braids we see on tv?”
“That’s the one.”
“I like her!” Rosie declared. “She’s so smart! I wanna be just like her when I grow up!”
Y/N smoothed Rosie’s bedhead hair tenderly. “I’d love that. But you can’t grow up just yet. First you gotta get dressed.”
Rosie threw off her blanket, scrambling off the bed. She ran to the middle of the room, holding her arm up over her head, signaling she wanted to get dressed. “Hurry up Mommy! I wanna see the princess!”
****
Rosie bounced up and down with excitement, eyes glued to the screen that dictated what floor the elevator was approaching. “Now remember,” Y/N said gently. “We have to be on our very best behavior. Use your manners. And what do you do when you see the princess?”
“I curtsy,” Rosie answered, holding her skirt out and bending her knees.
“Good,” Y/N feigned calm, but her heart was pounding. She’d never met royalty before. What would the princess think of her bringing her daughter to work? Would she think it inappropriate? Was today about to be an exercise in Y/N holding her tongue, biting back her Mama Bear instincts?
The elevator door opened, revealing Bucky in his usual spot, leaning against the wall. “There she is!”Bucky greeted, crouching down to Rosie’s level. “And dressed so pretty!” He moved a strand of Rosie’s hair behind her ear. “What’s my Rosie Posy all dolled up for?”
“The princess!” Rosie replied with a delighted hop.
Bucky peered up at the ceiling, faking ignorance. “Princess? What princess?”
“Bucky!” Rosie nudged him playfully. “Mommy said I can meet Princess Shuri.” Her eyes alternated between staring at him and her mom, a slight pout forming as doubt crept in.
“Oh that Princess!” Bucky said quickly, noticing the disappointed sheen of Rosie’s eyes. He took her hand, offering the other to Y/N, who accepted. “I thought we were talking about you.”
He led them down the hallway, into the common room, where two Wakandan women stood. One of them, donned in a red patterned armor, held a spear. Bodyguard, Y/N deduced. The second was a young girl, barely out of her teenage years, smile bright, braids decorated with colorful beads. “Sergeant Barnes,” she said, accent thick. “I see you are doing well.”
“I am,” Bucky responded. “Thanks to you.”
Shuri nodded in acknowledgement, turning her attention to Y/N. “Y/N I presume? I believe Sergeant Barnes told me you were an assistant.”
“Yes.” Y/N shook her head, correcting herself. “I mean, yes Your Highness.” She curtsied.
Shuri scrunched her nose. “Oh we don’t do that here,” she said as she waved her hands in a dismissive fashion. Her eyes trailed downward to the little girl clinging to Bucky’s hand. Her smile widened as she bent down, giving the child her full attention. “Hi, I’m Shuri. What’s your name?”
“Rosie.” She shyly released Bucky’s hand, remembering to curtsy on wobbly legs.
“What a pretty name,” Shuri complimented. “Sergeant Barnes told me a lot about you.”
“He did?” Rosie asked incredulously.
“Mhmm. He told me that you are a very fearless little girl. That you fight dragons!”
“It wasn’t a dragon!” Rosie laughed. “It was just Mr. Sam playing pretend. I hit him with a pool noddle.”
Shuri chuckled. “Brave girl, I’ve heard Sam can be quite scary.” She stood to her full height, extending her hand out to Rosie. “And because the Sergeant said you were so brave, I’ve brought you a present.”
“A present?”
“Would you like to come see?”
“Yes!”
“Rosalie,” Y/N whispered.
“I mean, yes please Your Highness,” Rosie peered up at Y/N for approval. Y/N shot her a thumbs up.
“You can call me Shuri, and I’ll call you Rosie. Okay?” She moved her fingers in a welcoming gesture, waiting for Rosie to accept.
Rosie wrapped her hand around Shuri’s. “Okay,” she agreed as Shuri led her towards what Y/N knew was the laboratory area.
Y/N took a step forward, but the bodyguard stopped her. Shuri called over her shoulder. “Oh not yet Y/N. I’ll summon you when we’re ready.”
“But-“ Y/N began.
“Your daughter is safe,” the bodyguard said.
“It’s okay,” Bucky assured Y/N. “ Rosie’s in good hands.”
“Oh…..okay…..” Y/N retreated a couple of steps, staring in the direction Rosie went. “I just don’t understand why I couldn’t go with her.”
The bodyguard exchanged a glance with Bucky, the corner of her mouth twitching. Bucky gave a subtle shake of his head in response, but not subtle enough. “Bucky,” Y/N said in a distrusting tone.
“Y/N,” Bucky’s voice mirrored hers.
“You know something don’t you?”
“Me? No. I’m in the dark as much as you are.”
The bodyguard snorted, hiding a giggle behind her hand.
“Ayo!” Bucky whined.
Ayo returned to her sentry like position, face stern. “You are a terrible liar Sergeant.”
“I knew you were in on it!” Y/N exclaimed. “So tell me Ayo, what’s going on?”
“You will find out soon enough,” Ayo answered.
This time, Bucky chuckled. Y/N spun towards him, clearly annoyed. “What?” Bucky asked. “Oh come on, it’s not like she’s giving Rosie a death ray or something. Shuri knows better than that!”
“Considering what happened the last time I let someone take Rosie to the lab-“
“It was just a baking soda volcano,” Bucky interrupted.
“That Tony added extra things to!”
“Bruce and I had it under control.”
“The ‘lava’ was all over the place! Do you know how many cleaning companies Pepper and I had to call before we found one who would take the job?”
Bucky shrank back, defeated. “At least we remembered to put Rosie in PPE though.”
“Bucky, just tell me, what do you-“
Ayo moved suddenly, holding her arm up and level by her face. Light emanated from the beaded bracelet on her wrist, a hologram of Shuri speaking in Wakandan. Ayo gave the princess a curt nod, before answering in the language. She lowered her arm, the light dimmed. “You have been summoned,” Ayo said.
“Thank you,” Y/N said, but as she moved forward, Ayo caught her by the wrist.
“You must wear this,” Ayo held out a piece of fabric, a blindfold.
Y/N scoffed. “A blindfold? To see what you brought my daughter?”
“It’s my idea,” Bucky put himself between the women, accepting the blindfold. “I thought it would make the surprise better.” He lifted the fabric, now folded and ready to tie on. “Trust me?”
Y/N considered for a moment before agreeing. “Okay.”
Bucky stepped behind her, covering her eyes with the blindfold. He carefully moved her hair out of the way of the fabric, swiftly tying a knot. “Too tight?”
“No.” She heard the heavy footfalls of Bucky’s boots as he walked in front of her. Her skin tingled when his hands found hers, pulling her along gently.
“I’ve got you,” Bucky told her, steering her through the building. “Easy. Small steps.” He went slowly, making sure she wouldn’t trip, until pausing for a moment. One of his hands left hers, the sound of Rosie’s laughter and Shuri hushing her hit her ears. “I’m holding the door,” Bucky said. “Don’t worry, just a few more steps, that’s it.” She heard the click of the latch behind her, Bucky releasing her hands, his boots moving away from her. Y/N lifted her hands up. “Not yet!” Bucky called out.
She heard Shuri whisper. “Okay, go Rosie.”
“Mommy!” Rosie yelled, sounding excited. “Oomph!” She launched herself into Y/N’s legs, like she always did.
Y/N gasped, shocked that the familiar sensation felt different. As usual, Rosie’s right arm wrapped around Y/N’s left leg, but this time, there was something engulfing her right leg as well. Y/N’s hand instinctively reached down, feeling around. Rosie giggled as Y/N’s hands patted down her left shoulder, the soft flesh of her stump and then, something hard.
In a flash, Y/N used her other hand to push the blindfold off, a surprised squeal escaping her lips. Rosie peered up at her, grinning, a prosthetic attached to her left stump. “Rosie! Y-you-“
Rosie released Y/N, jumping up and down. “Mommy! I have an arm!” She held up her new left hand, dark metal shining in the light of the lab.
Y/N dropped to her knees, grabbing the prosthetic, eyes wide in amazement at how well articulated the joints were. “Oh my God,” she said breathlessly. “You have-“ she choked on the last word, head popping up, watery eyes staring at Bucky and Shuri. “H-how did-“ she was cut off by her own emotion, tears falling down her cheeks.
Bucky immediately knelt down in front of Y/N, his flesh hand coming up to brush the tears away. “I may have called in a favor,” he said, a soft smile spreading on his face.
“Sergeant Barnes called me,” Shuri explained. “Told me about your daughter and how you were trying to get her a prosthetic. He said you were struggling with the cost.”
“My insurance wouldn’t cover it,” Y/N clarified through her tears, stopping to sniffle. “They said with Rosie being so young she would grow too quickly. They didn’t want to constantly pay for replacements.”
“I figured that was the case.” Shuri made a wide sweeping motion towards the far wall of the lab. “I did some research to determine how quickly a child Rosie’s age grows. There are ten prosthetic arms, including this one. They should last Rosie a couple of years.”
“What?” Y/N asked in disbelief.
“Don’t worry, I made arrangements with Tony,” Bucky interjected. “They’ll be kept safe. Out of harms way of any experiments gone awry.” He joked to lighten the mood.
“If you need repairs or more replacements, you give me a call,” Shuri passed a card with her phone number on it to Y/N. “And now, do you want to see the features?”
“Features?”
Shuri crouched down next to Rosie. “Can you hold your arm out for me?”
“Yeah!” Rosie replied, elated, she had been unusually silent this whole time, staring at the puzzle piece she had wanted for so long. She stuck her arm out straight.
“Now with Rosie being so young, I figured you did not want this to be placed surgically. Straps can cause sores against the skin, which we do not want. I experimented with vibranium-“
“Vibranium?” Y/N repeated, eyes wide.
“What’s that?” Rosie asked.
“It’s what my arm and Steve’s shield are made of,” Bucky said.
Rosie’s eyes widened, matching her mother’s. “Am I strong too now?”
Shuri laughed. “No. The vibranium doesn’t make them strong, the serum does.”
“Serum?”
“I’ll tell you later baby,” Y/N promised.
Shuri took her cue to continue. “When designing Sergeant Barnes’ arm, we learned how to wire to his nervous system via a plate near his shoulder so he could move everything. But Rosie doesn’t have a connector plate. Through many experiments, I figured out that I could make vibranium seek out nerve endings without the plate. Similar to my brother’s armor or Stark’s nanotech. Completely painless. It’s like a magnet, but with the human body. And since it is connected to Rosie’s nerves she can move everything anyway she wants or needs to. Like her fingers.” Shuri mimed playing piano with her fingers, encouraging Rosie to copy her.
Rosie gave her fingers a wiggle, beaming with joy when it worked.
“Ultra durable,” Shuri pressed on. “Safe to bathe with. But, this is not the most important part.” She turned to Rosie, giving her a smile. “Rosie, what’s your favorite color? But don’t say your answer out loud.”
Rosie blinked, once, twice, thinking, when her arm whirred. The blackened purple metal switched to a pastel pink. A trio of gasps filled the room, Bucky, Y/N, and Rosie all at once. “IT’S PINK!” Rosie shouted.
“Whoa,” Bucky said. “That’s so cool!”
“You did that Rosie,” Y/N praised.
“Think of another color,” Shuri encouraged.
“Blue!” Rosie yelled at her arm, which morphed into a perfect primary blue. “Yellow! Red! Uh….brown polka dots! Put purple unicorns on it!” With every request, the arm changed, reflecting her every whim.
“I figured if the arm could change colors, maybe her classmates would think it’s cool. Possibly minimize bullying.” Shuri stood to her full height, expression full of pride.
“This is….” Y/N struggled to find the words as she also rose, wiping at the remnants of her tears with the back of her hand. Gratitude filled her, controlling her movements. Next thing she knew, she was hugging Shuri, breaking whatever semblance of royal protocol that was left in her. “Thank you Princess.”
Shuri returned the hug, giving Y/N’s back a gentle pat. “Do not thank me, thank Sergeant Barnes,” she said, tilting her head towards Bucky as she pulled away. Her bracelet beeped, an alarm she set for herself. “I must go. Some sort of coronation.” She rolled her eyes before bending down again. “It was nice to meet you Rosie, but I have to go now.” Shuri extended her arms. “Can I have a hug?”
“Yeah!” Rosie rushed towards her before pausing, doing an about face. “Mommy?”
“Yes?”
Rosie made a beckoning motion with her finger, prompting Y/N to crouch down. Rosie threw her arms around her neck, kissing her cheek. “I can hug you right now.”
“Yeah baby,” Y/N closed her eyes, attempting to hold back tears as she remembered a day not that long ago when Rosie lamented not having this ability. “You can.”
Rosie broke the embrace, moving to give Shuri her promised hug. “Enjoy your new arm!” Shuri said once it was done, waving as she left the lab.
“Bye bye!” Rosie waved with her left hand. She acknowledged Y/N and Bucky then. “Shuri is really nice.”
“She is,” Y/N agreed.
Bucky mussed Rosie’s hair. “Of course she is. She’s my friend! And haven’t all of my friends been nice to you?”
Rosie nodded vigorously.
“Speaking of,” Y/N faced Bucky. “You really called her?”
“I did,” Bucky confirmed. “I know you said you didn’t want to be a charity case, but, after meeting Rosie, I just had to do something. I couldn’t watch you suffer anymore.” He watched Y/N, bracing himself for any negative reaction. In retrospect, he probably should have spoken with her first.
Instead, Y/N lunged up, her lips meeting his cheek. Rosie let out a loud, astonished puff of air. She squealed, delighted at this new development in her two favorite people’s relationship. Y/N drew back, laughing at Rosie’s reaction as she spoke. “Thank you Bucky.”
“Y-you’re welcome,” Bucky stammered.
Rosie tugged on his shirt. “Bucky?”
“What is it Sweetheart?”
Rosie held her hands up, clearly wanting to be lifted. Bucky scooped her up, upon which Rosie said words that he never expected to hear. “I want my arm to match yours.” Bucky observed, dumbfounded, as her purple unicorn printed arm shifted to a black and gold identical to his. Once the change was complete, she embraced him, also kissing his cheek. “Thank you Bucky.” She put her head on his shoulder, snuggling against him.
Bucky smoothed her hair, holding her tighter. “Anything for you Rosie Posy,” his eyes met Y/N, a happy glint in them, “and your mommy.” He adjusted Rosie, keeping her up with one arm while the other wrapped around Y/N’s shoulders pulling her close to him. “But we’re not done yet, I have another surprise.”
He led them out of the lab, through the common room, and to the elevator. Once inside the car, Bucky removed his arm from around Y/N, pointing to a button that had the label next to it missing. “Press that one.”
Y/N obeyed, waiting patiently as the carriage pulled upward until coasting to a stop. The doors slid open, a chorus of voices shouting at once. “SURPRISE!”
Y/N winced, startled by the cacophony, until she realized what she was looking at. Stepping out of the elevator, she found herself in a spacious living room. A sectional couch separated her from the Avengers, all standing in a semi circle, wearing various party accessories. Above them, tacked to the wall above a giant flat screen tv was a banner. Welcome Home!
“Wha—-what’s all this?” Y/N stammered, glancing around. The room was furnished, everything brand new, and much bigger than her current living room. Hell, her whole apartment could probably fit in just this area.
“It’s your new home,” Bucky announced.
“A new home?” Y/N repeated.
Rosie stared at the space, bewildered. “It’s so big!” She commented.
“Oh this is just the beginning,” Tony said, advancing on the group. He offered Y/N his arm, which she took, as he walked them around the floor. “Big living room, perfect for entertaining. Dining room, brand new mahogany table, richly handcrafted. None of that open concept shit, but still sleek and modern. Kitchen, brand new appliances. Double sinks. Island, a kitchen isn’t a kitchen without an island. Stainless steel for easy cleanup, don’t need sticky jelly hands all over the fridge.” He threw Rosie a pretend glare.
“That wasn’t me!” Rosie protested. “It was Mr. Thor!”
“Little Flower, you swore secrecy!” Thor exclaimed, betrayal in his voice but a smile on his face.
Tony rolled his eyes. “Laundry room,” he continued, showing off a brand new washer and dryer behind a door. A few steps later, he opened another door, revealing a cozy pastel yellow room, full of brand new toys. “Play room. Lots of space for little Rosie.”
Rosie wriggled in Bucky’s arms, clearly wanting to be put down. Bucky had barely set her on the ground before she took off, running straight to a pink Victorian style dollhouse that was slightly taller than her. “A dollhouse!” She jumped up and down. “I’ve never had one before!”
“It’s beautiful,” Y/N said. She had followed Rosie into the room, fingers tracing the scalloped roof of the dollhouse, admiring the level of detail.
“Is it really all for me?” Rosie asked.
“Yes,” Bucky assured her. “All yours.”
Rosie immediately reached for some dolls, holding one out to Bucky. “Play with me?”
Tony accepted the doll instead. “Why don’t we let Bucky show your mom the rest of your new home?”
“Okay.”
As Rosie and Tony settled in, Bucky guided Y/N out the playroom and to another door. “Rosie’s bedroom,” he said, this room a dusty rose pink, with floral decals on the walls. Even more toys filled the room, as well as a bookshelf, all with new books.
“Oh she’ll love this,” Y/N said.
Bucky shut the door, moving on. “Bathroom number one. There’s another in your room. Speaking of.” He turned the knob on another door.
Y/N brought her hands to her mouth in shock. This wasn’t a bedroom, but another mini apartment inside of an apartment. The usual furniture, dressers and nightstands and a mirror filled the room on one side. An old fashioned vanity table was with them, empty trays readily available for Y/N’s toiletries. A large oval mirror was attached to it, reflecting Bucky and Y/N. On the other side of the room was a wall of bookshelves. Two seating options occupied this area. A window seat, much like the one in Rosie’s bedroom from her current apartment, and a long couch, perfect for Y/N to lie out and stretch. In the middle of the room, perfectly dividing the two halves, was a king size bed.
Y/N spun around, staring at Bucky, as if blinking would make this all disappear. “Is this really mine?” She asked, voice trembling.
Bucky approached her, putting his hands on the sides of her shoulders, rubbing soothing patterns. “I’m sorry it took so long. Getting the approval from Stark was easy, but working with him on the design?” He puffed out an annoyed sigh. “You know Stark, everything has to be high end. Steve finally convinced him to step back, only focus on appliances. I took care of the furniture, cookware, curtains, anything you need. Natasha and Wanda handled Rosie’s bedroom. I told Clint to let his kids loose in the toy store. And everyone else was on move in duty.” He glanced around, pleased with the result. “Do you like it?”
“Bucky I love it, but I can’t afford to-“
“Nuh uh, don’t start,” Bucky interrupted. “This place is rent free.”
Y/N gawked at him. “Rent free?” She squeaked.
Bucky nodded, his right hand sliding up to cup her cheek. “I didn’t just want to give you a bigger home,” he said. “I wanted to give you your freedom. No rent. Prosthetics for Rosie. No need to commute to work, especially with the price of gas in this economy.”
“Tell me about it,” Y/N joked.
Bucky tilted her head up, forcing her to make eye contact with him. “Your money is yours. Buy the fancy wine. Fill your bookshelf. Get that nice purse you’ve been eyeing, the perfume you once wore. Go on vacation. Take Rosie to DisneyWorld. Financial freedom, because we all know damn well that you deserve it.”
Y/N’s vision blurred, her lips quivered. “Bucky, I—-I—“ the dam broke, Y/N sobbing happily. Bucky tugged her close, holding her through it. Y/N clung to his shirt, the weight she had carried for nearly five years lifting off her shoulders. She cried until there was nothing left. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“I have one more surprise,” Bucky said.
Y/N’s head popped up, “I don’t know if I can take another one!” She exclaimed as she wiped her eyes.
Bucky laughed, “Well I think you already know what it is.”
“And what’s that?”
Bucky’s expression grew fond and warm. “That I love you. I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you at that coffee shop.”
Y/N’s eyes became dewy again. “How many times are you gonna make me cry in one day?” She asked, giving him a playful shove. “Me too,” she admitted. “Since the coffee shop, I mean, I love you too.”
Bucky closed the gap between them, capturing her lips in a kiss as she placed her arms around his neck, bringing him closer. The kiss they shared the night before had been tender, gentle. But this one was passionate, full of all the things that went unsaid between them for months, the promises of the future before them.
Neither of them noticed the gaggle of Avengers gathered at the door, all of them watching with smiles on their faces.
“Mr. Tony?” Rosie, who was being carried by him, queried.
“Yeah kiddo?” Tony replied.
“Does this mean I have a Daddy now?”
Sam chuckled, earning him a smacks from Natasha and Steve.
“Not yet, kid,” Tony answered, cocking his head towards the still kissing couple. “But you will soon.”
Make sure to check out the bonus chapter/epilogue here! (Aka read a chapter get a chapter free! Lol)
Tony Delivers Karma (Aka A Helping Hand: Bucky Barnes x Reader Epilogue)
Summary: Y/N works really hard as a secretary for the Avengers. A little too hard. When Bucky finds out why, he enlists some help from Shuri to help relieve some of Y/N’s stress.
Taglist: @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @sassandscribbles @bartonsparrow25 @highhopes1008 (I’m just using an old taglist from another fic cause I think y’all wanted to be on my general taglist. If not let me know. And if you want in let me know.) @drakelover78 @sclareclipse7 @secretdream2
Series Masterlist, Masterlist
It’s a two for one special! Two chapters in a day! If you liked this and wanna be on the taglist of my next fic drop a comment. Thank y’all for reading and supporting my little fic writing hobby! 🥰
One Year Later
Tony Stark was a rash man; hell “Impulsive” was practically his middle name. A significant chunk of his life had been a series of fuck ups he didn’t think through, accompanied by physical and social fallout he had to clean up. When the Avengers came to be, he initially was annoyed. He didn’t need a team, didn’t want anyone to tell him what to do. He’s Tony Stark, one of the richest men in the world, he could do whatever he wants. Over time he realized he needed the team, they reeled him in before he could cause too much damage.
But most of all, Pepper needed them, cause if she was the only one to deal with Tony’s bullshit any longer, she would’ve found herself in either an early grave or a jail cell for finally killing him.
Sometimes though, the urge to start some shit became too strong.
He noticed it months ago. As he attempted to schedule an event at his alma mater, MIT, his calendar app popped up with a message. Conflicts with another event, it said, highlighting a block of text within the square for the day. Fuckwad-DuBois Wedding. “Fuckwad?” Tony asked himself. “Who would I be calling a fuckwad, except I dunno, maybe Steve.” He clicked on the event, taking note of the author. Created by Y/N Y/L/N. “Wow Y/N, didn’t even know that was in your vocabulary.” His screen flashed, making him blink. When he recovered, he saw that the event was now titled Harrington-DuBois Wedding showing that Y/N edited it five seconds ago.
Tony thought back to the invitation he received recently from some so called friends he had amongst New York’s elite. You’re cordially invited to the wedding of Jace Harrington and Genevieve DuBois, he remembered the scrawling looped text on the cardstock. As with most of his thought processes, Tony spoke to himself. “Now why would Y/N call Jace Harrington a fuck….wad……” he trailed off as he registered a flash in his peripheral. He turned his head, seeing a little girl in a blue Care Bear shirt squealing with delight as Wanda lifted her up with her magic, gently pulling the child through the air with tendrils of red smoke.
“Oh shit.”
That evening, he found Bucky with Steve and Sam in the gym, bench pressing as he discussed some sports game with them. “Rogers, Wilson, out!” Tony commanded. “I need to speak with Barnes, alone.”
Steve adjusted his position, crossing his arms and staring Tony down like a predator. “Tony-“
“I’m not gonna fight him,” Tony said sarcastically, throwing his thumb behind him to motion at the door. “Out!”
Steve and Sam raised their eyebrows quizzically before ultimately deciding to leave. Bucky in the meantime paid Tony no mind, continuing to lift the weight. “What is it Stark?” He asked.
In a strategic move, Tony stood over him, making sure he could see Bucky’s face clearly. “What do you know about Jace Harrington?”
Bucky’s arms faltered for a brief second, before recovering. “I—I don’t know who that is,” he replied.
“Okay let me rephrase that. What do you know about Jace Harrington’s past relationship with Y/N?”
The weight slipped out of Bucky’s hands, dropping right on his chest. Bucky let out a pained grunt, quickly shoving the weight off to the side. He sat up just as fast, rubbing his pectorals. “Goddammit Stark!”
“And that’s what I needed to know,” Tony gloated.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah but based off of how you nearly killed yourself just now I can safely assume that Jace is Rosie’s father. Right?”
Bucky glowered at him, angry that he had given the answer away.
Tony moved to sit on a bench across from him. “So, what happened?”
“I’m not telling you that,” Bucky declared with a shake of his head. “Y/N decided to trust me and I’m gonna honor that. At least as much as I can now.” He glared daggers at Tony.
Tony held his hands up in defeat. “I promise, I won’t say anything to anyone else. Or Y/N for that matter. Once we leave this room this conversation never happened.”
Bucky sighed, exasperated, as he rose. He began removing athletic tape from his hands. “I can’t give you details, just know that he really hurt her okay?”
Tony’s eyes flickered over to Bucky’s left arm, a theory immediately forming in his head. “Okay.”
Bucky gave him a curt nod, turning to exit the gym. “This never happened.”
“Right,” Tony said, pulling out his phone and immediately starting up a program to hack into hospital records across the city. “Never happened.”
****
Patience is a virtue, and from time to time Tony could be a virtuous man. He waited months, like a demented Sherlock Holmes, secretly gathering information in morally dubious ways. He hesitated in front of the door, wondering if he should get involved. His brain flashed back to the day the team had met Rosie, Y/N’s panicked reaction as her mind spiraled when she assumed she was fired. Tony understood her more in that moment, the strain of doing it all on her own with little help or cash in her pocket. No, he had to do this, even if it meant Barnes would beat the tar out of him later. Clearing his throat, he knocked on the door labelled Bridal Suite.
An elderly woman opened the door, expression surprised. “Monsieur Stark!” She exclaimed, French accent subtle, acclimated to decades in the States.
“Veronique!” Tony used his signature playboy charms, taking the woman’s hand and giving it a kiss. “You’re looking beautiful as ever.”
Veronique waved him off playfully.
“Grand-mére,” a younger, American accented voice called out. “Who is it?”
“C’est Tony,” Veronique spoke in French before cringing and correcting herself. “It’s Tony Stark!”
“Oh? Uh, I guess you can let him in.”
Veronique stepped aside, allowing Tony access to the room. Several women in chic Tiffany blue dresses milled about, all donned in an obscene amount of jewels. In the center of the group was the blushing bride, an obscenely poofy, ornately detailed white gown billowing out with every movement she made. “Hello Mr. Stark,” she said, flashing her perfect white teeth in a smile despite the edge in her voice.
“Genevieve,” Tony acknowledged her. “You look lovely. What is that? Custom Prada? Gucci? Armani?
Genevieve tossed her flawless curls over her shoulder, turning her nose up snootily. “Dior,” she huffed.
“Ah yes, my mistake.” Tony plopped himself down on the white velvet cushion in front of a dressing table clearly meant for Genevieve based on the multiple gasps he heard. “Us men know nothing about fashion.”
Genevieve’s jaw dropped, amazed at the audacity. She placed her hands on her hips haughtily, staring him down. “May I have a couple of minutes alone with Mr. Stark?” She asked, voice like poisoned honey.
The bridal party immediately shuffled out of the room, no questions asked.
Genevieve crossed her arms. “Who the hell do you think you are?” She asked. “Just cause you ruined my parents’ relationship, doesn’t mean you get to ruin my wedding day.”
Your mom threw herself at me and your fiancé was dumb enough to send me an invitation. Tony rose from the seat, unfazed by her attitude. “You actually invited me in. And as for who I think I am,” he paused, pulling a rolled up packet out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He shoved the paper at her. “I’m the guy who is saving you thousands of dollars in divorce proceedings.”
“Divorce proceedings?” Genevieve queried, breaking eye contact briefly to look at the paper. “What for?”
Tony shook the packet in front of her face. “See for yourself.”
Genevieve reached out tentatively, unsure for a brief moment. Curiosity got the best of her, she snatched the packet, flipping it open to reveal a photo of Jace at a college party, his arm slung around another girl. A black bar covered her face, keeping her anonymous. Genevieve’s brow furrowed, Tony could practically see the doubt creeping in. “W-who-who is this?” She stammered.
“A friend of mine,” Tony replied. “Great girl. Hardworking. Kind. Could’ve been great if a certain someone had kept his dick in his pants instead of ruining her chances at finishing college.”
“Wait, what?” Genevieve exclaimed. “Did you say college?”
“Yeah, that’s Jace’s girlfriend from college.”
Genevieve let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, I was his girlfriend in college.”
“So you think.”
Genevieve shook her head. “No. No. Jace and I were dating for,” she checked the date on the photo. “At least two maybe three years at….I mean….we met in high school!”
“You may have been dating Jace, but Jace was dating her, if you catch my drift.”
Genevieve took a step backwards, nearly tripping on her dress. She caught herself on the dressing table, breathing heavily. “That son of a-“
“But wait,” Tony interrupted, tilting his head towards the packet. “There’s more!”
Genevieve angrily turned the page, wincing from the papercut she gave herself. Her eyes widened as she studied the next picture, a zoomed in (to hide her lack of an arm) photo of a little girl, another black bar concealing her identity. A choked sound escaped her lips, she swiped at her eyes, dewy but not overflowing quite yet. “Why is there a little girl here?”
Now Tony felt a little bad, but still it needed to be done. “You know why.”
Genevieve’s hands trembled, her mascaraed eyes blinking quickly in time with her quivering lips. “Just tell me.”
Tony sighed, now he felt really bad. “That, is my friend’s daughter,” he explained, turning the page for her, revealing paternity test results, names of everyone but Jace redacted. “Jace’s daughter.”
Genevieve dropped the packet, opting to use her hands to steady herself against the table, inching her way across until she could toss herself onto the seat. “Jace had an affair. He has a baby,” she said, stunned.
“I hate to say this,” Tony started, retrieving the papers and showing her the next piece of evidence. “But from his perspective, he was having an affair with you.”
Genevieve’s face paled as she read Jace’s years old texts to the other woman. One in particular brought color back into her face, a bright crimson.
Jace: I think we should look at engagement rings this weekend. After we look for baby clothes.
Redacted: Sounds great.
Jace: Love you (soon to be) wifey
Redacted: Gotta go, doctor’s here.
“Wait, if he was gonna marry her, what happened?” Genevieve interrogated.
“The baby had a birth defect,” Tony chose his words carefully, telling the truth while also keeping their identities secret. “Jace demanded the paternity test because of it.”
“So, he broke up with her because their little girl wasn’t perfect?”
“Oh he more than broke up with her.” Tony moved to the next page, a copy of a case file he had stolen from the laptop of one Alexis Wen-Lopez, Family Attorney, without her knowledge. Genevieve gasped, hands flying to her mouth as she read Alexis’ notes on how her client and Jace broke up.
“He made them homeless,” she whispered. “What the f-“
Knocking on the door cut her off, Veronique’s voice calling from the other side of the door. “Five minutes.”
“Be out in a moment,” Genevieve answered. Her face shifted, devastated one second to full of rage the next. “Mind if I keep this?” She asked, taking the packet.
Tony smirked. “Go ahead.”
Less than ten minutes later, Tony found himself biting his cheek, hiding behind a gigantic floral arrangement in the back row, trying to contain his laughter.
There was no bridal march, no bridesmaids and groomsmen before the bride. Instead the bride threw the doors open, marching down the aisle, like an angry bull. “EVERYBODY OUT!” She screamed at the top of her lungs.
Her father trailed behind her, struggling to keep up. “Gigi calm down!”
“DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!” She shoved her father away. She glared at the guests, none of whom had moved. “I SAID GET OUT! DO NOT MAKE ME SAY IT AGAIN! WEDDING’S CANCELLED!”
Guest took her seriously this time, hundreds of people scrambling out of their seats and out of the room. Jace, at the altar, tried to sneak out with them, but Genevieve jabbed her finger in his direction. “NOT YOU JACE HARRINGTON! I HAVE SOME CHOICE WORDS FOR YOU!”
Jace gulped, frozen in place. Genevieve waited until everyone left before storming up to Jace, giving him a harsh smack Tony heard from his spot. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” Genevieve shrieked.
“OW!” Jace exclaimed holding his cheek. “Gigi what the hell?”
“YOU CHEATED ON ME IN COLLEGE?”
All the color drained from Jace’s face. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb Jace! I have the evidence!” Genevieve tossed the packet at him.
Tony wished he had brought more of his tech with him, maybe stolen Sam’s drone so he could zoom in and watch Jace’s expressions as he realized his perfect princely life was falling apart.
“W-where di-did you-“
“No. Nuh uh, you don’t ask the questions. You answer them! You really thought you could cheat on me, have a secret daughter, and I wouldn’t-“
“She’s not my daughter!”
“THERE’S A FUCKING PATERNITY TEST RIGHT THERE OR ARE YOU ILLITERATE AS WELL?”
Jace extended his hand, reaching out to cup her face. “Gigi please!”
Gigi pushed him away, stomped on his foot. “IT’S OVER!” She bellowed, yanking her engagement ring off and throwing it in his face. Then she spun on her heel, head held high, leaving the life she thought she had with him behind.
Jace gawked at the evidence before him. “How the hell did she get this?” He asked himself.
“Oh I know,” Tony answered, stepping out of the shadows. He strode up to Jace casually, as if he had nothing to do with this.
Jace’s brow furrowed. “Tony Stark? What the hell does this have to do with you?”
“Nothing really,” Tony shrugged. “Except I dunno, that Y/N is a good friend of mine.”
Jace scowled. “Vengeful bitch.”
Tony snatched him up by the tie, getting in his face. “Don’t you dare call her that,” he growled, as Jace cowered. “She has nothing to do with this. This is all me.” He released him with a harsh push.
Jace stumbled. “How do you know her?”
“She’s my assistant,” Tony clarified. “And I watched her work herself to the bone but couldn’t figure out why. Then I met Rosie.”
“Oh so she still has that little fr-“
“Say it,” Tony interjected. “I dare you.”
Jace shut his mouth.
“Rosie is such a sweet little girl,” Tony continued. “All of us at the tower just adore her. And we all want the best for her, which is why I’m here.” He pulled out another packet, this time with a pen. “Sign this.”
Jace leaned forward to read the paper. “I don’t need to sign this,” he said. “I’m not on her birth certificate.”
“But there are medical records showing you as the father,” Tony said.
“I’m not her fa-“
A flash of blue light streaked by Jace, hitting the wall with a loud boom. Pieces of wall, wedding decor, and flower petals fell around him. Tony held his arm out, a circular repulsor on the palm of his hand, hot and smoking. “Sign the damn paperwork Harrington,” Tony snarled, aiming the repulsor just below Jace’s waist, right at his most precious body part. “Or I will shoot again, and I won’t miss this time.”
Jace sniveled, scooping up the pen and paper and signing his parental rights away. He handed the paper back to Tony, quaking with fear. “Good,” Tony said cooly, folding it up and returning it to his pocket. He advanced on Jace, asserting dominance. “If you ever think about going after Y/N, I will personally make your life a living hell. I’m a very powerful man Jace, with very powerful friends. You’ve already crossed me and another Avenger. And trust me, I was the better option.”
“W-who was the other one?” Jace queried.
“The Winter Soldier.”
Tony heard a tinkle, he glanced down, grinning manically at Jace’s wet pants, the puddle on the floor below him. “Yeah. You are one lucky son of a bitch.”
He turned, preparing to take his leave. “Oh and one last thing.”
“Wh-“
Jace never finished his question; Tony’s fist met his face, and his face met the piss on the floor.
****
Bucky sat on the bench, keeping watch over Rosie. She dashed around the playground with a group of children, all running away from the little boy they had declared It. Rosie hopped up onto a ladder to narrowly avoid getting tagged. With her metal hand, she reached down, helping another boy climb up. He gladly took her hand, commenting on how cool it was. For now it was rainbow, but Bucky knew the moment she’d leave her friends, she’d switch it to her favorite setting; black and gold, like his.
Someone yawned next to him, settling in close, too close.
“Stark,” Bucky greeted, eyes glued to Rosie. “What did you do?”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Why do you always assume I did something?”
“Stark,” Bucky warned.
Tony took a cursory look around. “Where’s Y/N?”
“Over there,” Bucky said, motioning with his head. Tony saw her then, sitting on another bench with two Asian women, one older, one her age. The younger woman held a tiny baby boy. Y/N played peek-a-boo with him, her engagement ring glimmering in the sunlight with each movement. “Talking to Mrs. Wen about her new grandson.”
“Good,” Tony said, shifting in his seat. “She doesn’t need to know then.” He handed Bucky a folded piece of paper.
“Watch Rosie,” Bucky instructed so he could take a look. He refolded the paper quickly, spinning and facing Tony with shock. “How the hell did you get this?”
Tony adjusted his jacket smugly. “I delivered some karma that’s all.”
“Stark” Bucky hissed.
“Relax Barnes. I made sure to keep them out of it. Redacted names. Black bars on photos. Made it clear I was acting on my own, they had nothing to do with it. Ruined his wedding, and then I punched him.”
“Better you than me,” Bucky commented. “But I still don’t like it.”
“Look, didn’t you say Y/N was concerned the judge wouldn’t approve the adoption?”
“Yeah.”
“Well now he can approve it. Just take it to the judge, she doesn’t need to know. “
Bucky exhaled, defeated, shoving the paper into his pocket. Tony meant well, but he still didn’t like it.
The two of them observed the children. “So, next week huh?” Tony asked. “ How do you feel?”
“Nervous,” Bucky admitted. “But ready. It seems like I’ve waited for them my whole life.”
Tony stuck his tongue out in mock disgust. “Gross.”
*****
Natasha set the veil upon Y/N’s head, adjusting strands of hair, making everything perfect. “Barnes is so gonna cry,” she said, twisting Y/N around so she could see herself in the full mirror.
Y/N gasped, amazed at how beautiful she looked. The crisp white a-line dress with lace details fit like a glove. Natasha styled her hair, pining it up but leaving some loose face framing pieces in waves. Simple makeup adorned her face. The veil practically moved in wisps behind her as she moved, admiring every detail. She had always wanted a dress like this, but felt it would always stay relegated to her dreams. But now, after years of longing, her dreams would come true.
Rosie hopped out of her chair, causing Wanda to drop the flower crown she was supposed to put upon Rosie’s head. “Mommy, you look like a princess!” She exclaimed, gazing up at her mother in awe.
Y/N giggled, crouching down and motioning for Wanda to give her the flower crown. “So do you Rosie,” she complimented, putting the accessory on. “See?” She turned Rosie towards the mirror, giving her a side hug. “We’re both pretty princesses.”
Pepper rushed into the room, clipboard in hand. “Alright places people!”
Natasha and Wanda scattered, heading towards their seats in the crowd, leaving Y/N and Rosie alone, waiting for Pepper to give them their cue.
“Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have a wedding?”
“Of course you can, when you’re older.”
“No I mean now.”
“Now?”
“After this Bucky is your husband, and my step-daddy. But I don’t want a step-daddy, I want a real daddy. How do you do a wedding to get a real Daddy?”
Y/N giggled in spite of herself, Rosie cocking her head to the side confused.
Pepper returned, giving them their cue.
Y/N handed Rosie her basket, guiding her out of the room and towards the aisle. “You’ll see in a bit.”
They stepped out into the aisle, Rosie tossing flower petals on the floor with glee. Y/N practically floated, ignoring the faces of the guests. She focused on Bucky, who stood elevated at the end in his suit. Natasha’s snide giggles filled her ears as she noticed tears falling down Bucky’s cheeks, Bucky wiped his eyes, beaming when they reached the end of the aisle. “My girls,” he said fondly, helping them up on the altar.
Steve began the ceremony, reading off the usual bits. Vows were said, rings were exchanged. And then the long awaited part. “I now pronounce you husband and wife, but we aren’t done yet,” he declared. “We have another reason to celebrate today.”
Steve turned towards a guest in the front row. “We have a judge here today to make sure all the paperwork regarding the marriage and this event are done correctly.” Then he focused on Rosie. “James is not just gaining a wife today. He has made the decision to adopt Rosalie.”
Rosie tugged on Y/N’s dress. “Mommy what’s ‘doption?”
Y/N looked down, a warm smile on her face. “You know how you asked how do you do a wedding to get a real daddy?”
“Yeah.”
“You do it through adoption.”
Rosie’s jaw dropped. “Bucky’s gonna be my Daddy?”
Bucky chuckled, crouching down to her level. “Yes I am,” he said, “if you want me to be.” He offered her his hands, that way they could mimic the vows he had just made to her mother.
Instead, Rosie burst into tears. The guests watched concerned as the little girl cried, Y/N and Bucky rushing to console her. “Rosie, baby,” Y/N soothed, lowering herself to be at her daughter’s level. “What’s wrong?”
“Did I do something wrong?” Bucky asked.
Rosie dashed forward, throwing her arms around his neck. She gave his cheek a wet kiss. “I’m happy!” She sobbed, attempting to explain herself.
“Happy?” Bucky repeated, grabbing the handkerchief in his pocket.
“Mhmm,” Rosie nodded as Bucky pulled back, using the cloth to dry her eyes. “I wished for you.”
He knew she did, but he acted ignorant to make it more special for her. “You did?”
“I wished you’d be my Daddy cause I love you. And Mommy needed help. Daddys help Mommys don’t they? Cause they love them right? And I wanted you to love my mommy too.”
Bucky scooped her up, standing to his full height. Adjusting Rosie to one arm, he reached out for Y/N, bringing the three of them together. “Rosie,” he said gently, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “You and your mommy are my entire world. I love both of you very much. I know it was just the two of you for so long and you had to adjust to having me in your life, but I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. I will spend everyday making sure I am the best Daddy I can be. I’ll teach you everything I know, I’ll love and care for you, I’ll wear all the pink boas and nail polish and drink all the tea because you asked me too.” He scrunched his nose, earning a giggle from Rosie.
Y/N, put her hand on Rosie’s arm, gazing at her lovingly. “What do you say Rosie?” She asked. “Can Bucky be your dad?”
“Yes!” Rosie shouted in joy.
Steve glanced over at the judge in the front row, who gave him a thumbs up. Clearing his throat, he made the official announcement. “I now pronounce you the Barnes family! James, you may now……kiss your family I guess?”
Too late, Bucky and Y/N had already locked themselves in a kiss as Rosie let out an elated giggle, throwing her arms around them both.
****
Rosie couldn’t sleep, she was too happy. Y/N and Bucky had expected her to pass out during the reception, but she willed herself to stay awake, taking in everything. And now here she was, well past midnight, yawning as Y/N changed her into some pajamas. “I have a Mommy and a Daddy,” she sang as she lay down in bed.
“Yeah you do,” Y/N answered, stroking Rosie’s cheek lovingly.
“You don’t have to wish anymore,” Bucky said, passing her her beloved Paddington bear.
Rosie cuddled the bear with her flesh arm, reaching out with her metal to pat Bucky’s hand. “Now I can say my Daddy gave me him,” she bragged sleepily.
“Do you want a story tonight?” Y/N asked, plugging in the nightlight.
Y/N smiled, finding her eagerness to go to bed funny. She leaned down, kissing Rosie’s forehead. “Night Rosie.”
Bucky did one last tuck of the blanket, making sure she was snug before he kissed her in the same spot as Y/N. “Goodnight Sweetheart.”
The two of them crossed the room, Bucky turning off the main light. They had just walked the hallway when Rosie spoke. “Mommy? Daddy?”
Bucky hesitated to close the door, seeing her form roll over to face them. “Yes Sweetheart?”
“If I had two wishes come true, am I allowed to have a third one?”
“Yes Rosie,” Y/N answered. “People get new wishes all the time.”
“Can I still make one without a star?”
“You can make wishes anytime you want,” Bucky clarified.
“Okay. Goodnight. Love you.”
“Love you too!” They both said.
As Bucky went to shut the door, they both caught Rosie’s wish.
“Now that I have a Mommy and Daddy, can I get a little brother?”
Bucky and Y/N froze, staring at each other for a long moment.
“I don’t know,” Bucky said to no one in particular. “How soon do you think that’d be?”
Y/N smirked, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him a kiss. “A lot sooner than you think.”
Bucky picked her up, causing her to bite back a squeal. “You heard our daughter,” he said, jogging to their bedroom. “We gotta go make her wish come true!”
Hii! I’ not entirely sure how to make req, but if its here,, id like to req a smit bucky fic— like imagine he’s js so into sneaking around with u in the tower!! size and breeding kink go brr i feel like thats so him. sneaking around w him and praying you dont get caught even when everyone else is already making smart comments ab ygs :3 🎠
. ୨୧ ݁ ꒰ 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 ⊹ . bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.
𝔀arnings 18+ : explicit smut, no use of y/n, size kink, heavy breeding kink, semi-public sex/risk of getting caught, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, possessive dirty talk
𝓪uthor’s 𝓷ote : I LOOOVED THIS REQUEST!!! it was so much fun to write!!!!
The Tower was never truly quiet. Even at 2 am, faint hums from the labs, distant laughter from the common room, and the occasional clink of Steve’s shield being polished somewhere down the hall kept everything on edge. But that didn’t stop Bucky.
He had you pinned against the cool metal wall of the service stairwell on the twenty-third floor, one large hand clamped over your mouth while the other shoved your leggings down just enough. His breath was hot against your ear.
“Quiet, doll,” he growled, voice low and rough like gravel. “You know what happens if they hear us.”
You nodded frantically, heart hammering. The team had been dropping hints for weeks, Tony’s smirks, Nat’s knowing eyebrow raises, Sam’s not-so-subtle “get a room… or don’t, we all know you won’t” comments. But Bucky loved the risk. Loved dragging you into elevators between floors, fucking you stupid in supply closets, bending you over in the gym at dawn before anyone woke up. It all made him feral.
His metal fingers flexed on your hip as he freed himself from his sweatpants. God, he was huge, thick, heavy, the flushed head already leaking as it nudged against your soaked folds. Every time he pushed in, it felt like he was splitting you open in the best way.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed, sinking the first few inches in slow. Your eyes rolled back, a muffled whimper vibrating against his palm. “That’s it… take it. Take every fucking inch like you were made for me.”
You were dripping down your thighs already, legs shaking as he worked deeper. He bottomed out with a grunt, hips flush against your ass, stretching you so full you could barely breathe.
Bucky’s voice dropped even lower, filthy right against your ear. “Gonna fill this pretty pussy up. Breed you right here where anyone could walk in. You want that? Want me to pump you so full it leaks out for days? Want my baby growing in you while you try to act normal around the team?”
You clenched hard around him at his words, nodding desperately. The breeding talk always destroyed you. He knew it. He lived for it.
He started moving, deep punishing thrusts that made your toes curl. The wet slap of skin was obscenely loud in the stairwell, but he didn’t care. One hand stayed over your mouth, the other slid down to press on your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock moving inside you.
“Feel that? That’s me, doll. Ruining you for anyone else. Gonna breed you so deep you’ll be swollen with it. Walking around with my cum dripping down your legs while Steve asks you about mission reports.”
A door opened somewhere above you. Footsteps. Voices. Sam and Clint, arguing about pizza toppings. Bucky froze balls-deep, grinding slow and dirty, his hand tightening over your mouth as your eyes widened in panic.
“Shhh,” he breathed, lips brushing your neck. He rolled his hips in tiny circles, pressing right against that spot that made you see stars. “Don’t you dare make a sound while they’re right there.”
The footsteps faded. As soon as the door clicked shut again, Bucky lost it. He fucked you hard, fast, brutal strokes, metal arm wrapped around your waist to hold you up as your knees gave out.
“Such a good little slut for me,” he panted. “Taking my cock while the team’s wandering around. Gonna cum so deep in you. Knock you up right here.”
You came first, biting his palm to stay quiet, pussy fluttering and squeezing around his massive length. Bucky followed with a choked groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded you, rope after rope until you felt impossibly full, some already leaking out around where he stretched you.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, rocking gently, pushing his release deeper.
“Mine,” he whispered, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple. “All fucking mine.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before he was pulling your leggings back up, smirking at the way you wobbled.
“Better fix your face before we go back out there, doll. Can’t have them knowing I just bred my girl in the stairwell… again.”
As you stepped out onto the floor together, trying to look casual, Tony’s voice drifted from the couch without even looking up.
“Stairwell this time? Bold choice, Barnes. The vents are getting jealous.”
Bucky just grinned, metal hand possessively on your lower back, already thinking about round two in the elevator.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you've got a no good boyfreind. lucky bucky's here, to show you what you deserve✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, cheating (not by bucky, it's deserved) fluff, big porn level smut (stripping, finger sucking, dirty talk, possessive sex, praise kink, teasing, fingering, light brat taming, softdom!bucky, pussy spanking, dumbification, making out, sensitive reader, manhandling, bucky gets nasty, blowjobs, body worship, oral f!reciving overstimulation, mean!bucky, degradation kink, big dick bucky, creampie, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦Author's Note: request! oh to be yearned after by bucky barnes in a kinda toxic but really hot way✦
“What the fuck is his problem?”
You don’t have to look, to figure out who your boyfriend is talking about. You can feel his glare from across the room, burning over your skin like a brand, making your leg bounce and your fingers pick restlessly at the label on your drink.
Bucky Barnes.
He always stares at you. It doesn’t matter if you’re hanging out at Steve’s place—technically Bucky’s place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about that—or getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to kill you. It’s the kind of stare you’d find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, you’re determined to ignore it. Ignore him.
Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, he’s not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.
Maybe one look.
One look that Brock didn’t have to see, because he’s always accusing you and Bucky of having something. You’ve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.
“Barnes wants to fuck you,” he’d muttered last week, after you got home, and you’d rolled your eyes.
“Bucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-“
“Because he wants to fuck you,” Brock has snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around him alone.”
You’d scoffed. “That’s- We’re friends-“
“Thought he hated you-“
“He does. But- It’s complicated.”
And it was. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steve’s actual girlfriend, and Bucky’s work wife, and Sam was Bucky’s other best friend and work husband, and your best friend—you’d even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept of—and Steve’s business partner, which made him your boss, but you Nat’s and Bucky’s boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you weren’t, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.
Bucky wasn’t a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, you’d just stared at each other for—according to Natasha—five straight minutes. Once you’d been at some stupid charity gala, and you’d spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. You’d thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that could’ve been something more, if he’d asked you to be.
But he hadn’t. He never had. And you’d started to butt heads more, and he didn’t ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didn’t ask your opinion about small things. He didn’t wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadn’t been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.
Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought you’d been good. You’d really thought you’d been good, and then he’d just gone and decided that you weren’t. That there was something about you he just couldn’t stand, and you never get to know what it was.
So if he wanted to play the hating game, you’d play it, and you’d win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.
“You look comfortable,” he’d muttered last week at Nat’s, and you’d shot him a glare.
Bucky’s mouth had twitched, as you’d just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.
“No boyfriend tonight, huh?” He’d smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. “What, he off fucking strippers again?”
Your lip had curled. You’d just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.
“Don’t give me that look, doll. It’s not your fault you can’t keep him satisfied-“
“I keep him satisfied,” you’d snapped, your patience finally fraying.
And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.
“I bet you do,” he’d muttered, and you’d snapped.
“At least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,” you’d hissed. “No one can even put up with you for a one night stand.”
Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.
But your body hadn’t learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like he’d almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like he’d cared at all, that you’d struck back.
He didn’t. You reminded yourself that he didn’t. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.
You’d been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. He’d recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, you’ll tell your therapist. You’re really hoping the love just dies first. It’s humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.
Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didn’t fight him, because fights with Brock aren’t something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. He’d gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and you’d been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. He’d been a tight fight, and the love you’d felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but you’d just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So you’d finally just… given in.
It’s not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry you’re going to marry him and have his babies, and he’d make such ugly babies. You don’t want them. You don’t really see another way.
You wouldn’t mind having Bucky’s babies. That’s not a very productive thought to have.
“He always stare this much?” Brock asks, and you shrug.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Yeah?” Brock snaps. “Or maybe. Can’t be both, sweetheart.”
“Yeah and maybe,” you mutter. “I don’t know.”
“Either he stares or he doesn’t-“
“He stares, I just don’t know what’s this much-“
“Then you should start paying fucking attention.”
You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.
Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like you all that much either. He won’t let Nat sit with you, and he certainly won’t let Sam sit with you, so now you’re just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.
At least you have your drink.
You’re smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Bucky’s stuck over here in the dark.
He wants to drink until he can’t anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you don’t want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didn’t even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.
Instead he’s just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. It’s hell. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he fucking deserves.
“You’re sulking again,” Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.
“So?”
“It’s bringing everyone down, Buck-“
“They’re fine.”
Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that he’d fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.
Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks he’s an idiot. There isn’t a moment that passes where he doesn’t want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you he’d fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But he’s a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he can’t even shoulder some days. You’d looked at him like he was something good. You’d looked at him like you thought it could’ve been easy, to fall right back.
And Bucky couldn’t have that.
The only thing worse than never having you would’ve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So he’d pushed you away.
Steve said that didn’t give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.
That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.
Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. He’d even let you call him James, like you used to. You’re the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he can’t. Because of Brock.
“What does she even see in him,” he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.
“I don’t know, but-“
“He’s not that good looking,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. “His dick is probably small.”
“I- Uh- Yeah, sure-“
“She deserves better-“
“Better like you?”
That makes Bucky’s head snap to the side. Steve doesn’t even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how he’s not allowed to be pissed at Steve.
“You know she’s with him because he asked her, right?” Steve says, and Bucky scowls.
“That’s not- I- He doesn’t treat her right-“
“And you do?”
Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesn’t back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.
“You could just- Talk to her,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.
“She doesn’t care what I gotta say, Stevie-“
“Because you made her think you don’t care at all.”
“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say a thing-“
“You’re thinkin’. I can hear it.”
Steve sighs. Bucky’s going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. “I’m just saying, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Nat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.”
Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didn’t actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he can’t work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.
Bucky’s attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing what’s happening before his brain. He’s on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brock’s hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Bucky’s heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. It’s taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.
He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and he’s not sure if it’s you or Brock. He looks around for Nat—wherever you went, she’ll be there too—but can’t find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.
You’re not hurt, but you’re crying. You’re crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.
“What the hell happened?” He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.
She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. “I’m not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.”
“What’d they fight about-“
“She won’t tell me,” Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.
“I’m right here,” you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.
“I know, but- You won’t tell me.”
You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.
“Was it-“
“Yeah.”
Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like he’s being left out of something.
“Nat, I-“ You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. “I just want to go home.”
Natasha’s throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Nat’s been drinking. Everyone’s been drinking except you and him, and he doesn’t think you should be driving when you can’t even get off the floor.
“I’ll take her,” he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.
“No.”
“Listen, kid, I’m offering to help-“
“I don’t want your help,” you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesn’t make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.
Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. “It’s either him, or an uber-“
“Uber,” you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.
“That wasn’t a real option. You’re going with Bucky.”
You pout, inching away from him, and Bucky’s face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he can’t hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they don’t cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.
“I don’t want to go with Bucky,” you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.
“I don’t want you to be alone right now-“
“Then you get in the Uber with me.” Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Bucky’s heart.
Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if you’re a wounded animal. “Bucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.”
Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesn’t think you’re happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Bucky’s car. He decides not to tell you that Nat’s thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didn’t have to deal with you. He doesn’t think there’s anything more noble. His worry is devotion. It’s a shame you’re blinder than a real god, to see it.
The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesn’t want you to hate his taste in music.
You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows he’s the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesn’t understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesn’t understand how you—beautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharp—could tolerate it.
Bucky parks the car outside of Nat’s. You don’t move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.
“What do you see in him,” Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.
You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. It’s a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. He’s not sure, though, if you ever see it.
“He’s good to me,” you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. “He is, don’t- Don’t fucking make that face-“
“I’m not makin’ a face-“
“You are,” you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. “He is good to me, Bucky.”
Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.
“Fuck you,” you spit. “Brock loves me, he- He’s- You just don’t see the side of him that I do-“
“I don’t think he’s got enough sides to hide anything, doll,” Bucky drawls, and you scowl.
“You’re just jealous.”
Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes.
“Fuck off, it’s so obvious-“
Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.
“You’re jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when you’re alone. But guess what, Bucky,” you lean forward, words spitting over Bucky’s slack face. “You’re going to die alone, and I’m not, so fuck you.”
You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Bucky’s frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. You’re right. You’re right, and it’s his fault. Not about Brock—that piece of shit isn’t capable of love, even for someone as perfect as you—but- But-
He’s moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. It’s what he’s fucking earned.
“Just- Wait-“ He catches your wrist. You yank it away.
“Leave me alone, Bucky-“
“No, I got somethin’ I wanna say-“
“Well I don’t want to hear it-“
“I know, I know, just-“
“No!” You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. “No, I don’t want to fucking- I- You don’t get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-“
You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. “My fault?” He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. “How the hell is it my fault?”
You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. “Brock thinks you want to fuck me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s heart falters in his chest. “That’s what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldn’t be around you anymore, because of it.”
Bucky gapes at you. He’s trying to think of a way to ask that isn’t selfish. He can’t come up with it. “But you’re not going to listen to him, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not like you like being around me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s hands fists.
“That’s not the fuckin’ point, doll-“
“Isn’t it?” You give him a tired look. “Don’t you want me to just- Just go away? Aren’t you fucking happy, that you’re never going to have to deal with me again?”
Bucky’s throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he can’t seem to wake up. You’re right. This is the part he’s supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see you’re beauty and wonder what if. But he’s selfish. He’s too fucking selfish, and he doesn’t want the sun to go away. He can’t lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.
You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when he’s been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.
“Don’t,” he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. “Don’t go away.”
You laugh, but it doesn’t sound read. “Don’t do that, Bucky, don’t act like you care-“
“I do care-“
“No.” You point at him, face tight. “No, you don’t- You don’t-“
Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You don’t take a step back.
“I care,” he croaks, squeezing your hand once. “I care, doll. I- I’ve always cared, I-“
He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. Bucky doesn’t need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knows—your feet—that you’ll listen.
“I love you,” he whispers, and your mouth falls open.
“Bucky…”
“I know I’ve been a dick,” he rasps. “I know, and I- I don’t expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything, doll, just- Please don’t listen to him.” Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. “If he’s told you no one else is gonna love you, he’s dead wrong. If you’re letting him tell you what to do ‘cause you think it’s the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Than-“ His words catch, painful in his throat. “Than me. But also than him. You deserve better.”
He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.
“I love you,” Bucky echoes like a prayer. “I swear I love you, doll. And I really don’t expect nothing, but- Please.”
You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesn’t deserve the touch.
“Bucky,” you murmur. “Stand up.”
He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks that’s a good sign.
You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.
“You mean it?” You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.
“With everything I got.”
You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. “But- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.”
“Never,” he whispers. “I- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and I’m an idiot-“
Bucky’s voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink you’d been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug he’s never going to kick.
He’s panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan. He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.
Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Bucky’s not surprised.
“You love me?” You demand, and he nods.
“All the time.”
You nod, and he thinks he’s got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.
“Good,” you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. “Prove it.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.
Proving it is going to be the easy part.
You’ve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe it’s reality. You think, through the power of Bucky’s hands and lips, you’re going to get there.
You kissed and stumbled into Nat’s house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. You’d pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.
“Look at you,” he’d muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”
You’d flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.
Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. You’d melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. You’d tugged him closer and he’d grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. He’d cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.
“Wanna take care of you,” he’d muttered, like he was speaking to himself. “You gonna let me take care of you?
“Ye- Yeah,” you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. You’re trying to stay steady. You’re not sure it’s working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. “Yes, please.”
Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.
“Jesus,” he rasps. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, doll.”
You coo, and Bucky’s nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, nice and easy.”
Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until there’s no space for anything else left. It’s all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but it’s hard. Bucky’s demanding, and you’ve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. It’s really unfair.
Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.
“Fuck, baby,” he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. “This wet, just for me?”
You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.
“You want me to play nice?” He whispers. “Or fuck you like I’ve been dreamin’ about.”
You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. It’s hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.
Like he’s been dreaming. You’ve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.
“That,” you say, small but certain. “Do- Do it like that.”
Bucky pauses. “Like-“
“How you want,” you whisper, and he goes still.
Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You don’t have any, so you hold his gaze.
He lets out a rough, broken breath. “You sure-“
You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.
Bucky rips your panties off like they’re made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but he’s strong. Stronger than you thought, and you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.
“Bucky-“
“Shh,” he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.
“Where- Where are we going?” You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. “James- Shit-“
He’s dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Ah,” Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. “That’s not what I want to hear, doll.”
You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.
“Come on,” he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. “Use your words for me.”
You can’t. You muffle another moan in Bucky’s shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like he’s not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Nat’s guest room before you’re being tossed down onto the bed.
You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.
Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. It’s not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.
“James…” You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. “Bucky?”
His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.
“Buck-“
“James,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. “Keep callin’ me James, doll.”
You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. It’s not even from the way he’s touching you. Not right now. James isn’t a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didn’t want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. He’ll get it. You’ll give him almost anything, right now.
“James,” you breathe, and Bucky’s throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away you’re breathless, and he’s on his knees.
Naked and on his knees.
You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. It’s thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.
“You seein’ something you like?” Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. “You want it bad, huh,” he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. “He ain’t been fuckin’ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?”
Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Bucky’s, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.
“Spit on it,” Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Bucky’s shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until he’s groaning your name against your lips.
Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.
“You need to be treated like a whore, huh,” he mutters. “Fucked like a toy ‘till you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.”
Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.
“Pretty little thing,” he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,” he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. “Then give you exactly what you need. That sound good?”
“Ye- Yeah,” you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. “Yes, please.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”
You whine, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.
“James,” you whine, tugging on his hair. “Don’t- Don’t tease.”
He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.
“I’ll tease you all I fuckin’ want, babydoll,” he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. “You’re too pretty and reactive not to play with.”
You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isn’t a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Bucky’s attention is—being dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until you’re drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fall—you’re too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, it’s been so long, and he seems to know it.
“Needy pussy,” he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. “Gonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.”
You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.
“Fuck- James- James-“
“I know,” he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for me.” He kisses your clit again, making out with it until you’re panting and struggling to sit up. “Lucky I’m feelin’ generous,” he mutters, and whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have was gone.
Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.
You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. It’s a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. You’re getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering you’re close against your skin before diving right back in.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. “Bucky- I- I’m gonna-“
His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. It’s almost like he’s tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You sob, pushing at his head. “Bucky- I- I can’t, please-“
He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. “Yes, you can.”
It doesn’t seem to be something that’s up for argument.
Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when he’s beneath you. You’re all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.
A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Bucky’s face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You haven’t even had one proper orgasm in… longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didn’t feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.
He pulls back when you’re trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.
“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. “Coulda died there, doll, I swear.”
He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.
“You alright?” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesn’t look convinced. “Are you-“
“Bucky,” you whisper, and his throat bobs. “If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving.”
He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.
“Could spend forever here,” he mutters. “Givin’ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until you’re drippin’ on my lap.” He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.”
You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts you’d had before fade, because you’re sure. Bucky means it.
He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most need to see it.
“Gonna go right in,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Opened you up real good. Shouldn’t even hurt.”
You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clit—almost ceremoniously, like paying homage—and notching himself against your entrance.
The stretch isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Bucky’s still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you don’t think you’ve ever been this full, but he’d prepped you so well, it’s just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Bucky’s warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.
“Feels so good,” you moan as he pushes further in. “So- So good.”
Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.
For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.
“You know I love you too, right?” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think.
Bucky’s throat bobs. He doesn’t seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. He’s curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and it’s almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.
“James- Ooooh-“ Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. “Fuck- James-“
Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.
“Feel that?” He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You fuckin’ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowin’ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-“
Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Bucky’s cock drilling into your pussy like he’s trying to knock every thought from your head. It’s working. You’re a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.
“That’s my girl,” he mocks. “Smart head so fuckin’ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?”
You don’t answer—you can’t—and Bucky smacks your clit.
“Do they?”
You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. “N- No-“
“Who fucks you right?” Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.
“You.” Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. “You, Bucky- Please-“
You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.
“Damn right, me,” he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. “My fuckin’ girl.”
Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what he’s doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Bucky’s thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.
“Cum with me, babydoll,” he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. “Come one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up ‘till everyone knows, just-“ He groans. “Gimme just one more.”
You don’t know where it comes from. You didn’t think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Bucky’s cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.
You’re not sure what’s Bucky’s cum and what’s yours. There’s just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he can’t help himself. When you both ease down, you’re blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.
This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you don’t really care.
“I guess Brock was right,” you muse. “You did want to sleep with me.”
Bucky sits up with a glare. “Don’t say that when I’m still inside of you.”
You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“Do you believe me?” He mutters, and it’s small and worried. As if, after that, you’d somehow ever let him get away again.
“Yeah,” you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.
“Thank god-“
“But,” you squeeze his hand. “I think you should keep proving it.”
Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.
“Nat’s gonna kill us,” he groans, and you snort.
“Yeah. You.”
Bucky props his chin on your chest. “You too-“
“No,” you shake your head. “I’m her favorite.”
“That’s-“ Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. “Yeah.”
You laugh, and he grins against your boob.
“Worth it,” he mutters, and you smile like a fool.
Because yeah. It was.
✦End note: sometimes... cheating is okay!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
"Because I can't—" He stops. Starts again. "I can't do this if you don't. I can't sit in that room and pretend I didn't feel what I felt when you touched me. I can't pretend I don't think about you every goddamn day. I can’t," His voice breaks. "I can't watch you panic about losing something we never let ourselves have."
Your chest is so tight it hurts.
"I'm terrified," you whisper.
"I know."
"I don't know how to do this."
"I don't either."
"What if we ruin it?"
Bucky's jaw clenches. "What if we already did?"
The words hit you like a physical blow.
"No," you say immediately. "No, that's not—"
"Then what?" He leans forward, and now you can see it, the desperation underneath the exhaustion. "Tell me what you're so afraid of, because I don't understand. You keep saying you don't want to lose what we had, but you won't let us have anything else."
"Bucky—"
"Stop." He moves closer. Close enough now that his knee brushes yours. "You think I don't know the difference? You think I haven't spent the last six months trying to convince myself this was just—what? Imagination? Some kind of fucked-up mental thing?" His voice drops. "I know what you are to me. I've known for months. I just didn't think I'd ever get to—"
He stops.
You're staring at him.
"Didn't think you'd ever get to what?"
His eyes drop to your mouth.
"This," he says quietly.
He kisses you.
Your heart stops.
It's not gentle.
His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and he pulls you into him like he's been holding himself back for months and finally can't anymore. Your hands find his chest, his shoulders, and you're kissing him back just as desperately.
It's not romantic. It's a need.
His mouth is hot and demanding and you open for him without thinking. His other hand finds your waist, grips hard enough to bruise, and you make a sound against his mouth that's half-sob, half-relief.
He pulls back just enough to breathe.
He kisses you again, harder this time, and you forget what you were going to say. Your fingers curl into his shirt. He tastes like desperation and something darker, something that's been building between you for so long you forgot what it felt like to not want him.
When he pulls back again, you're both breathing hard.
His forehead drops against yours.
Bucky's thumb brushes across your cheekbone, wiping away a tear you didn't realize had fallen.
"Come inside," he says quietly.
It's not a demand. It's a question.
You nod.
He stands, pulling you up with him, and his hand doesn't leave yours as he leads you into the bedroom and closes the door behind you both.
The room is dim, lit only by the faint emergency lighting from the hallway seeping under the door. Bucky turns to face you, and in the low light, his expression is unreadable. But his hand is still holding yours, grip firm and steady.
You step closer and kiss him again.
He responds immediately, both hands coming up to frame your face as he kisses you back with an intensity that makes your knees weak. You feel him walking you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed. He doesn't push you down—just keeps kissing you, one hand sliding down your neck, over your shoulder, down your arm.
When his fingers find the hem of your shirt, he pauses. "Can I—?"
"Yes."
He pulls the shirt up slowly, giving you time to change your mind. You lift your arms, and he draws it over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes drop to your body, and you see his throat work as he swallows.
"God," he mutters.
You reach for his shirt, and he lets you pull it off. Your hands flatten against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart. There are scars, you’ve seen them before at pool parties, but seeing them up close like this is different. You trace one lightly with your fingertips, and his breath hitches.
For a moment, he just looks at you. Then something shifts in his expression—control giving way to need—and he kisses you again, harder this time. His hands move to your waist, then lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants.
"Off," he says against your mouth.
You help him, fumbling with the button and zipper until you can push them down. He does the same with his own, and then you're both standing there in just underwear, breathing hard, staring at each other.
"Come here," he says, voice rough.
You step closer, and he pulls you against him. The feeling of skin against skin makes you gasp. He's warm and solid, and you can feel every line of muscle, every scar, every place where his body presses against yours.
His mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting gently. You tilt your head back, giving him access, and his hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight. When his teeth scrape over your pulse point, you make a sound you didn't know you were capable of.
"Fuck," he mutters against your skin. "The sounds you make—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he turns you around, guiding you down onto the bed. You go willingly, lying back against the mattress, and he follows you down, settling between your legs. His weight is perfect, grounding, real.
He kisses you again, slower this time, like he's trying to memorize your taste. His hips press against yours, and you can feel how hard he is through the thin fabric separating you. The friction makes you arch up against him, seeking
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's something almost predatory in his expression.
His hand slides down your body, over your ribs, your stomach, stopping just above the edge of your underwear. "Can I?”
“Please."
He hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls it down slowly, watching your face the entire time. When you're bare before him, he sits back on his heels, just looking.
"Bucky—"
"Let me look at you," he says quietly. "I've thought about this so many fucking times.”
The admission sends heat flooding through you. "What did you think about?”
His eyes meet yours. “Everything."
He leans down, pressing a kiss to your hip bone, then lower. When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, you gasp, hands flying to his hair. He takes his time, using his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes that make your thighs shake.
"Oh god—“
He hums against you, and the vibration makes you cry out. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, and he doesn't stop. He's methodical, paying attention to every reaction, every sound you make, adjusting his rhythm until you're trembling beneath him.
Just when you think you can't take anymore, when you're right on the edge, he pulls back.
You gasp.
He looks up at you, mouth glistening, eyes dark.
“Bucky—"
He moves back up your body, kissing you deeply. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it's so intimate it makes your head spin. His hand slides between your legs, fingers moving in slow circles that make you whimper.
"Please," you breathe against his mouth.
"Please what? You need me?”
“Yes.”
He makes a low sound, almost a growl, and pulls back just long enough to strip off his boxers. When he settles back between your legs, you can feel him, hard and hot against you.
"Condom," he mutters, reaching for the nightstand.
"I'm on birth control," you say quickly.
He pauses, looking at you. "You sure?”
"Yes. Are you—?”
“Yeah.” The words are barely out of his mouth by the time he positions himself at your entrance, and for a moment, neither of you move.
Then he pushes in slowly, and the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, is almost overwhelming.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel. Fuuuuck.”
He doesn't finish. Just keeps pushing in until he's fully seated inside you. You're both breathing hard, adjusting to the sensation. He's big, and it's been a while, and you need a moment.
"Okay?" he asks quietly.
"Mmm.”
He pulls back slowly, then pushes back in. The friction is perfect, and you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist. He sets a steady rhythm, not too fast, just deep and thorough. Every thrust hits something inside you that makes your vision blur.
"God, you're soft," he mutters.
His words send heat through you. “Harder."
He complies immediately, hips snapping against yours with more force. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mixed with your gasps and his rough breathing. He buries his face in your neck, and you can feel his breath hot against your skin.
"Touch yourself," he says against your ear.
“What?"
"Touch yourself. I want to feel you come.”
You slide your hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. The added stimulation makes you cry out, and he groans in response.
"That's it," he mutters. "Yeaaaaah, I can feel you getting tighter.”
He's right. The pressure is building fast, coiling low in your belly. His rhythm doesn't falter, steady and deep, and combined with your own touch, it's too much.
"Bucky, I’m—"
"I know. I can feel it. Come for me.”
The command in his voice pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard, making you arch up against him as waves of pleasure roll through you. He doesn't stop, just keeps moving, drawing it out until you're shaking beneath him.
"Jesus," he breathes. "You're so fucking beautiful when you cum.”
Before you can respond, he pulls out. You make a sound of protest, but then he's flipping you over onto your stomach.
"On your knees," he says, voice rough.
You comply, getting up on your hands and knees. His hands grip your hips, positioning you, and then he's pushing back inside from behind. The angle is different, deeper, and you gasp at the sensation.
"Fuck," he mutters. "This view—“
He starts moving again, harder this time. One hand stays on your hip, gripping tight enough to leave marks, while the other slides up your spine. When he reaches your shoulder, he uses the leverage to pull you back onto him with each thrust.
The pace is rougher now, more desperate. You can hear the strain in his breathing, feel the tension in his body. He's close, but he's holding back.
"Don't stop," you gasp, “Don’tstopdon’tstop.”
His hand slides around to your front, finding your clit again. The dual stimulation makes you cry out, and you feel yourself getting close again already.
The pressure builds faster this time, and when he changes his angle slightly, hitting that perfect spot inside you, you come apart again. Your arms give out, and you collapse forward onto the mattress, but he doesn't stop. Just follows you down, covering your body with his, still moving.
He breathes against your ear.
His hand is still between your legs, fingers moving in tight circles. You're oversensitive, almost too much, but he doesn't let up. The third orgasm builds slower, almost painful in its intensity. When it finally hits, you sob into the mattress, and that's when he finally lets go.
His rhythm falters, becoming erratic, and then he's coming with a low groan, hips pressed tight against yours. You can feel him pulsing inside you, and the sensation makes you shudder.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. He's still covering you, breathing hard against your shoulder. Then he carefully pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you.
You turn your head to look at him. His eyes are closed, chest heaving, one arm thrown over his face.
"Holy shit," you breathe.
He makes a sound that might be a laugh.
You roll onto your side, facing him. After a moment, he lowers his arm and looks at you. His hair is a mess, lips swollen, and there's a flush across his chest. He looks completely undone.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"More than okay.”
Something in his expression softens. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Good."
You're both quiet for a moment, just looking at each other. Then you notice he's still half-hard.
"Already?" you ask, surprised.
He glances down, then back at you with a slight smirk. "Super soldier serum. Recovery time is faster.”
"How much faster?”
"Depends." His hand slides down your side, over your hip. "Why? You want to go again?”
Instead of answering, you push him onto his back and swing your leg over his hips, straddling him. His hands immediately come up to grip your waist.
"I want to use you," you say, watching his reaction.
His eyes darken. “Yeah?"
"Yeah. I want to ride you until I can't anymore.”
"Fuck," he mutters. "Do it.”
You reach between your bodies, positioning him at your entrance. You're sensitive and sore, but the stretch as you sink down onto him feels too good to stop. You’ve never been this turned on in your life. He slides into you like hot butter. His grip on your waist tightens, and you can see the muscle in his jaw flex as he fights for control.
"You feel even bigger like this," you gasp.
You start moving, slowly at first, adjusting to the angle. His hands guide you, helping you find a rhythm. When you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, he groans.
"That's it," he mutters. “That’s it. That’s it. Use me. Take what you need.”
You do. You set the pace, grinding down on him in a way that hits your clit with every movement. His hands move from your waist to your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and the added stimulation makes you moan.
"So fucking perfect," he says, watching you move above him. "You have any idea how many times I've thought about this? Watching you ride me?”
"Tell me," you gasp.
"Every goddamn day.”
His words send heat through you, and you move faster. "What else?”
"Wondered what sounds you'd make. If you'd be quiet or loud. If you'd beg." His hands slide down to your hips again, gripping tight. "Turns out you do all of it.”
You lean down, kissing him hard. He kisses you back just as fiercely, one hand moving to the back of your neck to hold you there. When you pull back, you're both breathing hard.
He suddenly sits up, wrapping his arms around you. The change in angle makes you gasp, and he takes advantage, kissing you deeply while he starts moving his hips, thrusting up into you.
“Bucky—"
"My turn," he mutters against your mouth.
He's stronger than you, and he uses it now, holding you in place while he fucks up into you. The pace is brutal, and you can do nothing but hold onto his shoulders and take it. Every thrust hits deep, and you can feel another orgasm building already.
"Not yet," he says, slowing down.
“What—?"
He pulls out, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's moving you, positioning you on your side. He slides in behind you, lifting your leg and draping it back over his hip. When he pushes back inside from this angle, you both groan.
"Fuck, this is—" He doesn't finish, just starts moving again.
One of his arms is wrapped around your waist, holding you against him. The other hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. The possessiveness of the gesture makes you clench around him.
He makes a low sound and starts moving faster. The angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust. His hand slides from your throat down to your breast, then lower, finding your clit again.
"I want you to come one more time," he says against your ear. "Can you do that for me?”
"I don't know if I can—“
"Yes, you can." His fingers move in tight circles. "Come on. Give it to me.”
The combination of his voice, his fingers, and the relentless rhythm of his hips is too much. You feel the pressure building again, different this time, almost overwhelming.
When the orgasm hits, it's different from the others. Stronger, deeper, almost painful in its intensity.
“FUCK MEEE!” You cry out, body going rigid, and you feel yourself gush around him.
"Holy shit," he breathes. "Did you just—?”
You can't answer, still riding out the waves of pleasure. He keeps moving, gentler now, drawing it out. When you finally come back to yourself, you're shaking.
"That was—" You can't finish the sentence.
"Yeah." His voice is strained. "Fuck, that was the hottest thing I've ever seen.”
He's still hard inside you, and you can feel how close he is. "Come for me," you say softly.
That's all it takes. His rhythm falters, and then he's coming with a groan, hips pressed tight against yours. You feel him pulse inside you, and the warmth of it makes you shudder.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. He's still wrapped around you, face buried in your neck, breathing hard. Then he carefully pulls out and rolls onto his back.
You turn to face him. He looks completely wrecked, hair a mess, skin flushed, eyes half-closed. There are scratches on his shoulders from your nails, and the sight of them makes something possessive curl in your chest.
"Come here," he says quietly, holding out his arm.
You move closer, and he pulls you against his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowly return to normal. His hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
"You okay?" he asks after a while.
"Sore. But good.”
“Sorry."
"Don't be." You tilt your head to look at him. "That was…"
“Yeah."
You're both quiet for a moment. Then you feel him start to harden again against your hip.
"Seriously?" you ask, half-laughing.
He groans. "I can't help it. You're naked and pressed against me.”
"How many times can you…?"
"I don't know. Never really tested it." He looks at you. "Want to find out?”
You should say no. You're already sore, and you both need rest. But the look in his eyes makes you want to say yes.
"Maybe just one more," you say.
His hand slides down your back to your ass, squeezing. "One more. Then we rest.”
“Promise?"
“Promise."
He rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs again. This time, when he pushes inside, you both groan at the sensitivity.
He moves slowly, almost gently, like he's savoring it.
"This okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Don't stop.”
He doesn't. Just keeps moving in long, slow strokes that make you feel every inch of him. It's different from before; less desperate, more intimate. He kisses you slowly, deeply, like he has all the time in the world.
"I don't want this to end," you admit quietly.
He pulls back to look at you. "It doesn't have to.”
"The lockdown will end eventually.”
"I know." His hand cups your face. "But this doesn't have to end with it.”
"What are we going to do?”
"I don't know." He kisses you again. "But we'll figure it out.”
The reassurance in his voice makes something in your chest loosen. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans.
He huffs a laugh against your neck, and the sound makes you smile. His rhythm stays slow and steady, building gradually. There's no urgency this time, just the two of you moving together, learning each other's bodies.
When you come this time, it's gentle, rolling through you in soft waves. He follows soon after, and you hold each other through it.
Afterward, he doesn't pull away. Just stays there, still inside you, forehead resting against yours.
A few minutes later, you watch him walk to the bathroom, unselfconscious in his nakedness. A moment later, you hear water running. He comes back with a warm washcloth and gently cleans you up. The intimacy of the gesture makes your throat tight.
"Thank you," you say quietly.
He just nods, tossing the washcloth aside before climbing back into bed. He pulls you against him, and you go willingly, tucking yourself against his side.
Exhaustion is pulling at you. The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his hand in your hair, fingers moving in a soothing rhythm.
You drift back to sleep wrapped around each other, but it doesn't last.
You're not sure what time it is when you wake again—2 AM, maybe 3—but the room is still dark, and Bucky's hand is moving slowly down your side. You're both half-asleep, caught in that hazy space between dreaming and waking.
"You awake?" he murmurs against your neck.
"Barely."
His hand slides over your hip, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "Can't sleep."
"Why not?"
His voice is rough with sleep, lower than usual. "I can't stop thinking about how tight your pussy felt wrapped around my cock."
Heat pools low in your belly. You're sore, exhausted, but the want in his voice makes you ache for him anyway.
"Again?" you whisper.
"If you want."
Instead of answering, you reach down between your bodies and wrap your hand around him. He's already half-hard, and when you stroke him slowly, he groans.
"Fuck," he mutters. "Yeah, I want it again."
You turn in his arms and kiss him. It's slow and drowsy at first, tongues moving lazily against each other. His hand slides into your hair, and he deepens the kiss gradually, like he has all the time in the world. When you stroke him again, he's fully hard in your hand.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark even in the dim light. "Roll over."
You do, turning onto your back. He moves over you, settling between your legs, and the weight of him is grounding. He kisses you again, slower this time, while his hand slides down your body.
When his fingers find you, you're already wet.
"Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Your cunt is already soaked for me.” He makes a low sound and positions himself at your entrance. When he pushes in, you both groan. You're sensitive from earlier, and the stretch makes you gasp, but it feels too good to stop.
He sinks in slowly until he's fully seated, then stills.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Move."
He does, pulling back and pushing in with a slow, deliberate rhythm. It's different from before—unhurried, almost lazy. Like he's savoring every sensation.
"God, you feel so fucking good," he mutters. "So tight and wet around my dick."
His words send heat through you. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans.
"That's it," he says. "Take all of me. Feel how deep I am inside you?"
"Yes—"
He keeps the pace slow and steady, each thrust deep and thorough. You can feel the pressure building gradually, coiling low in your belly. Your breathing gets heavier, and he notices immediately.
"You getting close already?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"Good. I want to feel you come around my cock again." He adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust hits that perfect spot inside you. "Want to feel that pussy squeeze me."
"Bucky—"
"Tell me how it feels."
"So good. You're so deep. I can feel every inch of you."
He makes a satisfied sound and keeps moving, maintaining that perfect angle. The pressure builds faster now, and you can feel yourself getting close. But then you notice his breathing getting ragged too, the way his rhythm falters slightly.
"Fuck," he mutters. "I'm getting close too. Your pussy feels too fucking good."
"Then don't stop—"
Just as you're both about to tip over the edge, he pulls out completely.
You make a desperate sound, hips trying to follow him, but he's already moved back. His cock is hard and glistening with your wetness, and you can see it twitch.
"Not yet," he says, voice strained. "We're gonna take our time with this one."
"Bucky—"
"Trust me." He's breathing hard, jaw tight with restraint. "Gonna make us both lose our fucking minds."
He stays still, kneeling between your legs, until the urgency fades slightly for both of you. Then he positions himself again and pushes back in slowly.
The sensation is almost overwhelming—you're so sensitive, so close, and he's deliberately keeping you both right on the edge.
"You feel so fucking good," he says, voice strained. "Could stay buried in this pussy forever."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Let me come.”
He leans down, kissing you deeply, mostly tongue.
He keeps that slow, steady rhythm, and the pressure builds again for both of you. This time it's more intense, almost painful. Your thighs are shaking, and you're making sounds you can't control. His breathing is harsh, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.
His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit.
The added stimulation makes you cry out, and you feel yourself right on the edge again. His rhythm falters, and you know he's close too.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Gonna come if I don’t stop.”
He pulls out again, and this time you both make desperate sounds. His are needy and almost desperate please, his hips thrusting into the air, seeking your warm hole. He’s breathing hard, and when you look down, you can see his cock is rock hard, the head flushed dark, pointed into the air.
He’s catching his breath. Without thinking, you reach down and trace your finger along the underside of his shaft, circling the head slowly.
"Oh fuck—" His whole body jerks. He looks down at you playing with him and starts to buck his hips, "Yeah. Right there. Just like that. There, yes. Right there. Right under the head—“ You circle again, watching his face contort with pleasure. "Oh shit, gonna cum—!” He shouts. He grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. "Stop. Fuck. Stop."
He's shaking, breathing hard, and you can see how close he was. The knowledge that you can make him lose control like that sends heat through you.
"See how that feels?" you say quietly.
"You're evil."
"You started it."
He waits until he's pulled back from the edge which is about two minutes of him playing with you, then positions himself again. This time when he pushes in, it's harder, more desperate. He sets a faster pace, and you can tell he's struggling to maintain control.
The sounds your pussy is making is soaking and wet, echoing around the room.
He's torturing you both, and he knows it. You can see the strain in his face, the way his jaw is clenched tight. His rhythm is getting erratic, and you know he's fighting just as hard as you are.
The third time you both get close, you're whimpering. Your hands are fisted in the sheets, and you're right there, so close you can almost taste it. His breathing is ragged, and he's making low sounds with each thrust.
"Bucky, please.”
"Fuck, I'm close too.”
He almost decides to forfeit, but in the last minute, he pulls out again, and this time you both actually sob. He's shaking, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing hard to keep himself from coming.
"I know," he mutters. "I know, baby. But it's gonna be so fucking good when we finally let go."
He waits, breathing hard, until the urgency fades slightly. Then his hand moves to your clit, fingers circling slowly. The sensation makes you gasp, and the pressure builds immediately.
"That's it," he says, watching your face. "Getting close again, aren't you?"
"Yes—"
His fingers move faster, circling right over your clit, and you're right there, right on the edge—
He stops.
"No—" you gasp.
His fingers move to the hood, circling there instead, keeping you right on the edge without letting you tip over. "Gonna make you beg for it."
"I am begging—"
"Not enough."
He does it again, circles your clit until you're gasping, then stops just before you come. Then again. And again. Each time you get closer, more desperate, until you're actually crying with frustration.
"Please," you sob. "Please, I need to come so bad.”
"I know. Me too." He positions himself again, pushing in slowly. "Feel how hard my cock is? That's what you do to me. Make me so fucking hard it hurts."
He starts moving again, and this time his thumb finds your clit while he thrusts. The dual stimulation makes you cry out, and the pressure builds faster than before. You're so sensitive, so desperate, that it only takes a few thrusts before you're both right on the edge again.
"Beg me!” He shouts, humping your cunt.
"Please. Please let us come. I need it so bad. Need to feel you come inside me—"
He pulls out, and you actually scream in frustration. He makes a choked sound, hand going to his cock again.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Almost came. Was so fucking close—"
You reach down, finding him again. This time you trace the head slowly, circling right under it the way he showed you.
"Oh fuck—" His hips jerk forward. You do it again, watching him fall apart. "Gonna cum—" he gasps. “God, fucking, shit.” He grabs your hand with a snarl.
He makes a desperate sound. He's trembling, breathing hard, and you've never seen him look so wrecked.
"You're killing me," he mutters.
"Good."
When he's pulled back from the edge, he pushes your hand away and positions himself again. This time when he pushes in, there's barely any restraint left. He sets a harder pace, and you can tell he's struggling.
"One more time." He slows down, fighting for control. "One more edge. Then I'm gonna fuck you so hard you scream."
He keeps that slower pace, but his thumb finds your clit again. The pressure builds for both of you, more intense than before. You're so sensitive, so desperate, that every sensation is almost too much. His breathing is ragged, and you can feel him shaking.
"Bucky—"
"I know. Me too. So fucking close—"
"I'm right there—"
"I know, baby. Can feel your pussy getting tighter. Gonna come so hard around my cock, aren't you?"
"Yes—"
You're right there, right on the edge, when you manage to gasp out, "Stop."
He freezes immediately, making a sound that's almost a whimper. "What?"
"Not yet," you whisper, throwing his own words back at him.
"Fuck—" He's shaking, buried deep inside you, and you can feel him pulsing. "Please. I can't—I'm so fucking close—"
"Just a little longer."
He stays perfectly still, and you can feel him trembling with the effort. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and his breathing is harsh against your skin.
"Please," he mutters. "I don't know how much longer I can hold back."
You can feel him pulsing inside you, right on the edge. The knowledge that you're both this desperate, this close, makes the ache even more intense.
Finally, when you think you might actually die if this continues, you whisper, "Okay. Now. Fuck me."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
He starts moving again, but this time there's no restraint at all. The pace is brutal, desperate, and his thumb presses hard against your clit. The pressure builds immediately, and you know neither of you is going to last.
"Gonna fuck you so hard," he gasps. "Gonna make you come on my cock. Right fucking now."
The command in his voice combined with the relentless pace pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard, making you arch up against him as waves of pleasure crash through you. Only your feet and your shoulder blades are on the bed as you literally feel yourself levitating from pleasure. It's more intense than anything you've felt before—all that build-up, all that denial, finally released.
"Fuck, yes," he groans. "That's it.”
He keeps moving through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're shaking beneath him. And then, just as you're starting to come down, he completely loses it.
His rhythm becomes wild, desperate. He's pounding into you now, harder than before, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. One hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise while the other braces beside your head. The sounds he's making are almost feral—low groans, heavy grunts, and gasps that get louder with each thrust.
"Fuck—" he gasps. "Gonna come."
"Don't stop," you manage to say. "Want to feel you come inside me—"
“—Fucker!” His voice is getting louder, almost breaking.
He's slamming into you now, the sound of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. You can feel another orgasm building already, the overstimulation almost too much.
You gasp.
"Fuck!" His voice breaks into almost a shout. "I'm coming—Oh shit, I’m cumming.”
His whole body goes rigid, and then he's coming with a sound that's nearly a scream. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the warmth of his release, and it pushes you over the edge again.
You come together, both of you crying out, bodies locked together as the pleasure crashes over you. He keeps moving through it, erratic thrusts now, drawing out every last sensation until you're both completely spent.
Finally, he collapses on top of you, breathing hard. His face is buried in your neck, and you can feel his heart pounding against your chest. You're both shaking, overwhelmed, barely able to move.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Just lie there breathing together, slowly coming back to yourselves.
"Holy shit," he finally mutters against your neck.
"Yeah."
"That was—" He doesn't finish the sentence. Just makes a sound that might be a laugh or a groan. "Fuck."
"Intense?"
"That's not even close to the right word."
He carefully pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you. When you turn your head to look at him, his eyes are closed, one arm thrown over his face. He looks completely wrecked.
"You okay?" you ask quietly.
"Give me a minute. Pretty sure I just saw God."
Despite everything, you laugh. He turns his head to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression.
"That was..." you start, but you don't know how to finish.
"Yeah," he says. "It was."
You're both quiet for a moment, just holding hands in the darkness. Then he turns his head to look at you.
"Sleep now?" he asks.
"Yeah. Sleep now."
He pulls you against him, and you tuck yourself into his side. This time, when sleep comes, it's deep and dreamless.
You're not sure what wakes you.
It's still dark—that deep, quiet darkness that only exists in the hours before dawn. You're lying on your back, and there's a sensation, something soft, barely there, tracing along your inner thigh.
Your eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep. Bucky's propped up on one elbow beside you, and in his hand is something small. It takes your sleep-fogged brain a moment to recognize it; a makeup brush from the bathroom, the kind with soft, dense bristles.
"What are you—" you start, but the words die when he drags the brush slowly up your inner thigh.
"Shh," he whispers. "Just relax."
The sensation is unlike anything you've felt before. Not the roughness of his fingers or the heat of his mouth—this is delicate, almost ticklish, but in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly.
He traces the brush higher, and you realize you're already wet. Your body remembers everything from earlier, still sensitive, still responsive to his touch.
"Found this on the nightstand," he murmurs, voice low and soft in the darkness. "Got curious."
The brush reaches the apex of your thighs, and he drags it slowly along your pussy lips. The sensation makes you gasp—it's so light, so precise, that every nerve ending lights up.
"Fuck," you breathe.
"Good?"
"Yeah. Really good."
He does it again, this time applying slightly more pressure. The soft bristles part your lips just barely, and the sensation is maddening. You're already sensitive from before, and this delicate touch is somehow more intense than anything rougher would be.
"You're so wet," he whispers. "Can see it even in the dark."
Opening you up a little better with the other hand, with the brush he traces the bristles up one side, then down the other, mapping you with careful precision. Your hips shift involuntarily, seeking more pressure, but he keeps the touch feather-light.
"Stay still," he murmurs. "Let me explore.” His chin and head is resting is on your thigh.
You force yourself to relax, and he continues his slow exploration. Up and down, tracing every fold, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you moan. The brush is so soft that it's almost torture; enough sensation to drive you crazy but not enough to satisfy.
Then he drags it directly over your clit.
"Oh fuck—" Your whole body jerks.
"There?" he asks, voice soft.
"Yes. Right there."
He does it again, just as slowly, and the sensation makes your thighs tremble. The bristles are so soft that they don't overwhelm—they just tease, building the pressure gradually.
"Tell me how it feels," he whispers.
"Like... like electricity. But soft. I can feel every single bristle."
"Good." He circles your clit with the brush, not touching it directly, just around the edges. "Want more?"
"Yes."
He drags the brush directly over your clit again, this time with slightly more pressure. The sensation makes you arch up off the bed, and he makes a satisfied sound.
"So responsive," he murmurs. "Love watching you react to this."
He establishes a rhythm—slow strokes up and over your clit, then circling around it, then back up again. The pressure builds gradually, and you can feel yourself getting wetter. The brush is probably soaked by now, but he doesn't stop.
"Getting close?" he asks.
"Yeah. Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning on it."
He keeps that same slow, deliberate pace. No rushing, no urgency; just steady, precise strokes that make the pressure coil tighter and tighter in your belly. Your breathing gets heavier, and your hips start moving in small circles, chasing the sensation.
"That's it," he whispers. "Take what you need."
You're right there, right on the edge. He pulls away and waits until your breathing slows slightly, until you're not quite so close. Then he brings the brush back, this time starting at your entrance and dragging it slowly up through your folds.
The sensation makes you whimper. You're so sensitive now that even that light touch feels overwhelming.
"So pretty like this," he murmurs. "All spread out for me, so wet and desperate."
“Put it on my clit. Please."
He drags the brush up, but instead of going directly over your clit, he traces around it. Teasing. Building.
"Here?" he asks, voice soft.
"Higher. A little to the left."
He adjusts, and when the brush finally makes contact with your clit, you moan.
“There?"
“More.”
“Here?"
"Yes. Right there. Don't move."
He keeps the brush in that exact spot, applying gentle pressure. The sensation is perfect—not too much, not too little. Just steady, constant stimulation that makes the pressure build again.
"Like this?" he whispers.
"Yes. Maybe tap it. Up and down. Gently."
He does, lifting the brush and bringing it back down in soft, rhythmic taps directly on your clit. The sensation is incredible, each tap sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and the rhythm is hypnotic.
"Fuck, yes," you breathe. "Just like that."
"You're shaking."
He keeps tapping, maintaining that perfect rhythm. Your thighs are trembling, and you can feel yourself getting close again. The pressure is building faster this time, more intense.
"I'm close," you gasp.
"I know. Can see your pussy clenching. Some of my cum from before is still leaking out of you. Want to watch you come like this."
"Don't stop—"
"Not stopping. Gonna make you come with just this brush. Gonna watch you fall apart."
His words combined with the steady tapping push you closer. You're right there, right on the edge. You make a desperate sound, but he's already moved the brush another direction. Your whole body is trembling with need, and you can feel tears of frustration pricking at your eyes.
When he finally brings the brush back to that spot, you're so sensitive that even the first touch makes you cry out.
"Easy," he whispers. "Gonna take care of you."
He starts at your entrance again, dragging the brush slowly up through your folds. When he reaches your clit, he doesn't tease this time, just applies steady, gentle pressure right where you need it.
"Stroke it. Up and down. Slow."
He does exactly what you ask, dragging the brush up over your clit in long, slow strokes. The sensation is perfect—not too fast, not too hard. Just steady, deliberate movement that makes the pressure build immediately.
"Yes," you breathe. "Just like that. Oh, that’s gonna make me fucking cum. Don’t change anything."
He maintains that exact rhythm, slow strokes up over your clit, each one sending waves of pleasure through you. Your hips are moving now, small circles that match his rhythm, and you can feel yourself right on the edge.
"I'm gonna come," you gasp. "Don't stop—"
"Not stopping. Come for me, baby."
The next stroke pushes you over. Your orgasm hits in slow, rolling waves, not the sharp, intense peak from before, but something deeper, more sustained. He keeps stroking the brush up over your clit, maintaining that same slow, steady rhythm, and it draws out your orgasm until you're shaking.
"That's it," he whispers. "So fucking beautiful when you come."
The pleasure keeps rolling through you, wave after wave, and he doesn't stop. Just keeps that slow, deliberate stroking until you're gasping, until your whole body is trembling with aftershocks.
Finally, when you can't take anymore, you reach down and gently push his hand away.
"Too much," you breathe.
He sets the brush aside and moves up beside you, pulling you against him. You're still shaking, still catching your breath, and he just holds you.
"Holy shit," you finally manage.
"Good?"
"That was.. I don't even have words for what that was."
He makes a satisfied sound and kisses your temple. "Found a new toy."
Despite your exhaustion, you laugh. "Apparently."
You're both quiet for a moment, just breathing together in the darkness. His hand traces lazy patterns on your hip, and you can feel yourself starting to drift.
"What time is it?" you murmur.
"No idea. Early. Sun's not up yet."
"Should sleep."
"Yeah." But neither of you moves. Just lie there tangled together, warm and sated and completely at peace.
Eventually, sleep pulls you both under again. This time, there are no more interruptions.
You wake to the sound of his breathing, deep, steady, peaceful. The room is still dark, but there's the faintest hint of gray light creeping in around the edges of the door. Maybe an hour has passed. Maybe less.
You're curled against his side, and he's on his back, one arm thrown above his head, completely relaxed in sleep. It's rare to see him like this—unguarded, vulnerable, at peace.
Your eyes drift to the nightstand where he left the makeup brush.
A slow smile curves your lips.
Moving carefully so you don't wake him, you reach over and pick it up. The bristles are still slightly damp from before, and the memory of what he did to you with this simple object makes heat pool low in your belly.
Turnabout's fair play.
You shift slowly, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can see him better. In the dim light, his body is all sharp lines and defined muscle—the product of decades as a weapon, but also beautiful in a way that makes your chest ache.
You start at his collarbone.
The first touch of the brush against his skin is feather-light, just barely there. You drag it slowly across his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone, then down over his pectoral muscle. His breathing doesn't change, but you see the slightest twitch in his jaw.
Still asleep. Or pretending to be.
You continue your exploration, dragging the brush down over his ribs, across his abs. His stomach muscles contract slightly under the touch, and you smile. Definitely not fully asleep anymore.
"What are you doing?" His voice is rough with sleep, barely above a whisper.
"Exploring," you murmur mockingly, not stopping. "Go back to sleep."
"Not sure I can do that."
"Try."
You drag the brush lower, tracing the defined V of muscle that disappears beneath the sheet pooled at his hips. His breathing gets slightly heavier, and when you glance up at his face, his eyes are still closed but there's tension in his jaw now.
"You're awake," you say softly.
"Hard not to be."
You pull the sheet down slowly, exposing him completely. He's already half-hard, his cock resting against his thigh, and the sight makes your mouth go dry.
"Found your toy," you whisper.
His lips curve into the faintest smile. "That's my toy."
"Not anymore."
You drag the brush down his hip, then along his inner thigh. The muscles jump under the touch, and his breathing hitches.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Sensitive?"
"You have no idea."
You trace the brush higher, along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, deliberately avoiding where he's getting harder by the second. His hips shift slightly, seeking more contact, but you keep the touch light and teasing.
"Patience," you murmur, echoing his words from earlier.
"Not my strong suit."
"I know."
You finally drag the brush along the underside of his cock, from base to tip, and the reaction is immediate. His whole body tenses, his breath catching, and his cock twitches and hardens fully.
"Jesus—" His voice breaks slightly.
"Good?"
"Yeah. Really fucking good."
You do it again, this time applying slightly more pressure. The soft bristles create a sensation that's completely different from your hand or mouth—delicate but intense, teasing every nerve ending.
"You're already so hard," you whisper. "Love watching you respond to this."
His voice is strained. "Feels incredible."
You establish a slow rhythm, dragging the brush up along his shaft, then circling around the head, then back down. His breathing gets heavier with each stroke, and you can see his hands fisting in the sheets beside him.
"Where do you want it?" you ask softly, “I want to do it the same way you did it to me."
“Okay,” he stretches his left leg out a little more, "Right there. Under the head. That spot — a little more—fuck, right there. There. Brush it there.”
You focus the brush on that sensitive spot just under the crown, using small circular motions that make his hips jerk up off the bed.
"Oh shit," he gasps.
"Not yet." You lift the brush away, and he makes a frustrated sound. "Gonna make this last."
"You're evil."
"Learned from the best."
You wait until his breathing slows slightly, until he's not quite so close to the edge. Then you bring the brush back, this time starting at his balls and dragging it slowly up his shaft.
The sensation makes him groan, low and rough. "Fuck, that's—"
"Tell me what you need," you whisper.
"Slower. Just... take your time."
You do exactly what he asks, dragging the brush up his cock in long, slow strokes. Each one makes him harder, makes his breathing more ragged. You can see precum beading at the tip now, and you use the brush to spread it around the head.
"Oh god—" His voice breaks. "That's so fucking good."
You keep that same slow pace, watching his reactions, learning what makes him gasp and what makes him moan. When you circle the brush around the head of his cock, his whole body tenses.
“My God.” he breathes. "Just like that. Don't stop."
"Here?" You focus on that spot, using gentle circular motions.
"Yes. Fuck, yes. Don’t fucking stop.”
You can feel him getting close again—his breathing is harsh now, his hips moving in small circles, chasing the sensation. Right when you think he's about to come, you lift the brush away. You lean down and press a soft kiss to his hip.
He makes a desperate sound but doesn't argue. You wait longer this time, letting him come down further from the edge. His cock is rock hard now, flushed dark and leaking, and the sight makes you ache.
When you finally bring the brush back, you start at the base and drag it slowly up his shaft. The sensation makes him gasp, and his hands reach down to grip your wrist—not stopping you, just needing to hold onto something.
"Please," he breathes. "Need to come."
You establish a steady rhythm, dragging the brush up over the head of his cock in long, slow strokes. Each one makes him harder, makes his grip on your wrist tighten.
You keep that exact pace, watching his face as the pleasure builds. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, and there's a flush spreading across his chest. He's completely undone, vulnerable in a way you've never seen him before.
"Keep going. Just keep—fuck—“ You suddenly move the brush back to that one spot he wanted it, “YES, touch it! Oh, fuuuuuuuck."
You don't stop, just keep that slow, steady stroking. When his orgasm hits, it's not explosive like before—it's deep, rolling through him in waves that make his whole body shake. He’s half sitting up and he comes across his abs, and you keep stroking the brush gently over his cock, drawing it out until he's gasping.
You set the brush aside and move up beside him, watching as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes are still closed, and there's a sheen of sweat on his skin.
"Holy shit," he finally manages.
You smile and press a kiss to his shoulder. "Good?"
"That was..." He opens his eyes and looks at you. "I don't even know what that was."
"Payback."
Despite his exhaustion, he laughs—a real laugh that makes your chest warm. "Fair enough."
You reach over and grab something to clean him up, then settle back against his side. He pulls you close, one arm wrapping around you, and you can feel his heart still racing against your ribs.
"We're keeping that brush," he murmurs.
"Definitely."
You're both quiet for a moment, just breathing together. The room is getting lighter now—dawn must be close. But neither of you moves. Just lie there tangled together, warm and sated and completely at peace.
"Should probably sleep," you whisper.
"Yeah." His hand traces lazy patterns on your back. "In a minute. Fuck, if I knew this entire time you were a little sex freak like me, we would’ve been doing this every day.”
But you're both already drifting, pulled under by exhaustion and contentment. This time, when sleep takes you, it's deep and dreamless.
The elevator doors opened onto the main floor of Avengers Tower, and immediately, something felt wrong.
You couldn't put your finger on it at first. The hallways looked the same. The lighting was the same. The low hum of activity. Agents moving between offices, the distant sound of keyboards, the occasional murmur of conversation; all of it was exactly as it always was.
But the air felt different. Thick and heavy.
Bucky stepped out first, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
You followed, your own bag in hand, still riding the quiet contentment of the last twenty-four hours. The lockdown had ended. You'd left the safe-house. And despite everything, despite the professional lines you'd crossed, despite the uncertainty of what came next, you felt lighter than you had in months.
That feeling lasted approximately ten seconds.
The first agent you passed, a woman you recognized from intelligence briefings, looked up from her tablet. Her eyes landed on you. Then on Bucky. Then she went completely still.
Not the kind of still that came from being busy or distracted.
The kind of still that came from being caught.
Her gaze flickered away so fast it was like she'd been burned. She turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction without a word.
You glanced at Bucky.
He'd noticed too. His jaw was tight, his eyes tracking the woman's retreat with the kind of focus that meant he was already cataloging threats.
"Weird," you murmured.
He hummed lowly.
"Yeah."
You kept walking.
The next hallway was worse.
Two agents stood near the conference room, talking in low voices. The moment you and Bucky rounded the corner, they stopped mid-sentence. One of them, a guy you'd worked with on a joint task force last year, looked directly at you.
Then he looked away.
Not casually. Not politely.
Like he couldn't bear to hold your gaze.
The other agent muttered something under his breath, and they both moved quickly toward the stairwell, leaving the hallway empty.
Your stomach twisted.
"Okay," you said quietly. "That's not normal."
Bucky didn't answer. But his hand had shifted slightly, hovering near his side in a way that told you he was already on edge. Already preparing for something.
You passed another cluster of people near the operations hub. This time, no one looked away.
They stared.
Not openly. Not rudely. But you felt their eyes on you like a physical weight. Conversations died as you approached. A woman near the back of the group whispered something to the man beside her, and his expression shifted—uncomfortable, awkward, like he didn't know where to look.
You forced yourself to keep walking. Forced yourself not to react.
But your heart was pounding now.
What the hell is going on?
Bucky's voice was low and tight beside you. "Something's wrong."
"I know."
"Everyone's acting like…” He stopped himself. Shook his head. "I don't know what they're acting like."
You didn't either. But the knot in your stomach was getting tighter with every step.
By the time you reached the main conference room, the tension was suffocating.
The room wasn't empty. A handful of agents were gathered near the far wall, reviewing something on an iPad. The moment you stepped inside, every single one of them looked up.
And then, as if choreographed, they all found somewhere else to be.
One grabbed a file and muttered something about a meeting. Another checked his watch and claimed he was late for a briefing. Within thirty seconds, the room had cleared.
You stood there, frozen, your bag still in your hand.
Bucky was staring at the empty doorway, his expression unreadable. But you could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers had curled into a fist.
"They're avoiding us," you said.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. But the look in his eyes told you he was asking himself the same question.
You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but before you could, a familiar voice cut through the silence.
"Buck."
You both turned.
Steve Rogers stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression carefully neutral. But there was something off about him too. Something strained.
He wasn't looking at you.
He was looking at Bucky. And the way he was looking at him—like he was bracing himself for impact—made your pulse spike.
"Steve," Bucky said slowly. "What's going on?"
Steve's jaw tightened. He glanced past you, scanning the hallway like he was checking to see if anyone else was nearby. Then he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
The click of the lock was deafening.
"We need to talk," Steve said quietly.
Bucky's entire body went rigid. "About what?"
Steve hesitated. And in that hesitation, you saw something you'd never seen in Steve Rogers before.
Guilt.
"Not here," Steve said. He gestured toward the hallway. "Come with me."
"Steve—"
"Please."
The word was quiet. Almost pleading.
Bucky exchanged a glance with you. You could see the confusion in his eyes. The wariness. But he nodded.
Steve led you through a series of hallways, moving quickly and deliberately. He didn't speak. Didn't look back. Just kept walking, his shoulders tense, his hands still buried in his pockets like he didn't trust himself to do anything else with them.
You followed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Every agent you passed had the same reaction. Averted eyes and sudden silence. A few whispered conversations that cut off the moment you got close enough to hear.
By the time Steve stopped in front of a nondescript door near the back of the building, your hands were shaking.
He unlocked it with a keycard and stepped inside. You and Bucky followed.
The room was small. Windowless. Just a table, a few chairs, and a single overhead light that cast everything in harsh, clinical white.
Steve closed the door. Locked it.
Then he turned to face you both, and for a long moment, he didn't say anything.
He just stood there, looking at Bucky with an expression that made your stomach drop.
"Steve," Bucky said again, and this time his voice was harder. Sharper. "What the hell is going on?"
Steve exhaled slowly. Ran a hand through his hair. "I need to tell you something. And I need you to let me get through it before you say anything."
"Okay."
Steve's gaze flicked to you. Then back to Bucky. "You know I review your evaluations."
Bucky nodded. "Yeah. So?"
"So I reviewed the one from the safe-house.”
The words hung in the air.
You felt the blood drain from your face.
"What?" Bucky's voice was flat. Dangerous.
Steve's expression didn't change. "Every behavioral evaluation is recorded. It's SHIELD protocol. Has been for years. The recordings are automatically uploaded to a secure server for intelligence review."
Your heart stopped.
"Recorded," you repeated. Your voice sounded distant. Hollow.
Steve nodded. "Video and audio. The system is supposed to stop recording once the evaluation is officially over, but,” He paused. Swallowed. "It didn't."
Bucky went completely still.
"What do you mean it didn't?" you asked.
Steve looked at you. And the guilt in his eyes was so raw, so visceral, that you felt it like a punch to the chest.
"The system malfunctioned. Or maybe it was never set to stop. I don't know. But the recording kept going." Steve's voice was steady, but you could hear the strain beneath it. "It captured everything."
Everything.
The word echoed in your head, but your brain couldn't process it. Couldn't make sense of what he was saying.
Bucky's voice was low. Controlled. "Define everything."
Steve met his gaze. "The evaluation. The conversation. The…” He stopped. Looked away. "All of it."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
You couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
All of it.
The truth game. The confessions. The moment you'd finally admitted un-verbally that you loved him. The kiss. The way his hands had felt on your skin. The way you’d…
“Where where the cameras?” You ask slowly and carefully.
Steve swallowed.
“The office and the hallway,” You could see the disappointment on his face, “The bedroom capture just audio.”
Oh God.
"No," you said. The word came out strangled. "No, that's not…”
"I'm sorry," Steve said, and the pain in his voice was unmistakable. "I reviewed it because I always review Buck's evaluations. I didn't know what was on it until I'd already started watching. By the time I realized what I was seeing, I—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I tried to pull it from the system immediately. But it had already been uploaded."
Bucky still hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked. But you could see the tension radiating off him in waves.
"Uploaded where?" His voice was deadly quiet.
Steve's jaw tightened. "The intelligence review database. It's automatic. Every evaluation gets flagged for analysis."
"Who has access to that database?"
Steve didn't answer.
"Steve." Bucky's voice cracked like a whip. "Who has access?"
"CIA," Steve said finally. "NSA. Homeland Security. Anyone with Level 7 clearance or higher."
The room spun.
"How many people?" you asked. Your voice was shaking now. "How many people have seen it?"
Steve looked at you, and the answer was written all over his face.
"I don't know."
Your knees buckled. You grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself, but it didn't help. Nothing helped.
They'd seen it.
Strangers. Intelligence officers. People you'd never met.
They'd seen you.
They'd seen him.
They'd seen the most private, most intimate moment of your entire life.
"Jesus Christ," Bucky said. His voice was hoarse. Broken.
Steve took a step forward. "Buck—"
"Don't." Bucky held up a hand, and Steve stopped. “Just, don't."
"I tried to stop it," Steve said. "As soon as I realized what was on the recording, I tried to have it pulled. But the system had already processed it. It was already in the database. I couldn't—"
“—You watched it." Bucky's voice was flat. Emotionless.
Steve flinched. "I didn't know what it was. I thought it was a standard evaluation. By the time I realized—"
“—You watched it."
"Yes."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Bucky turned away. His hands were shaking. You could see them trembling at his sides, his fingers curling and uncurling like he didn't know what to do with them.
"How much?" Bucky asked. His voice was barely audible.
"Buck—"
"How much did you see?"
Steve's silence was answer enough.
Bucky made a sound, low, guttural, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He pressed his palms against the table, his head bowed, his shoulders heaving.
You couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Your mind was racing, trying to piece together what this meant. Trying to understand the scope of it.
Steve had seen you. Had seen the way you'd looked at Bucky. The way you'd touched him. The way you’d…fuck.
Your stomach lurched.
"I'm going to be sick," you whispered.
Steve moved toward you, but you held up a hand, stopping him.
"Don't," you said. Your voice was shaking so hard you could barely get the words out.
"I know that doesn't mean anything right now, but I'm sorry. If I could have stopped it, I would have.” Steve.
"But you didn't," Bucky said. His voice was cold. Hollow. "You didn't stop it. And now,” He stopped. Shook his head. "Now everyone knows."
"Not everyone," Steve said quickly. "The recording is classified. It's restricted to intelligence personnel with the right clearance. It's not—"
"It's not what?" Bucky turned to face him, and the look in his eyes was devastating. "It's not public? It's not on the internet? That's supposed to make this better?"
Steve didn't answer.
"They saw us," Bucky said. His voice cracked. "They saw—.“ He couldn't finish the sentence.
You felt tears burning at the corners of your eyes, but you couldn't let them fall. Not here. Not now.
"How many?" you asked again. Your voice was steadier this time. Colder. "How many people have accessed the file?"
Steve hesitated. "I don't have an exact number."
"Guess."
"At least three dozen. Maybe more."
Three dozen.
Three dozen people had watched you fall apart. Had watched you confess things you'd never told anyone.
You pressed a hand to your mouth, fighting the urge to scream.
"Can you delete it?" Bucky asked.
"I'm trying," Steve said. "But it's complicated. The file is part of an active intelligence review. If I delete it without authorization, it'll raise red flags. I'm working with Fury to see if we can have it reclassified or sealed, but—"
"But it's already out there," you said.
Steve nodded.
The room was silent.
You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might shatter. His hands were still shaking.
He looked like he was breaking.
Your knees buckled.
Bucky moved before you could fall. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him, steadying you. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, holding you close.
"I've got you," he murmured. His voice was rough. Broken. But his grip was solid. "I've got you."
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. But his hands were warm and real and the only thing keeping you from completely shattering.
"I thought we were alone," you whispered against his chest.
"We were supposed to be,” Bucky said quietly.
"But we weren't." The words tasted like ash. "We were never alone."
Bucky's arms tightened around you. For a long moment, he just held you, his chin resting on top of your head, his breathing uneven.
Then he pulled back slightly. His hands moved to your shoulders, steadying you as he looked into your eyes.
"Hey," he said softly. His thumb brushed across your cheek, catching a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "Look at me."
You did.
"We're going to figure this out," he said. His voice was steady now. Controlled. "Okay?"
You nodded, even though you didn't believe it.
Bucky's gaze moved toward the door. Something shifted in his expression—something dark and dangerous.
Then he looked back at you. "Baby," he said quietly. "I need you to wait outside for a minute."
You blinked. "What?"
"I need to talk to Steve." His hands squeezed your shoulders gently. "Alone."
"Bucky—"
“—Please." His voice was soft but firm. "Just for a few minutes. I'll come find you. I promise."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to stay. But the look in his eyes told you he needed this.
So you nodded.
Bucky's hand slid down your arm, his fingers tangling briefly with yours before letting go.
You walked to the door on unsteady legs. Paused with your hand on the handle and looked back.
Bucky was watching you, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.
Then you stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind you.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky stood there, his back to the door, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
He counted to ten.
Then he turned and walked back down the hallway to Steve's office.
He didn't knock.
Steve looked up from his desk as the door slammed open. "Buck—"
"Get up."
Steve stood slowly. "Listen, I know you need time—"
"I said get up." Bucky's voice was low. Dangerous.
Steve came around the desk, his hands raised slightly. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't—"
"You watched it." Bucky took a step forward. "You sat there and you watched me fuck her."
Steve flinched. "Buck—"
"Don't." Bucky's voice cracked. "Don't you dare try to soften this. You watched us. You saw everything."
"I tried to stop it as soon as I realized—"
"How long?" Bucky demanded. "How long did it take you to realize what you were watching?"
Steve's jaw worked. "A few minutes."
"A few minutes." Bucky laughed, but there was no humor in it. "So you saw enough. You saw me kiss her. You saw me touch her. You saw—" He stopped. His hands were shaking. "You saw everything."
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry." Bucky shook his head. "You're sorry. That's supposed to fix this?"
"No," Steve said quietly. "Nothing fixes this."
"You're goddamn right nothing fixes this." Bucky took another step forward. "Do you have any idea what you've done? What this means?"
"I know—"
"You don't know." Bucky's voice rose. "You have no idea what it took for me to let someone in like that. To trust someone enough to—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "And now you've seen it. The CIA's seen it. God knows who else has seen it."
"I'm trying to get it sealed—"
"It's too late!" Bucky shouted. "It's already out there. You can't unsee it. They can't unsee it. And now every time I look at you, I'm going to know that you watched me—that you saw her—"
He couldn't finish.
Steve's face was pale. "I never wanted this."
"But it happened anyway." Bucky's voice dropped again. Became something cold and hollow. "You're my best friend. The one person I thought I could trust with anything. And now I can't even look at you without wanting to put my fist through a wall."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to tell me why." Bucky's voice was shaking now. "Why the hell didn't you tell me the cameras were still recording?"
"It's standard protocol—"
"I don't give a shit about protocol!" Bucky slammed his hand against the desk. "You knew I was going into those evaluations. You knew what they were for. And you never once thought to mention that everything I said, everything I did, was being recorded?"
"I assumed you knew—"
"You assumed." Bucky's laugh was bitter. "You assumed I knew. You assumed she knew. But neither of us did. And now—" He stopped. Pressed his palms against his eyes. "Now everyone knows."
"I'm sorry," Steve said again.
"Stop saying that!" Bucky's voice cracked. "Stop apologizing like that makes any of this better. You saw us. You saw me with her. You saw—" He couldn't say it. Couldn't put into words what Steve had witnessed.
The most intimate moment of his life.
The first time he'd let himself be vulnerable with someone in decades.
The first time he'd felt safe enough to let go.
And Steve had watched it all.
"She didn't deserve this," Bucky said finally. His voice was barely audible. "Whatever you think of me, whatever mistakes I've made—she didn't deserve to have her privacy violated like this."
"I know," Steve said quietly. "And I'm sorry. For both of you."
Bucky didn't respond.
Steve took a breath. "For what it's worth—what I saw—" He stopped. Started again. "You looked happy. Both of you. I've never seen you look like that."
Bucky's hands clenched. "Don't."
"I'm just saying—"
"I don't want to hear it." Bucky turned to face him, and the look in his eyes was devastating. "I don't want your observations. I don't want your analysis. I don't want to know what you thought when you watched us. I don't want anything from you right now except a promise that you're going to do everything in your power to make sure that recording disappears."
Steve nodded. "You have my word."
"Your word." Bucky's laugh was bitter. "Yeah. Okay."
He walked to the door.
"Buck—" Steve started.
"Don't follow me," Bucky said without turning around. "Don't try to fix this. Don't try to make it better. Just—leave me alone."
"How long?"
Bucky stopped. His hand was on the door handle. "What?"
"How long do you need?"
Bucky was silent for a long moment.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I don't know if there's enough time in the world to make me forget that my best friend watched me fall in love."
Then he opened the door and walked out, leaving Steve standing alone in the empty office.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
And Steve was left with the weight of what he'd done settling over him like a shroud.
You were waiting in the hallway when Bucky emerged. You'd been pacing, your arms wrapped around yourself, your mind racing.
When you saw him, you stopped.
His face was flushed. His jaw was tight. His hands were still clenched into fists.
But when he saw you, something in his expression softened.
He walked to you without a word and pulled you into his arms.
You buried your face against his chest and finally let yourself cry.
"I've got you," he murmured again. "I've got you."
And for now, that was enough.
But it wasn't.
You pulled back after a moment, wiping at your face with shaking hands. "I can't—" Your voice broke. "I can't stay here."
Bucky's jaw tightened. "Neither can I."
"Everyone knows." The words came out strangled. "Everyone in this building knows what we did. And they saw us.”
"Hey." His hands came up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. "We're leaving. Right now."
You nodded, unable to speak.
Bucky's hand found yours, his grip firm and grounding. "Come on."
He led you down the hallway, moving quickly but not running. You kept your eyes down, focusing on the floor, on his hand in yours, on anything except the faces you passed.
Someone said something as you walked by—you didn't catch the words, but you heard the tone. Sympathetic. Pitying.
Bucky's grip tightened.
You made it to the elevator. The doors opened immediately, mercifully empty. Bucky pulled you inside and jabbed the button for the parking garage.
The doors closed.
The silence was deafening.
You leaned back against the wall, your legs suddenly unsteady. Bucky stood beside you, his shoulder pressed against yours, his hand still holding yours like a lifeline.
"Where are we going?" you asked quietly.
"My place." His voice was rough. "It's closer. And no one from SHIELD knows where it is."
The elevator descended. You watched the numbers tick down, each floor feeling like an eternity.
When the doors finally opened onto the parking garage, Bucky stepped out first, scanning the space like he was expecting an ambush.
It was empty.
He led you to a black motorcycle parked in the corner (of course he had a motorcycle) and pulled a helmet from the storage compartment.
"Here." He handed it to you.
You took it with numb fingers. "What about you?"
"I'll be fine." He swung his leg over the bike and looked back at you. "Get on."
You did.
Your arms wrapped around his waist, and he started the engine. The roar of it filled the garage, echoing off concrete walls.
Then you were moving.
Bucky drove fast—not recklessly, but with so much skill it was illegally handsome. The city blurred around you as he navigated through traffic, taking turns you didn't recognize, doubling back twice to make sure no one was following.
You pressed your face against his back and closed your eyes.
His apartment was in Brooklyn. A brownstone in a quiet, but overpriced, neighborhood.
Bucky parked the bike on the street and helped you off. Your legs were shaking again. He steadied you with a hand on your elbow, then led you up three flights of stairs to a door at the end of the hall.
He unlocked it and stepped inside first, flipping on lights.
The apartment was small. Sparse. A couch, a coffee table, a kitchen barely big enough for one person. But it was clean and quiet and blessedly empty.
Bucky closed the door behind you and locked it. Then he engaged two additional deadbolts and a chain.
You stood in the middle of the living room, your arms wrapped around yourself, not sure what to do.
Bucky turned to face you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he crossed the space between you and pulled you into his arms again.
This time, you didn't cry. You just stood there, holding onto him, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
You pulled back to look at him. "For what?"
"For all of it." His jaw was tight. "For not knowing about the cameras. For not protecting you from it.”
"Stop." You pressed your hand against his chest. "This isn't your fault."
"It feels like it is."
"It's not." Your voice was firmer now. "Neither of us knew. We couldn't have known."
Bucky's hand came up to cover yours. "Doesn't change what happened."
The silence stretched between you.
"What do we do now?" you asked finally.
Bucky exhaled slowly. "I don't know."
You moved away from him, needing space to think. You walked to the window and looked out at the street below. Normal people doing normal things. Walking dogs.
"Steve said the recording is classified," you said quietly. "That it won't go public."
"That doesn't mean it's gone." Bucky's voice was hard. "It's still out there. People have still seen it."
"I know."
"The CIA has it." He said it like a curse. "God knows who else."
You turned to face him. "What do you want to do?"
Bucky's hands curled into fists. "I want to burn every copy of that recording. I want to find everyone who's seen it and make them forget. I want,” He stopped. Shook his head. "I want to go back to yesterday when it was just us."
"Me too."
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression cracked. "I'm so sorry you got dragged into this."
"I'm not." The words surprised you both. "I'm not sorry for what happened between us. I'm sorry it was recorded. I'm sorry other people saw it. But I'm not sorry it happened."
Bucky crossed the room in three strides and kissed you.
His lips were so goddamn soft. It was different from the kisses in the safe-house. Those had been exploratory and tentative This was desperate. Claiming. A reminder that what you had was real, even if it had been violated.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"We'll figure this out," he said quietly.
"How?"
"I don't know yet." His hands came up to cup your face. "But we will."
You wanted to believe him.
You weren't sure you did.
But for now, in this small apartment in Brooklyn, with the door locked and the world held at bay, it was enough to try.
“Hey,” he says softly. You look into his eyes and see something you never really thought you ever would, “I love you.”
You'd been sitting on Bucky's couch for maybe twenty minutes when the knock came.
Three sharp raps against the door. Deliberate. Confident.
You and Bucky both froze.
His hand was still resting on your knee from where he'd been sitting beside you, and you felt his entire body go rigid. His eyes snapped to the door, then back to you.
"You expecting someone?" you whispered.
"No." His voice was flat. Too controlled. "No one knows I live here."
Another knock. Louder this time.
Bucky stood slowly, his movements careful and measured. You watched as he crossed to the door, his hand hovering near the knife block on the kitchen counter as he passed it.
He didn't look through the peephole. Instead, he positioned himself to the side of the door.
There was a pause.
Then: "It's Stark. Open up, Barnes. We need to talk."
Your stomach dropped.
Bucky's jaw tightened. He glanced back at you, and you saw the same dread in his eyes that you felt coiling in your chest.
He unlocked the door.
Tony Stark stood in the hallway wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than your annual salary, sunglasses perched on his head despite the fact that it was nearly evening. He looked tired. More than tired—he looked like he hadn't slept.
His eyes flicked past Bucky immediately, landing on you sitting on the couch.
He didn't look surprised.
"Ah," Tony said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "There you are. Saved me a trip."
Bucky closed the door behind him, his hand still on the knob. "How did you find me?"
"Please." Tony pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket. "I'm a genius billionaire with access to satellite imaging and facial recognition software that makes the NSA look like they're working with Etch A Sketches. You drove here on a motorcycle. In broad daylight." He paused. "Also, I put a tracker in your jacket two years ago. You're welcome."
"Stark—"
"Relax, I'm kidding about the tracker." Tony's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Mostly."
You stood up from the couch, your arms wrapping around yourself. "What are you doing here?"
Tony looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression shifted. The trademark Stark bravado flickered, just for a second, and you saw something underneath it.
Sympathy.
Pity.
Your chest tightened.
"I'm here because—" Tony stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "Look, is there any chance either of you have something stronger than water in this place? Because I could really use a drink right now, and I have a feeling you're going to want one too."
Bucky didn't move. "Just say it."
"Bucky—"
"Say it."
Tony exhaled slowly. He looked between the two of you, and for once, he didn't have a quip ready. No sarcastic deflection. No pop culture reference to soften the blow.
He just looked tired.
"There's been fallout," Tony said finally. "From the recording."
Your knees went weak. You sat back down on the couch before they could give out entirely.
Bucky stayed standing, his body coiled tight. "What kind of fallout?"
Tony moved further into the apartment, his hands sliding into his pockets. He looked around—at the sparse furniture, the bare walls, the single window overlooking the street—and you could see him cataloging everything. Processing.
"The CIA accessed the recording before Steve could pull it," Tony said. "You already know that part. What you don't know is that it didn't stop there."
"Who else saw it?" Bucky's voice was dangerously quiet.
"Does it matter?" Tony turned to face him. "Too many people. People with clearance. People with opinions. People with—" He stopped himself. "People who think they have a say in how this gets handled."
You felt like you were going to be sick.
"Handled," you repeated. The word tasted bitter. "How is this being *handled*, Tony?"
He looked at you, and you saw him hesitate. Actually hesitate. Tony Stark, who never hesitated, who always had an answer, who could talk his way out of anything.
He was stalling.
"Tony." Bucky's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "What did they do?"
Tony pulled his hands from his pockets. Crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Settled on clasping them in front of him like he was about to deliver a eulogy.
"She's been fired," he said quietly, nodding toward you. "Effective immediately. And you're on temporary suspension pending a formal review."
The words hit like a physical blow.
You couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't process what he'd just said because it didn't make sense, it couldn't make sense, this couldn't be happening—
"What?" Bucky's voice was barely above a whisper.
"I'm sorry." Tony's expression was genuine. Pained. "I tried to stop it. I really did. But this came from way above my head. CIA brass, SHIELD oversight, people whose names I'm not even cleared to know—they all saw the recording, and they all agreed that there needed to be consequences."
"Consequences." You heard yourself say the word, but it sounded distant. Like someone else was speaking. "Consequences for what?"
"For the ethics violation." Tony looked at you. "You were his assigned profiler. There are rules about—"
"I know what the rules are." Your voice was shaking. "But we didn't—it wasn't—"
"I know." Tony held up a hand. "I know. And for what it's worth, I don't think you did anything wrong. Neither does Steve. Neither does anyone with half a brain and a shred of human decency."
"But?" Bucky's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
"But the people making the decisions don't care about context." Tony's voice hardened. "They care about optics. They care about liability. They care about the fact that a SHIELD behavioral profiler and her subject were caught on camera in a—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "In a compromising position. And they decided that someone needed to take the fall for it."
"So they fired her." Bucky's voice was flat. Dead.
"Yes."
"And I'm suspended."
"Temporarily. Pending review." Tony looked at Bucky. "Which, let's be honest, is bureaucratic speak for 'we'll let you back eventually but we need to make it look like we're taking this seriously.'"
You couldn't feel your hands. Couldn't feel anything except the crushing weight of what he'd just said.
Fired.
Your career. Your entire career. Everything you'd worked for. Gone.
Because you'd fallen in love with someone you were supposed to be helping.
Because you'd been honest.
Because you'd been human.
"This is bullshit." Bucky's voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. "She didn't do anything wrong."
"I agree." Tony's tone was careful. "But it doesn't change what happened."
"She was doing her job." Bucky took a step toward Tony. "She was helping me. She was the only person who—" His voice cracked. "She was the only person who saw me as something other than a weapon or a victim, and now she's being punished for it?"
"I know." Tony didn't back down. "I know, and I'm sorry. But the decision's been made."
"Then unmake it."
"I can't."
"You're Tony Stark." Bucky's voice was rising. "You can do whatever you want."
"Not this." Tony's expression was grim. "This came from people I can't touch. People who don't answer to me. People who saw that recording and decided that the best way to handle the PR nightmare was to make an example out of her."
"An example." You heard yourself laugh. It sounded hollow. Broken. "I'm an example."
Tony turned to you, and the sympathy in his eyes was almost worse than the news itself. "I'm sorry. I really am. If there was anything I could do—"
"But there isn't." You stood up, your legs somehow holding you even though you felt like you were falling apart. "So why are you here? To deliver the news in person? To make sure we understood the consequences of—" Your voice broke. "Of what? Caring about each other?"
"No." Tony's voice was firm. "I'm here because you deserved to hear it from someone who actually gives a damn about what happened to you. Not from some faceless bureaucrat who's never met either of you and doesn't care that you were set up to fail."
"Set up to fail?" Bucky's voice was sharp.
"You were recorded without your knowledge or consent." Tony looked between the two of you. "In a room that you had every reason to believe was private. During a moment that should have been private. And now you're both paying the price for something that never should have been seen by anyone." He paused. "That's not justice. That's a violation. And the fact that they're punishing you for it instead of the system that allowed it to happen?" He shook his head. "It's wrong."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
You sank back down onto the couch, your hands shaking.
Fired.
The word kept echoing in your head.
Fired.
Everything you'd worked for. Your entire career. Your reputation. Your future.
Gone.
Because you'd fallen in love.
Bucky moved to sit beside you, his hand finding yours. His grip was tight. Grounding.
"What happens now?" he asked quietly.
Tony exhaled slowly. "Now? You lay low. You don't talk to anyone from SHIELD or the CIA. You don't make statements. You don't try to fight this." He looked at Bucky. "Your suspension is temporary. You'll be reinstated once the review is complete. It's a formality."
"And her?"
Tony's expression darkened. "Her termination is permanent."
You felt Bucky's hand tighten around yours.
"There has to be something we can do," Bucky said.
"There isn't." Tony's voice was gentle but firm. "Not right now. Maybe down the line, once this blows over, there might be options. But right now?" He shook his head. "Right now, the best thing you can do is stay out of sight and let the dust settle."
"That's it?" Bucky's voice was incredulous. "That's your advice? Hide and hope it goes away?"
"No." Tony met his gaze. "My advice is to survive this. Both of you. Because the people who made this decision? They're hoping you'll fight back. They're hoping you'll make noise and give them an excuse to make this even worse." He paused. "Don't give them the satisfaction."
You couldn't speak. Couldn't process. Couldn't do anything except sit there and feel the weight of everything crashing down around you.
Tony moved toward the door, then stopped. Turned back.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I'm sorry this happened to you. Both of you. You didn't deserve this."
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And you and Bucky sat in the silence, the reality of what had just happened settling over you like a shroud.
You'd lost everything.
And there was nothing either of you could do about it.
The door clicked shut behind Tony.
Neither of you moved.
The silence was suffocating. Heavy. Like the air itself had turned solid and was pressing down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe.
You stood there, staring at the closed door, your mind still trying to process what had just happened.
Fired.
The word kept echoing in your head.
Fired.
Everything you'd worked for. Everything you'd sacrificed. Everything you'd built.
Gone.
You felt something crack inside you.
"I told you," you said quietly.
Bucky turned to look at you. "What?"
"I told you." Your voice was shaking. "Back at the safe-house. I told you this could happen.” He didn't say anything. "I told you I was terrified of this." You turned to face him, and you could feel the anger rising in your chest like a wave. "I told you exactly what I was afraid of, and you—"
"I know."
"Do you?" Your voice was getting louder. "Do you actually know? Because I just lost everything, Bucky. Everything I worked for. Everything I worked for.” Your voice cracked. "I spent years building my career. Years earning the trust to work with people like you. Years proving I was good enough to be in that room."
Bucky's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.
"I told you," you continued, and now the words were spilling out faster, sharper. "I told you I was scared. I told you that if we crossed that line, if we got together,” You stopped. Swallowed. "I told you I could lose everything."
"I remember."
"Then why didn't you—" You stopped yourself. Shook your head. "No. That's not fair. We both—" You pressed your hands to your face. "God, I don't even know what I'm saying."
"You're angry," Bucky said quietly.
An absurd laugh left your lips.
"Of course I'm angry!" You dropped your hands. "I just got fired, Bucky. Fired. For doing my job. For helping you,” Your voice broke. "For falling in love with you."
He flinched.
You saw it. The way his entire body reacted to those words like they were a physical blow.
“I don’t regret what happened, and I don’t regret falling for you, but I don't think you understand what I just lost."
"I do."
"No." You shook your head. "You're suspended. Temporarily. You'll be back in a few weeks, maybe a month. But me?" Your voice cracked again. "I'm done. Permanently. My entire career is over because I…” You stopped.
"Because of me," Bucky said quietly.
You froze.
"What?"
"Because of me." His voice was flat. Emotionless. "You lost your career because of me."
"That's not—"
“—It is." He looked at you, and his eyes were dark. Hollow. "You were doing your job. You were helping me. And I,” He stopped. "I pushed. I asked you to play that game. I asked you those questions. I—"
“—Stop."
"I made you cross that line."
"Bucky, stop."
"You told me you were scared," he continued, and his voice was getting quieter. "You told me what you were afraid of, and I didn't listen. I didn't care. I just,” He shook his head. "I wanted you so badly that I didn't think about what it would cost you."
"That's not true."
"It is." He looked at you. "And now you're paying for it."
You stared at him.
He wasn't defending himself.
He wasn't reminding you that you'd made the choice together.
He wasn't pointing out that you'd kissed him first, that you'd told him you wanted this, that you'd said you didn't regret it.
He was just standing there.
Taking the blame.
Accepting it like it was his to carry.
"Bucky—"
"I'm sorry." His voice was rough. "I'm so sorry. If I could go back and—"
"And what?" Your anger was fading now, replaced by something else. Something that felt like grief. "Go back and not fall in love with me?"
He didn't answer.
"Is that what you want?" you asked quietly. "To go back and pretend we never—"
"No." The word came out sharp. Definitive. "No, I don't want that."
"Then what do you want?"
He paced the floor and then turned sharply to face you.
"I want you to not have lost everything because of me." His hands were shaking. "I want you to still have your career. Your future. Everything you worked for. I want,” He stopped. "I want you to not be standing here hating me.”
Your heart broke at his words.
"I don't hate you."
“Well, you should."
"Well, I don't." You took a step toward him. "I'm angry. I'm devastated. I’m," Your voice broke. "I'm terrified of what happens next. But I don't hate you."
He looked at you like he didn't believe you.
"Bucky." You moved closer. "I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at,” You gestured vaguely. "At all of it. At the system. At the people who made this decision. At the fact that we were recorded without knowing. At,” You stopped and took in a deep breath. "I'm angry that the worst thing I imagined actually happened."
"Because of me."
"No." You shook your head. "Because of a system that punishes people for being human. Because of people who saw something private and decided to make it public. Because we fell in love in a world that doesn't allow for that."
Bucky's jaw tightened.
"I told you I was scared," you said quietly. "And I was. I was terrified. But I also told you—I didn't regret it."
"You said that before you got fired."
"I'm saying it now too.” He stared at you. "But I don't regret you.” His eyes were shining, "I'm angry," you continued. "I'm so angry I can barely breathe. But I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at everything else.” Bucky didn't move., ”Say something," you whispered.
"I don't know what to say." His voice was rough. "I don't know how to fix this."
"You can't."
"I know." He looked at you. "But I want to. I want to make this right."
"There is no making this right." You felt tears burning in your eyes. "It's done. I'm fired. You're suspended. The recording is out there. We can't undo any of it."
"Then what do we do?” You didn't have an answer. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Bucky moved.
He crossed the space between you and pulled you into his arms.
You didn't resist.
You let him hold you, let yourself collapse against his chest, let the tears finally come.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair. "I'm so sorry.” His arms tightened around you.
You stood there in the middle of his apartment, holding each other, both of you broken in different ways but neither of you willing to let go.
"I don't regret it," you said again, your voice muffled against his chest, “But I'm allowed to be angry. And scared.” You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red. His jaw was tight. He looked like he was barely holding himself together, ”We'll figure this out," he said quietly.
"You keep saying that."
"Because I have to believe it's true." His hand came up to cup your face. "I have to believe there's a way through this."
"What if there isn't?"
"Then we'll make one."
You wanted to believe him.
You wanted to believe that love was enough.
That somehow, despite everything, you'd find a way forward.
But right now, standing in his apartment with your career in ruins and his future uncertain, you didn't know if belief was enough.
"I'm tired," you whispered.
"I know."
"I don't want to think about this anymore."
"Then don't." He pulled you back against his chest. "Just—stay here. With me. We'll figure out the rest later."
You nodded against him.
Later.
You'd deal with everything later.
Right now, you just needed to breathe.
Bucky sat on the couch, his back against the armrest, one leg stretched along the cushions. You lay against him, your head on his chest, your body curled into his side. Neither of you had moved in what felt like hours.
The argument had burned itself out. There was nothing left to say.
You'd screamed at him—not because you blamed him, but because you needed somewhere to put the grief. He'd let you. He hadn't defended himself, hadn't tried to explain away what had happened. He just stood there and took it, because he knew you were right to be angry. You'd warned him. You'd told him exactly what would happen if you crossed that line.
And you'd crossed it anyway.
Now your career was gone. His was hanging by a thread. And the most private moments of your lives had been watched by people who had no right to see them.
Bucky stared at the ceiling. His hand rested on your back, fingers spread across your shoulder blade. He could feel you breathing—slow and steady, but not relaxed. You weren't asleep. Neither of you were.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
Your fingers curled against his shirt. "I know."
"I mean it."
"I know you do." Your voice was hoarse from crying, from yelling. "It doesn't change anything."
He swallowed. "No. It doesn't."
Silence settled over you both again. Heavy. Suffocating.
But you didn't pull away.
That was the thing he couldn't reconcile. You'd lost everything because of him—because of what you'd done together—and you were still here. Still pressed against him like he was the only solid thing left in your world.
Maybe he was.
Maybe you both were, for each other.
Your hand moved slightly, fingers tracing the edge of his ribs through the fabric of his shirt. It wasn't absent-minded. It was deliberate. Slow.
Bucky's breath caught.
You shifted against him, your thigh pressing more firmly against his hip. Your head tilted, and he felt the warmth of your breath against his collarbone.
"Hey," he murmured.
You didn't answer. Just kept moving. Small adjustments that brought your body closer to his. Your hand slid lower, resting on his stomach now. Your fingers splayed wide, and he felt the heat of your palm through his shirt.
His heart was pounding. He didn't know if you could hear it.
"You don't have to—" he started.
"I know." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want to."
He closed his eyes. His hand moved from your back to your hair, fingers threading through the strands. "We just…”
"I know what we just did." You lifted your head, and when he opened his eyes, you were looking at him. Your face was still blotchy from crying. Your eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted. But there was something else there too. Something raw and certain. "I know what we lost. I know what this cost us. But I don't want to be anywhere else." Your voice cracked. "Because the only place I feel like I can breathe right now is right here. With you."
Bucky's throat tightened. He cupped your face with his right hand, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I don't deserve that."
You leaned into his touch.
You kissed him then. Soft and slow, like you were trying to memorize the shape of his mouth. He kissed you back, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, holding you close.
When you pulled away, you didn't go far. Your forehead rested against his, and your hand moved lower, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Is this okay?" you whispered.
He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's okay."
You shifted, sitting up slightly so you could straddle his hips. Your knees pressed into the couch on either side of him, and you settled your weight onto his thighs. Your hands rested on his chest, and you looked down at him with an expression he couldn't quite name.
Grief. Exhaustion. Love.
All of it at once.
Bucky's hands found your waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. "You sure about this?"
"Are you?"
"I asked you first."
A ghost of a smile crossed your face. It didn't last. "I'm sure."
He nodded. "Okay."
You leaned down and kissed him again, deeper this time. Your hips rolled forward, a slow, deliberate movement that made his breath hitch. He could feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of your leggings, and his body responded instinctively.
He felt it too. He knew because you made a soft sound against his mouth and did it again.
"Jesus," he muttered.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your hands moved to the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it over your head in one smooth motion. No bra. You hadn't bothered putting one back on after you'd gotten home.
Bucky's hands slid up your sides, palms skimming over your ribs, your breasts. You arched into his touch, eyes fluttering closed.
"Come here," he said quietly.
You did. You leaned down, and he kissed you again, slower this time. His hands moved to your hips, guiding you as you rocked against him. The friction was maddening, even through your clothes.
You broke the kiss, breathing hard. "Bucky—"
"I know." He shifted beneath you, reaching down to push his sweatpants and boxers down just enough. He didn't bother taking them off completely. There was no rush. No urgency. Just the two of you, moving together in the dim light of the apartment.
You lifted yourself slightly, and he helped you slide your leggings and underwear down your thighs. You kicked them off, and then you were back, settling onto his lap again.
For a moment, you both just looked at each other.
"I love you," you said. Your voice was steady. Certain.
"I love you too."
You reached between you, wrapping your fingers around him. He groaned, head falling back against the couch. You stroked him slowly, and he felt like he was going to lose his mind.
"Please," he muttered.
You positioned yourself over him, and then you sank down, slow and careful. He felt every inch of you, the tight heat of your body enveloping him. You gasped, hands bracing on his shoulders.
"Okay?" he asked, voice strained.
You nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."
You started to move. Slow, rolling motions that had him gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. He didn't mean to. He just needed something to hold onto.
You didn't seem to mind.
Your head fell forward, forehead resting against his. Your breaths mingled, hot and uneven. You moved like you had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else you needed to be.
Bucky's hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. You were so warm.
"God," you whispered. "Bucky—"
"I know.."
You kissed him, messy and desperate. Your movements became less controlled, more instinctive. He met you halfway, hips lifting to match your rhythm.
It wasn't frantic. It wasn't wild. It was something quieter. Something that felt like grief and comfort and love all tangled together.
You broke the kiss, burying your face against his neck. He felt your breath, hot and ragged, against his skin. Felt the way your body trembled as you moved.
You wanted to tell him you were close but the words dissolved into a moan.
You did. He felt it in the way your body tightened around him, in the way your fingers dug into his shoulders. You made a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, and he held you through it, one hand cradling the back of your head.
He followed a moment later, his own release crashing over him in waves. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
For a long time, neither of you moved.
You stayed where you were, still connected to him, your body draped over his. His arms were wrapped around you, and he could feel your heartbeat against his chest.
"We're going to be okay," you whispered eventually.
Bucky didn't know if that was true. He didn't know what came next. Didn't know if you'd ever get your lives back.
But he knew this: you were here. You were choosing him. And that had to be enough.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "We will."
You lifted your head, and when you looked at him, your eyes were wet again. But you were smiling. Just a little.
"I don't regret it," you said. "Any of it."
He kissed your forehead. "Me neither."
You stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, until the light outside started to fade. And for the first time since everything had fallen apart, Bucky felt like maybe, just maybe, you’d find a way through this.
Together.
The air three hundred feet below ground tasted of recycled oxygen and old concrete. No windows. No natural light. Only the pale blue glow of a dozen monitors arranged in a crescent, each one flickering with frozen frames.
The largest screen showed them: Bucky and Y/N, bodies curved together in the half-dark of his apartment, her face pressed against his chest, his hand cradled at the nape of her neck. The image was grainy but intimate. Too intimate.
The hum of servers filled the silence—a low, mechanical breathing that never stopped.
A figure sat motionless before the monitors. Shadows pooled in the hollows of the room, obscuring everything but the faint outline of shoulders, the suggestion of a uniform. Watching. Always watching.
Eight tentacles.
A gloved hand moved into the light.
Leather creaked as fingers hovered over the controls, then pressed down with deliberate care. The image froze. The timestamp stopped. The screen went dark, reflecting nothing but the room's own emptiness.
Summery of fic: Reader/Jess Harper has already survived abuse and sexual assault by stepbrother Nate Millers, but the reward was a prison sentence for murder at Litchfield penitentiary…
What happens when you/Jess come face to face with Nate’s old colleagues and friends, Correctional Officers Steve Rogers and James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, who both seem set on making you pay for your mistakes. Will you be able to survive it all over again?
Pairing (kinda): Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Nate Millers (OMC) x Reader
Words: 6732
Warnings: DARK AU, dubcon/noncon elements, Dark!Bucky, Dark!Steve, implied sexual acts, sexual acts, mention of murder, mentions of death, mentions of violence, mentions of NC/SA and death, mentions of blood
You have been warned.
Chapter 29
-
Once again, you found yourself in the vacant corridors leading down to medical, Steve by your side. He had handed you a paper towel to keep pressed against the wound, which you had taken after a little bit of hesitation. It had started off all crispy and white, but was now covered in crimson and falling apart in your hand.
Breathing was becoming harder and harder, and the dried blood in your nose didn’t make it any easier. It was like you hadn’t taken a real breath in years, your lungs working like crazy just to draw air. You weren’t sure if it was from panic or pain; either mental, emotional or physical. Maybe it was just a mix of all of the above.
Your mind was starting to fog over again, and all it could do was asses the danger of the situation, telling you to haul ass before the officer raped you again. Or beat you. Or killed you. Whatever he might be planning on doing.
But Steve wasn’t planning to do anything besides get you to Banner and get you patched up. You were bleeding quite a bit by the looks of it, and he was worried Diaz had managed to puncture an organ. He prayed that wasn’t the case. He prayed her craft skills weren’t up to par with her aggression, and that the homemade shank had only managed to penetrate your skin, and nothing else.
He walked you through the hallways slowly, making sure the bleeding didn’t get worse. But suddenly you doubled over, grabbing your abdomen even harder from the movement.
“A-agh...” you groaned, reaching a hand out to support yourself against the wall.
You were getting dizzy, your senses overrun and on hyperalert all the time. All of a sudden you hadn’t been able to keep your eyes open, and had taken a stumbling step.
Steve was quick to grab your other side, his hand covering yours where it pressed down against the blood. His other hand reached over to your shoulder, gripping it to keep you standing.
“Easy, easy,” he said in an attempt to calm you, but all you could think of was his hands on you.
You wanted to recoil from him, get some distance. But not only didn’t you want to anger him or upset him, you weren’t sure you’d actually be able to stay standing should you even try. The added pressure and stress he was causing from just being there was just piling on the rest, you felt like crumbling into a heap. So, you let him help you, let him touch you if that was what he wanted. Let him do what he wants, that’s always the best way to stay alive.
You went to take a step, but the pain flared up when both yours and his hand moved. Steve misinterpreted your pain, thinking it was from taking a step that had done it, and not the movement on the wound.
Before you knew it, he hoisted you up in his arms. You threw an arm around his neck out of instinct to keep yourself balanced, the other one still pressing on the wound. But the tension that seized your body from the proximity made it all worse.
“Huh!” you gasped, and froze in his arms.
You held onto him tightly, thinking that in some way it would mean less touching if you did, if he didn’t have to keep holding you up. But he still did. He still kept you close to him, holding you in his arms, surrounding you completely in his essence. His scent was overwhelming even through your clogged nose when your face came close to his neck, his cologne oaky and musky, if it wasn’t just him. His body was warm against your, his shoulders and neck strong wherever you grazed.
“You okay?” he asked, concerned about how you went stiff all of a sudden.
What could you say? You didn’t dare tell the man no. You were beyond worried that he would be upset should you try to move away from him. Fear had you in its vicelike grip, much like the one Steve had on you. Once again, you came to fear his strength and power, so you stayed as docile as you could. On the outside.
You nodded your head, not trusting your voice enough to speak. Steve searched your face, his brows knitting together as he took in your petrified face and rigid body. Your gaze was set on his neck, glazed over and wet still from crying. Or so he thought.
He started walking, having no trouble carrying the extra weight, as he passed through the last corridor. During it all you were as stiff as a log of wood in his hands, not moving a muscle unless it was from his own movement. When he kicked a foot out to open the swing door, you flinched back, not able to hold back a worried gasp and consequently pressed yourself closer to him to get away from the noise.
Steve looked down at you once he felt the jump of your body, but didn’t have time to comment on it or ask about it, before Bruce appeared from a back room. He looked worriedly at you laying in Steve’s arms, hurriedly reaching for the door to the exam room before Steve could even nod to it.
“What happened?” he asked quickly, letting Steve carry you through the door.
“A few inmates ganged up on her,” Steve explained, and set you down on the cot. “She’s been stabbed with a shiv.”
Your mental mantra was chanting ‘don’t run, don’t run, don’t run’ when you felt the softness of the bed beneath you, and the release of Steve’s grip. There was nothing you wanted more than to scud into a corner and hide away, begging him not to hurt you. But that usually had the opposite effect you had learned, so you opted for a slower approach, and let Steve take the lead in setting you down.
Steve looked down at you, but you didn’t dare look him in the eye again. One quick glance from his shoulder to his chin was all he got.
“Thank you, sir,” you said meekly, scooting higher up on the bed, hoping it would create some distance, but you weren’t so lucky.
The skin around the wound pulled, and you winced painfully at it. The noise kept Steve from leaving, his prior understanding for your need of space long gone, and replaced with simple concern. He stayed by your side as Bruce came up to your other side, both looking worriedly down at you where you lay stiff as a board.
“How bad is it?” Bruce asked Steve, who shook his head.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen it yet.”
What he should have said was that you didn’t want him to see, or anyone for that matter, but he didn’t. So, Bruce when unabashedly reached to lift up your shirt, he didn’t expect the flinch and gasp.
“No!”
You pressed your hand down even harder, not caring about the pain as long as no one touched you, as long as no one saw what lay underneath. Whatever footage, whatever proof had leaked and shown what marked your body, it didn’t matter. The pictures were frozen in time, the videos just showing glimpses of your life. Your body carried your entire life story, and you had to be there for anyone to see it. And you rather not be.
Both men shared a look of worry, before once again paying you all the attention. Bruce took a breath and held it, seeming a bit lost for words and trying to bide his time to find the right ones.
“Jess,” he said softly, opting for the less formal use of your name. “I have to look, otherwise I cannot help you.”
You knew that. You weren’t a fool, you were just scared. Afraid of what the nurse might think, what Steve might think and how they would judge you. Would they ask a million questions? Would they terrorize your mind with their inquires? Would they find you disgusting and broken? There was only so much you could take, and you were closing in on the edge fast.
“I’m sure it’s fine, sir,” you said, almost pleaded. “I’ll take care of it.”
You tried to sit up, but even before the pain could stop you, both Steve and Bruce placed an unwanted hand on each one of your shoulders to keep you from leaving. You froze like they had cracked a whip in front of your face.
“No, no, no,” Bruce said, cutting Steve off before he could say anything. “You are not leaving this room until I’ve had a good look at the damage.”
Bruce waited a beat, seeing what your reaction might be to him being so crude. When there was none, which in itself was a reaction, he gave Steve an apologetic look before speaking.
“Now, I understand that you’re scared,” Bruce said. “But this is serious, okay? There is a grave risk of infection if this wound should go untreated. And even if you were to treat it on your own—” he added when he saw that you were about to plead your case, “—you don’t have the necessary disinfectants or equipment to wing it prison-style. I think the DIY of handcraft has done enough damage as it is, don’t you?”
He wasn’t wrong in his judgement. You would do the best you could with the means available to you, but would it be enough? Right now, you didn’t care about the long-term. You weren’t even sure there was going to be one, so the option to leave and deal with it on your own was still appealing. But you had two very big and quite intimidating obstacles keeping that option from you, and one had already showed more than capable of hurting you, despite his apologies.
Steve cleared his throat, making your body seize up even tighter at the noise.
“Jess,” he said, knowing that Bruce wouldn’t think twice about his tone or language at this point. “For all we know, Diaz got that razorblade from a used and dirtied razor, meaning it carried a ton of germs that could be potentially fatal. We don’t even know how badly she got you, and the wound alone could do enough. Banner is only trying to help you, and so am I. Please, let us look.”
Steve didn’t say anything you didn’t already know. The dangers of the blade, the risk of infection pointed out by nurse Banner... You knew all of it. They just didn’t understand that you didn’t care about the risks, or why you couldn’t bring yourself to show them.
“Please...” you whispered, letting your head fall back into the cushion, eyes falling shut to keep the tears prickling there from falling.
Steve sighed defeatedly, but Bruce could see the fear written on your face. He didn’t know much and he wasn’t going to say anything about it, but he understood the fear of showing your body. You weren’t the only person he had treated who didn’t want to show their body, and given what he had seen floating around the internet, your fear of vulnerability was more than apt.
“Jess,” he said. “What if officer Rogers was to wait outside?”
Steve quickly raised his eyes up at Banner.
“I can’t do that, Banner. You know I can’t.”
The hope was gone before you had even begun to feel it. Which was stupid. The man had already seen your most private parts, he had been inside your body even... But just the chance of having only one person see you was breathing hope in you, but it was quickly strangled at Steve’s words.
Bruce met Steve’s eyes, throwing a quick and worried glance down at you before speaking.
“I know the protocol, but... Perhaps we can make an exception this time?”
Steve pondered the idea. He understood the predicament, he knew the reasons why you wanted hide, what you were trying to keep hidden from their eyes. Maybe he didn’t know everything, but the little he did know, the parts he could understand, were still enough.
“If I leave, I have to cuff her to the bed, and—” Steve couldn’t even finish his sentence before your panic rose.
“No! No, stay! Please don’t do that...”
Remembering your place, you quickly shrunk back in the cot, head down and looking at the blood instead of their faces. You shouldn’t interrupt! You have no say. You have no say... You knew you were pushing it with refusing to let them look, so the least you could do was keep your mouth shut when they were talking amongst themselves, it didn’t matter if you were the subject of conversation or not.
But just the rattling of officer Barnes putting the cuffs on Diaz had sent a harsh flash of pain through your mind and body. Cuffs meant defenceless. Cuffs meant pain, and hurt, and entrapment. You couldn’t possibly go through an entire examination being cuffed to the bed without any means of protecting yourself.
Steve held up his hands in defeat, figuring even the proximity of his hands near anything on his belt might raise your panic and fear even more.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I won’t.”
Bruce gave Steve an appreciative smile for handling the situation with calm instead of assertiveness. He was a prison guard after all, and situations like these weren’t usually handled in such calm manners.
Bruce supposed that you were simply afraid of losing control, having no idea about the history between you and the officer, or the cuffs’ part in it all. But despite that he was still somewhat uneasy with your reluctance. Fear could make people act out, and someone as helpless as an inmate might go to the extremes for the easiest things. Bruce was honestly relieved to have Steve there, and chose not to bring up the option of him leaving again.
“We’ll take this slow, okay?” Bruce asked you, glancing up at Steve to make sure he knew that he appreciated his presence.
Steve gave Bruce a small smile and a slight nod back, before Bruce turned around and grabbed some gloves from the trolley behind him.
There was nothing more you could do. You were stuck between a rock and a hard place without anywhere to go. The nurse was gonna look at your body and see the damage done, as was Steve. You were more fearful of Steve’s reaction than the nurse’s. Bruce had been kind whenever you met, albeit a little pushy at times but you reckoned that was just the job. But Steve...
Steve had hurt you. He had hurt you in one of the most horrible ways imaginable (though you had a long list), and he hadn’t given it a single thought before both men, for reasons still unbeknownst to you, had apologised. What would he say when he saw you? Would it spark his interest to perhaps try his hands at that too, now that rape was crossed off the list?
Bruce cleared his throat, and you reluctantly shifted your focus from the blood to his face, willing the tears to stay withing their cage for just a little while longer.
“Let’s start by unzipping your hoodie, alright?” he asked gingerly. “Just that, nothing more.”
With a shaky and cast-covered hand, you gripped the clip and pulled the zipper down. It snagged in a few places where the fabric was bunched up, but Bruce was quick to help with straightening it. You ignored the burn in your hand from the grip, wishing now more than ever that you had gotten at least one of those morphine pills. As soon as the zipper unhinged, you let go, not moving anything else.
“Alright,” Bruce said, his focus completely on you.
Steve stood frozen on the spot right next to the bed, taking in every tremble of your body under the scrutiny from both men. Your skin was growing paler by the minute, and he sincerely hoped it wasn’t from the blood loss. You looked like you were going to be sick, the colour completely drained from your face, and he wasn’t wrong.
You felt the familiar clench of your stomach and oesophagus, and the threat to hurl was very apparent. But you fought to keep it down. There was only so much embarrassment one person could take, and throwing up in the middle of it all did not need to be an added bonus.
“Okay,” Bruce said softly, with a shy smile on his face. “Now I’m just gonna lift your shirt up, just a little, as you move your hand away. Okay?”
You swallowed down what had once been pride, but was now overtaken and drenched with acceptance of your fate. It didn’t matter if you fought for your right, argued or pleaded for what you wanted or didn’t want... Your life was not meant for you. It was for everyone else’s entertainment. You were a simple puppet on a string.
So, you did as he said. Once your hand started moving away, your shirt was slowly being lifted. It caught on your skin due to the blood, but soon the wound was revealed. As were the scars nearby, some bruises left by the officers. And a letter or two.
You turned your head away once you’d had an eyeful of their reaction. The shock was evident on both their face once it all came into view. Brows furrowed, mouths were left ajar after the initial intake of breath. Just like you expected.
“Oh, my god,” Steve said through a sigh.
His gaze shot to your face, but your head was turned away from him. Your sorrowful look was still apparent though. He closed his mouth again, jaw clenching hard in disappointment in himself, and he let out a deep sigh through his nose.
Bruce’s eyes jumped up to Steve’s face for just a second, before bouncing back down to take in the damage done. He didn’t comment on anything, it wasn’t his place. Instead he did what was expected of him.
There was a deep cut stretching a few inches, the initial entry of the shiv having dug a deep crater at the bottom before ripping upwards. The bleeding had eased up, coagulated around the edges and stopping the worst of it.
Bruce cleared his throat.
“I... I’ll need to do an ultrasound to check for any internal bleeding, but initially... It-it doesn’t look all that bad,” he said, with a slight choked sound to his voice, like he was trying to hold back.
You didn’t look up at him, didn’t look anywhere but at a spot on the wall. It was done anyway. They had seen it, Steve had thought you were filthy or indecent or whatever else along those lines. And you were. You were nothing but a broken mess without worth and filled with shame. And it was all your fault. Just like everything else.
“I’ll just go get the machine from the other room,” Bruce said to Steve since you didn’t seem all that responsive.
Steve nodded uncomfortably, and gave the nurse a tight smile when he passed and went out the door. He couldn’t help but look down at your abdomen. It was right under his nose, skin and scars exposed, and your head was still turned away. He hated seeing it, hated how marked up your body was, hated seeing the marks he himself had left there. He felt shame pool in his gut even worse than before, knowing what must have happened to you to render you this... broken.
He noticed how slow your breathing was, how shallow and measured. It was like you were just going through the motions, doing the bare minimum to stay alive.
“How could this happen?” Steve said under his breath, more to scold himself than to outright ask anyone else.
He was startled out of his crazy whirl of thoughts at the sound of your voice. He hadn’t expected an answer.
“Isn’t this what you wanted...?”
Steve’s face contorted in confusion.
“What?”
His voice was light and filled with hurt. And his face looked the part too, when you slowly lifted your head to his side of the cot, still not meeting his eyes but you could still see the expression he carried.
“To make the inmates hate me too?” you said, the sound of tears evident in your throat.
No! This was not what he wanted to happen at all. He never wanted anyone to attack you like this, it was never part of the plan, no matter how dark and twisted it had been from the start. They only wanted everyone to shun you, to exclude you. That way you would be an easier target and you’d have nowhere to run from help. God, he hated himself for even thinking back on it. How he had Bucky had calculated the moves leading up to all of this happening. It was all his fault.
“No, Jess, I—”
Steve stopped himself, not even knowing what he was trying to say. His judgement was clouded by fear, anger, hurt, shame, guilt, the whole nine yards. He was actually standing here, trying to defend his action which had caused all of this to happen. It felt like a punch in the face. He had no right to try and weasel his way out of it, it wasn’t right.
“I’m sorry,” he said instead. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. We—Bucky and I never wanted this to happen, we never wanted anyone to hurt you. This... this wasn’t what was supposed to happen.”
Then what was supposed to happen, you wondered, but didn’t say. What had the officers expected from violent criminals when they heard and saw favourable things happening between officers and an inmate? What was supposed to happen, if not this?
He sounded sincere, but his words felt deceitful and fabled. Why would a man like him ever apologies or try and make something like this right, when he had a world of opportunity before him, presented on a silver platter. No. This was all part of the game, a ruse to fool you into feigned security and safety, only so they could watch you crumble and fall again. And you had no way of stopping it.
You didn’t say anything back. You just turned your head back to the other side, eyes fixed on that same spot on the wall. Perhaps it was daring to show such rejection. Perhaps Steve would see it as submission instead? You didn’t know, and you found that you didn’t really care. If he wanted to punish you for insolence, then so be it.
The rattle of a machine being rolled through the door seized Steve’s attention. He helped Bruce with getting it all the way in without hitting any doorframes, and soon it was plugged in and humming to life. Bruce hit a few buttons, changed the settings to his liking, and looked down at you. You were still only looking at the wall, but he spoke anyway.
“This might be a little cold,” he said and squirted some gel on the side of the wound, careful not to get any in it.
You didn’t react, even though the gel was a little cold. You welcomed the feeling instead, let it take away some of the pain and cool your burning skin. During it all, you never reacted, never showed any interest. There was nothing in your mind. No thoughts, no feelings, no light. Not even your inner monologue to distract you. So, you let that very interesting crevice in the wall absorb all of your attention, your mind blank as an unwritten page.
Steve watched the monitor with intense exploration, trying to make anything out. It looked mostly like tv static, or busy ants running across the screen, making blobs of black and grey. He had seen a few scans before, but he was no expert. Gladly, Bruce understood it.
“Alright,” he said drawn out, swirling the probe around on your bumpy skin, avoiding the scars as much as he could. “There doesn’t appear to be any internal bleeding, except for around the injured area, which is good. It’s kinda hard to see with so many shadows from—”
He didn’t finish. He was going to say ‘scarring’, but it felt crass or rude to do so. Like he was in some way blaming you or your body for his lack of vision. He could see enough, but it would of course be easier if the surface was smoother.
Steve felt the awkwardness reeking off the nurse when he cut himself short. Steve couldn’t understand what he meant about shadows since the entire screen was one big jumble of shadows, but he understood foot-in-mouth-disease just fine. So, he didn’t comment, instead giving Bruce a reassuring smile.
Bruce removed the probe from your abdomen, setting it back in its place next to the monitor. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and looked down at your unparticipating form, speaking nonetheless.
“I need to clean the wound to get a better look, but I can’t see anything wildly concerning on the screen, so that’s good.”
You didn’t move, didn’t nod. You didn’t do anything to indicated that you had heard him or was even listening. As he continued, Bruce spoke equally as much to you as he did to Steve.
“The entry wound is what concerns me. There might be some deeper damage done that won’t show up on the ultrasound, so I’ll need to keep an eye on that. But, uh... these bruises are old, though.”
You swallowed hard at the mention, feeling the nerves radiate off of Steve where he stood beside you, shifting from one foot to the other. Bruce failed to see it, instead he started picking at the things on the trolley behind him, picking up cotton swabs and preparing sutures.
“How did you get the bruises, Jess?” he asked, keeping the informality of your name.
He waited a second, almost prepared to ask again in case you didn’t hear him, when your hushed, almost hollow voice broke the silence.
“I must have gotten them when I fell...”
Bruce looked down worriedly, shooting Steve a questioning gaze, but he was too busy staring down at his crossed arms to notice.
“When you broke your wrist? That fall?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bruce nodded, though it felt insincere. Perhaps he was disappointed in you. After all, you had claimed that you weren’t injured anywhere else but your wrist when he had asked, but evidently you were. You had lied to him, and gotten caught in it. So, maybe that was why.
“Okay,” he said, not commenting any more on the matter. “I’m gonna start a venous catheter and give you some stronger pain meds before I do anything else. Seeing you got some morphine not too long ago, I can’t really give you that much, but it should numb the pain enough for me to clean it all up. Sound okay?”
“Yes, sir,” you said lightly with a nod, and the nurse got to work.
You didn’t say anything about not taking the pills earlier. Pain wasn’t a new concept to you. You’d had plenty of practice living through it without any anaesthesia whatsoever, so even if you were only given a small dose, it would be more than what you were used to. If you told them the truth, you would be in even more trouble than you were. The officer would know how Doggett had threatened you, taken your pills for her own use, and you would be called a snitch yet again, but this time it would hold some truth.
And the nurse might interrogate you further about everything, seeing as you had lied to him on several occasions already. He wouldn’t trust a single word coming from you, and he would force you to go through an even more thorough exam than you already had. There would be nothing left untouched, unseen. So, no. It was better to not say anything.
Bruce worked mostly in silence, only once in a while asking if anything hurt, which you always claimed it didn’t. It didn’t hurt when he put the needle in. It didn’t hurt when he started swabbing the wound clean of blood. It didn’t hurt when he started pressing around the area to check for further damage. It never hurt. But it always did.
The pull of the thread going through your skin tickled in the most uncomfortable way. Like you wanted to scratch at it, or pat the itch away. It always felt like that with shallow wounds you had learned. The deeper ones, not so much. It was more a constant throbbing that caught your attention then.
Bruce had started you on some antibiotics and fluids, just to be on the safe side. You had lost quite a bit of blood, and the wound had been deeper than he had initially thought. It worried him, and he didn’t want to risk missing anything else. Soon he was done with your abdomen, wiping it clear of blood and placing a bandage over it.
During it all, Steve had paid close attention. His eyes had darted from your face, which was still turned away and still growing paler, and the scarred surface that was your belly. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the two letters peeking out from the edge of your trousers, which had undoubtably been pulled up high enough to keep it all covered. He knew what you were trying to keep hidden. What word rested there, taunting and ridiculing. He remembered the video showing its making, and how proud Nate had sounded for making it. How proud he had been of you for not dying in the process.
And now, because of Steve and his folly, you had yet another scar gracing your body. Another reminder of the hate of this world, and the dangerous people in it. He wished he could take it back. Oh, how he wished he could take it all back.
“Alright,” Bruce said in a bright voice and jogged Steve from his own thoughts. “That’s all patched up. Now, let’s take a look at your face.”
Steve had completely missed how the nurse had literally patched you up and cleaned it all out, but he was relieved to hear it. It meant you were one step closer to healing, one step closer to being okay. He was even more relieved when Bruce covered your stomach up with your shirt, and not leaving it on display.
Obediently, you moved your head to stare at the ceiling instead of the wall. You saw both men in your line of vision, Steve looking more stoic by the second. Bruce still had that searching look on his face, still in detective-mode by the looks of it, looking for anything that might need to be treated.
Your lip was split in a nasty cut, the bruising around it spreading quickly down to your chin and side of your cheek. There was dried blood in your nose, but it wasn’t broken thankfully. All of your teeth were okay and in place, but the bruising was apparent even on your gums so you should expect some more pain even in your mouth from the hit. But other than that, you didn’t need much work.
Bruce cleaned you up with ease, making sure there was no blood still spilling from the cut, and he put some calming salve on it to help it heal faster. During no part did you do anything other than nod or shake your head when asked something.
For you, it was all over. All said and done. The secret was out, it was shouting for attention and not caring about what you wanted whatsoever. They had seen parts of you that you never wanted anyone to see, and there was no going back after that. You were done. Done caring, done trying to hope for something that was never going to happen. You were done hoping for any salvation.
“All done,” Bruce said, and put down his things with a clatter on the tray. “How are you feeling? Is the wound aching? Any stitches pulling?”
He was ready to take a second look even before you could say anything, worried that he might have missed something, or messed something up.
“It feels fine, sir,” you said, but there was no truth in your voice. “Thank you.”
Neither one of the men seemed to hear it though, instead giving you pleased but tight smiles. Bruce even let out a relieved sigh.
“Good, that’s great,” he said, seeming somewhat uncomfortable.
He looked up at Steve, then back at you, then back at Steve again, who raised his eyebrows questioningly at him. Bruce smiled tightly at you one more time, before redirecting his focus on Steve.
“I am worried for Harper’s safety,” he said finally, and Steve drew a deep breath, his chest puffing out. “This is the second time she had come to me with severe injuries, so I’m sure you understand my concerns, officer.”
Steve nodded slowly. Of course, he understood. He himself was more worried now than ever. Not only was there the issue of the footage that had leaked and going around, and it felt like only a matter of time before one or more of the inmates found out. And your case was going to be reopened, which put you at risk with the other inmates who weren’t as fortunate. If they had already hurt you this bad, it was only a matter of time before the news were misconstrued and twisted into even more reasons to hurt you. All the inmates would see was the part where you get out of prison.
“Of course,” Steve said, hoping to meet your eyes but they were jumping from place to place to avoid it.
What were they going to do? Put you in seg for your own safety? You had already spent several days down there, and that had done a number on your head. But that wasn’t really your biggest concern. ‘No cameras’. The officers would have a field day with you in SHU, with no one around to see any of it. You would be locked away from the world with no one and nothing to help you. They could do all kinds of things to you, and no one would be there to see. They could probably arrange it so they were the ones to bring you to the showers, forcing you to take your clothes off on your own, so they could see all their handywork.
You listened intently at what the men were saying, but no matter what conclusion they would come to, you would have no say in it. You wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. It was just another show of power over you, complete control of your life and character. A puppet on a string.
“I’d like to keep her here for observation,” Bruce said. “I know that inmates are usually sent to the segregated housing unit during times like these, but... The wound on her abdomen could easily become infected, and that could be fatal if not cared for properly. And seeing that inmate Harper has kept information like that from me in the past, I do not want to risk it by leaving her to her own device. That would be far to dangerous.”
Shame flooded you. If you’d had blood to spare you would blush. You couldn’t be trusted. The kind nurse Banner didn’t trust you to take care of yourself. He would probably want to do a thorough check of your body for injuries later on, just to make sure there wasn’t anything else you had been keeping from him.
“I understand,” Steve said, noticing the shimmer of tears in your eyes. “I think that would be best, too. Keep her separate from the other inmates, and give her some time to heal.”
Your eyes shot up to Steve’s. You couldn’t understand his motives to let you stay down in medical. There would be nurses here, people who would keep an eye on you. There wouldn’t really be a window for any type of assault.
“Good, I’m glad we agree,” Bruce said, standing up from the swivel stool he had been perched on for the last half-hour. “Her court date shouldn’t be too far away, so I’d say it’s best to keep her here until then.”
He knew. The nurse knew it too. Of course, he did, you were such an idiot for thinking otherwise. Howard had said that it was leaked, meaning it was probably all over the internet and media. You were most likely the talk of the prison. The butt of the joke.
“Yes, I think that’s best,” Steve said, noticing the scrunched up look on your face.
“I’ll prepare one of the beds in the other room,” Bruce said to you with a kind smile, even though you didn’t return it. “I’ll be right back.”
You watched him exit the room, seeing him through the window on the wall as he worked away in the other room. But you looked away, not wanting to stare. It wasn’t polite to stare.
“Are you okay?” Steve asked softly. “I mean, with... everything.”
You swallowed the dry lump in your throat.
“Fine, sir.”
Steve gave you a tug of a smile, sighing through his nose.
“We didn’t mean to be rude, talking about you like that,” he said, voice stronger and more comfortable. “We just wanna make sure that you’re safe, that’s all.”
You nodded, eyes darting up to meet his for just a brief second, but it was enough to tell you that the officer had no intention of hurting you, or anything like that. Should you dare to ask?
“How...” you cleared your throat, and tried again. “How many people know?”
Steve figured you were talking about the footage, the videos and the pictures he had also found when searching.
“The staff knows. The guards know, but I don’t think any of the inmates know. Is-is that why Diaz hurt you?”
You shook your head to answer his question, and he let out another relieved sigh at the answer. He nodded his head, expecting the conversation to be over. It usually didn’t even span this long.
“Did you know?” you asked, voice uncertain and weak. “Before... I mean.”
You didn’t dare look up at him, didn’t dare face him. No matter what the answer was, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at the man who had raped you. No matter the answer, that part would never change, and you weren’t even sure why you were even asking.
Steve took a deep breath, steadying himself.
“No. No, we didn’t. We thought that you hurt him, not the other way around.”
Should he say something more? Should he apologize? Again? One could never apologize too many times, right? But it didn’t seem to do much good, and perhaps it was just background noise to you? Something that was there but didn’t have any meaning.
You nodded your head slowly, taking the information in. You were unsure if it had changed anything. Was it the answer you were hoping for? Would it be better if they both had known prior to the assault? Would it make it easier to demonise them? No. No, they were still the men that threatened you, hit you, kicked you, hurt you and raped you. No matter the reason, no matter the intentions.
Steve watched your face, trying to read your expression, but it was hard. It didn’t really change at all. It was still the same empty, broken face of the woman he and Bucky had hurt so badly. There was no relief, no anger, nothing. It was just hurt. You were always hurting.
Bruce walked through the door and broke the tension Steve was creating, almost waking him from a haze. Bruce smiled at Steve, then at you.
Warnings: Infidelity, emotional cheating, deception, guilt, infertility references, explicit sexual content (18+), oral sex, consensual sex, unprotected sex, strong language, alcohol consumption, emotional angst, falling in love outside of marriage.
Note on reposting: This work is my own and I have worked very hard on it. Please do not repost, copy, translate, or republish this fic (in whole or in part) anywhere else without my explicit permission. This includes other websites, platforms, social media, and AI sites.
Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome.
If you see this fic reposted somewhere without credit, please let me know.
Author’s Note: This story explores morally complex situations and flawed characters navigating the consequences of their choices. Please read with your own comfort levels in mind. As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. ❤️
Chapter Eight: Mrs Barnes
Her POV
She had been careful all week.
This was not unusual in itself, she had been careful for five months, had developed the particular discipline of a woman who understood that carelessness had costs that compounded, but this week the carefulness had a different quality. Not the reactive carefulness of managing something that had already happened, but the anticipatory kind, the carefulness of someone moving toward something and trying very hard not to run.
Vermont. The weekend. The hotel she had looked up seventeen times on her laptop since he'd messaged on Wednesday, reading the same descriptions of the same rooms with the same photographs of snow-covered grounds and stone fireplaces, not because the information changed but because looking at it made the weekend feel real in a way that was both thrilling and faintly terrifying.
She had told Matt on Wednesday evening, at the kitchen table, while he was listening to something on his laptop. Writing seminar. The one in Burlington I did three years ago, they've asked me back to workshop the new manuscript. Matt had looked up and said that's great, the timing works out well and returned to his screen, and she had sat with the smoothness of it, how easily it had been accepted, how little it had cost her, and felt the particular guilt of something that had become too practised.
She had packed carefully. Not too much, nothing that would look like more than a working weekend, and not too little, because she had learned, over the past months, the particular calculus of packing for time with him. The good dress. The cashmere. The things she chose with the specific awareness that he would see her in them, which was a different criterion from the one she usually applied and which she had stopped pretending she didn't apply.
The cover story was clean. She had used Burlington, she'd been before, three years ago, an actual seminar she had actually attended, and Matt had never asked about the programme or the details. She was not proud of the cleanliness of it. She simply noted it and kept moving.
She was early to Grand Central.
She stood outside the Vanderbilt entrance with her overnight bag at her feet and the February cold pressing against her through the grey coat and her phone in her hand, not reading it, or reading it in the way you read things when your eyes are moving across the words and your mind is somewhere else entirely. She was thinking about the drive. Five hours. Just them, together.
She heard the car before she saw it.
She looked up and there he was, pulling to the kerb in the navy sweater, his hair slightly wrong in the way it was when he wasn't in the suit, more himself somehow, the version of him that existed outside the careful professional container, and she felt the warmth of it move through her, the warmth that had been a reliable feature of her life for five months and that she had stopped trying to manage and started simply allowing.
She picked up her bag. She got in.
He looked at her the way he looked at her when it was only the two of them and there was no one watching, and she looked back at him, and the city was grey outside the windows and they were going to Vermont and she thought: This is the most alive I have felt in a very long time.
She did not examine this thought closely. She had learned, over the past months, which thoughts bore examination and which were better simply held.
He kissed her quickly, cleanly, and pulled out into traffic, and she settled into the seat and felt her shoulders drop from somewhere around her ears, and Vermont was five hours north, and she had a pub quiz bank on her phone, and the evening was going to be excellent.
She gave him the quiz because she needed something to do with her hands.
This was not the official reason. The official reason was that she had found it while looking for something to read and had thought it would be funny, which it was. But the deeper reason, the one she was aware of without articulating, was that five hours in a car with a person she was in the middle of being extremely foolish about required some structural activity, something to do with the energy of it, otherwise she would simply sit there looking at his profile and thinking things that were not useful.
He was good at it. This did not surprise her, she had spent fifteen years watching him be good at most things he turned his attention to, but the specific pleasure of it, the way he got the history questions right with the unhurried confidence of someone who had been retaining facts all his life, was a new angle on something familiar. She kissed his cheek when he got things right. She told herself this was part of the game's logic and not simply an excuse.
Then she found All Too Well on her phone and made a decision.
She had been building toward playing him this album for months, in the abstract way you built toward things you suspected would reveal too much about you. Because the album was, she knew this, was clear-eyed about it, the album was a map of a very specific emotional territory, and playing it to someone in a car at close range was not a neutral act. She had played it for Natasha and for no one else, and now she was going to play it for him, and she was doing this because they were going to Vermont and she had apparently decided to stop being careful about the small things since she had already comprehensively failed to be careful about the large ones.
She talked through the songs the way she always talked through things she loved, with the specificity that she knew could be too much, the level of detail that most people found either endearing or exhausting. She waited, as she always waited, for the slight glaze, the polite nod that meant he was waiting for her to finish.
It didn't come.
He listened. He actually listened, with the of attention he brought to things in court, the full version, and when she said "it's a red scarf left at his sister's house and that's..."
he said: "That's good writing."
She looked at him.
He was watching the road with the expression he had when he meant something, and she felt something move through her chest that she was not going to name in a moving vehicle on the I-95.
"Yes," she said, when she trusted her voice. "That's exactly what it is."
She played him the whole album. He actually listened. She talked and he listened and the Connecticut highway moved past them in the February dark and she thought, quietly and with the clarity of something she had been approaching for months and was now standing directly in front of: I am in serious trouble.
She put her feet up on the seat and let the music play and said nothing else for a while, and that was fine, and the road went north.
The hotel was exactly what she'd hoped from the photographs and better than she'd let herself imagine.
She stood in the lobby and looked at the stone fireplace and the dark wood floors and the smell of woodsmoke and felt the loosening that happened when a place was exactly right, the physical equivalent of a sentence landing. She had been in too many hotels to be impressed by hotels as a category, but this one had the feel of something that had been built for the long term and had simply continued, accumulating warmth and character over decades without deciding to, and she found it, straightforwardly, beautiful.
She stepped to the side while he checked in. This was one of their unspoken protocols, they had developed several, over the past months, each of them arrived at without discussion and understood by both, and she stood with her bag and looked at the fireplace and listened to the receptionist's pleasant efficiency and was not prepared for what happened next.
"Mr Barnes? And Mrs Barnes."
The warmth arrived before the thought did. It moved up from her sternum to her throat and settled in her cheeks before she had processed what had caused it, and she was looking at the desk with the composed expression she kept for situations requiring composure while the warmth did what it was going to do regardless of the expression.
Mrs Barnes.
She was not going to look at him. She knew, with the certainty of five months and fifteen years of accumulated knowledge, that if she looked at him right now his face would be doing something she was not in a position to receive in a hotel lobby, something that would make the composure significantly harder to maintain. She kept her eyes on the desk. She let the receptionist talk about the Juniper suite and the balcony view and dinner arrangements and she said nothing and managed her expression and felt the warmth in her cheeks and thought: Do not let that mean what it means.
She thought: It already means what it means.
She did not look at him until they were in the lift. And then she looked at him and he looked at her and his expression was entirely neutral, which was how she knew it had been anything but neutral a moment ago, he only went that still when he was managing something.
In the room, she dropped her bag and turned and looked at him. and she said:
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
He said he wasn't. He was. She looked at him with the expression she had when she knew he was lying and had decided the lie was acceptable.
The room was perfect. Balcony view, just as promised, the snow-covered grounds and the bare trees and the last of the February afternoon light. She unpacked her washbag and he read the room service menu and the room did the thing it always did when he was in it, which was rearrange itself around his presence in a way that felt, she had noticed this, had been noticing it for months, like an improvement.
They ordered. They ate on the bed with the television on low and his arm warm alongside hers and her feet tucked against his leg, and she ate her steak and looked at the February dark outside the window and thought about the life that was not this one, the fertility appointments and the scheduled optimism and the particular loneliness of being in the same room as someone and not being reached, and then she looked at him, at the easy slouch of him in his boxers eating steak and half-watching something on television, and thought about the thing she had been not-thinking about for several months, which was what it would mean if this was simply her life.
She held out a spoonful of ice cream.
He ate it.
She kissed him, because the alternative was to say something she wasn't ready to say, and he kissed her back and the room service tray ended up on the nightstand and the Vermont night pressed against the windows, and for the first time in five months she was not aware of the clock at all.
She woke to his mouth on her shoulder.
Not all at once, gradually, the way you woke when the waking was something you wanted rather than something imposed. She surfaced through warmth and the quiet of a room in a building that had been absorbing winters for over a century, and she felt his mouth at her shoulder, her neck, the soft place below her ear, and she thought, before she was fully awake: Oh. There it is. There he is.
"James," she said. His name in the morning was a different word than his name at any other time. She had noticed this months ago and not known what to do with the noticing.
He said good morning against her neck and she reached back for him, her hand finding his hip with the ease of something learned so thoroughly it had become instinct, and he pulled her closer and she felt the full warmth of him and exhaled something long and slow that she hadn't known she was holding.
He turned her, gently. She turned.
He was looking at her in the grey-white morning light with an expression she had seen before and never found adequate language for, something that lived between tenderness and want and something larger than either, something that she had been trying not to name for the better part of two months because naming it would require her to do something about it.
He kissed her instead of saying anything, which was one of the things she had come to understand he did when the words were too much, used the gesture instead, let the gesture carry what language couldn't quite manage. She kissed him back with both hands and the morning light and the snow outside the window and the particular freedom of a Saturday that belonged entirely to them.
"What time is it?" she said, when she could.
"Early."
"How early?"
"Early enough. Go back to sleep."
She told him she was awake now, which was true in every sense, and he apologised with the insincerity of a man who was not sorry at all, and she laughed and kissed him again because there was nothing else to do with the feeling of it, the specific quality of being exactly where she wanted to be.
This was different. She had known it would be, had understood, in the abstract, that the absence of the clock would change the register of things, but she had not anticipated how different. The slowness of it. The way the morning seemed to have entered the room and altered something fundamental, removed the layer of careful intention that had always been present before, the awareness of time running, and left something underneath that was quieter and more true.
He was unhurried with her in a way that she felt in her chest as much as anywhere else. His hands on her collarbone, her waist, the inside of her wrist, the way he touched things he was taking seriously.
She let herself sink into it, into the luxury of his patience. The careful way he traced her collarbone. The way his mouth found the curve of her neck and lingered there. She felt the familiar loosening of her careful control, the way her defenses dissolved when he touched her like this, not rushed, not stolen, but genuinely present.
The need built in her gradually, a slow burn rather than the urgent ache she'd felt. She shifted beneath him, needing something different, needing to be the one in control for a moment. He seemed to understand without her having to say anything. He let her push him onto his back, watched her with those eyes as she kissed her way down his body.
His skin was warm beneath her lips. She took her time, feeling the hard lines of his chest, the muscles of his abdomen, the way his breathing changed as she moved lower. When she reached his cock, already hard and waiting for her, she paused. There was something about this moment, the visual of him, the weight of his arousal in her hand, it made her feel powerful in a way nothing else did.
She wrapped her fingers around him and stroked slowly, watching the response flicker across his face. Then she bent and took him into her mouth.
The taste of him was something she was becoming addicted to, salty and distinctly male, a flavor that made her want to take him deeper. She loved the weight of him on her tongue, loved the way his hips tensed when she worked him with her mouth. His hand came into her hair, gentle, and she increased her pace, finding a rhythm that felt good, that made him make those small sounds in the back of his throat.
There was a power in this that she didn't think she'd ever fully understood until him. The ability to make someone lose control just with her mouth, just with the attention of her hands. When he warned her that he was close, told her she didn't have to, something fierce bloomed in her chest. A possessiveness. A claim.
She didn't pull back. Instead, she took him deeper, increased the intensity of what she was doing. For just a moment, a dangerous, flickering moment, she thought of Yeleana. Thought of Matt. Thought of the parallel betrayals, the promises that existed outside this room, the lives they were both compartmentalising. The guilt tried to surface, tried to poison this, and she pushed it down ruthlessly. Not now. She couldn't afford to let it in now, couldn't afford to compare what they had to what waited for them in the real world.
So she didn't let herself. She focused instead on the exquisite satisfaction of watching him come undone completely. This was hers. This moment, this vulnerability, this loss of control, it belonged to her in a way it didn't belong to anyone else. She felt him pulse in her mouth, felt the waves of his climax, and she took all of it, swallowed around him, claimed the moment entirely for herself. The transgression of it only intensified the sensation, the fact that he was doing this, that they were doing this, that he was choosing her even though it was it was the reckless road and could destroy everything. The guilt tried to resurface, but she drowned it in the intensity of what she felt for him.
When she finally pulled back and kissed her way up his body, he tasted like them, like the boundary between where he ended and she began dissolving completely. They lay together for a moment in the grey morning light, the snow still falling outside.
But he wasn't done with her.
She felt the shift in him, a kind of focused intention that made her pulse quicken. He kissed his way down her body with deliberation, his mouth mapping a path she could almost anticipate. By the time he settled between her thighs, she was already trembling with anticipation, already opening for him.
When his mouth found her, she gasped at the immediate intensity of it. She had expected the usual build, the gradual climb toward pleasure. Instead, she found herself confronted with the reality that he understood her body in ways she was still discovering about herself. He seemed to know instinctively where to apply pressure, when to vary his rhythm, when to change tactics entirely.
His tongue worked her clit with deliberate attention. She felt his fingers slip inside her, one, then two, and her eyes flew open at how precisely he seemed to know where to touch. He had learned the geography of her body so completely that he could orchestrate her pleasure like this, like he had a map only he could see.
"Don't stop, please," she heard herself beg, and he responded immediately, intensifying what he was doing, reading every small sound she made as instruction.
The pleasure built differently this way, not the sharp urgency she was used to, but something deeper, more thorough. It spread through her in waves, his mouth and fingers working in perfect synchronicity, and she felt herself surrendering to it completely. When the climax finally came, it rolled through her in layers, each one deeper than the last, and she came undone with his name on her lips and the knowledge that he was completely present for all of it.
When it was over, she was boneless and breathless, and he kissed his way back up her body and pulled her close. They lay tangled in the morning light, the snow still falling outside, and she felt something shift inside her, some final wall crumbling. She realized, with equal parts terror and exhilaration, that she had stopped being able to protect herself from this. From him. And she knew what that meant. Then she thought: I love him.
The thought arrived quietly, without drama, the way things arrived when they had been true for long enough that their arrival was not news but recognition. She held it and looked at him and felt it settle beside everything else she was holding, the complication of it, the specific weight of what it meant given the lives that existed on either side of this room, and she did not say it.
She pressed her hand flat against his chest.
"Don't wake me up this time," she said into his skin, because she needed to say something ordinary and this was the most ordinary thing she could find.
He laughed, low and real, and she felt it move through him under her hand, and she smiled against his chest, and she slept.
The town was exactly the kind of Vermont town she would have chosen if she'd been choosing.
She walked Main Street beside him with the coffee he'd insisted on buying warming her hands and felt the specific lightness of being in public with him without the architecture of management, no careful distance, no practiced neutrality, no monitoring of her own expression for signs that it was giving something away. Here she could simply walk beside him. She could look at things and say what she thought about them and have him look at the same things and say what he thought, without any of that needing to be something other than exactly what it was.
She found the hat in the thrift shop. It was unreasonable and she knew it was unreasonable, wide-brimmed, felt, clearly from a decade that predated her parents' marriage, but she put it on in front of the mirror and felt the immediate conviction that sometimes arrived with objects, the sense of a thing that had been waiting for the right person.
"Buy it," he said, without hesitation.
"Do you not think its a lot?"
"I'll buy it," he said.
She let him, because there was a version of objecting that would have been principled and a version that would have been deflection, and she was trying, this weekend, to be honest about which was which. She bought the coffee. They walked on, and the hat was on her head and his hand was at the small of her back when they went through the door of the next shop and she thought: This is the most natural thing. This is the most natural I have been in years.
The jewellery shop stopped her.
She saw it in the window and stopped, and she knew immediately what had stopped her, the pendant, the hand-blown glass in deep blue-green, the Pisces symbol she recognised because she'd been wearing her sign in various forms since she was nineteen, and she stood on the pavement and looked at it and felt him stop beside her.
"James," she said, very quietly.
"I know," he said.
He held the door open.
Inside, she stood beside him and watched him buy the necklace with the straightforward efficiency of a man who had made a decision and saw no reason to deliberate about it, and she felt the warmth in her chest that had been arriving with increasing frequency in his presence and that she had been telling herself for months was simply fondness and that she now knew, with the morning's clarity still sitting in her, was considerably more than fondness.
"Turn around," he said.
She turned. She felt the weight of the chain at her throat and his hands at her nape working the clasp with the focused care he brought to small precise things, and then his mouth pressed to the back of her neck, warm and deliberate and private, and she closed her eyes for a moment.
He bought me a necklace, she thought, with the part of her brain that was trying to stay analytical. He drove five hours and booked a room with a balcony because I mentioned balconies once and now he's pressing his mouth to the back of my neck in a jewellery shop in Vermont in February and the necklace is my sign and his sign and I am so thoroughly done for.
The old women arrived before she'd finished the thought.
Three of them, seventies, radiating the specific energy of women who had reached the age at which they had entirely stopped pretending not to notice things. She heard one of them say
"He's a keeper" with the frank authority of someone who had been forming opinions for seven decades and saw no reason to withhold this one, and she laughed, the sudden helpless kind, and looked at him laughing too, the full version, the one that reached his eyes and rearranged his whole face, and she thought: Yes. He is.
She touched the pendant. Her fingers found the glass, the slightly irregular surface of it, the evidence of the hands that had made it. She thought about wearing it home. She thought about Matt not knowing what it was or where it had come from, about the small piece of this weekend sitting against her skin in a life that didn't know it existed.
She thought: I want to keep it on forever.
She thought: That is one of the most frightening thing I have said to myself in five months.
"Spa?" he said.
She looked at him. His expression was carefully ordinary, which meant it wasn't. She touched the pendant one more time.
"Spa," she agreed.
She took the necklace off for the massage and put it back on immediately after, which she noted about herself without comment.
The pool was warm and vaulted and smelled of eucalyptus and she came in to find him already there, sitting on the submerged ledge with the water at his chest and an expression that she recognised as the one he had when he was trying not to have it.
She let the robe drop.
She was not, she would acknowledge to herself later, entirely innocent in this. She was wearing the red halter neck she had packed with the specific awareness that red was a colour he had responded to once, early on, in passing, and she had noted this and packed accordingly, and she was aware of being aware of this as she walked to the edge of the pool.
"Eyes up," she said, returning the line from New Year's Eve, and he pointed at her and she laughed and got into the water.
They lasted thirty-five minutes. He was the one who got out first, suggesting they head back to the room.
When she replied we've barely been here, his reply was so quick it made her laugh.
She called Matt from the balcony while he showered after he made his call to Yelena.
The balcony was comprehensively cold and she stood with her phone and the robe pulled tight and looked at the snow-covered grounds going grey and pink in the fading afternoon light and thought about the what she was about to do, which was to speak to her husband in the ordinary affectionate tone of a woman at a writing seminar in Burlington while wearing a necklace her lover had bought her four hours ago in a jewellery shop on Main Street in Vermont.
She called anyway. Because not calling would be worse. Because the maintenance of the life required its maintenance.
Matt answered on the second ring, his voice warm and distracted in the way it was when he was working and had come up for air. He asked how the seminar was going. She said it was good, productive, the other writers were interesting. He said he was glad, said he'd ordered Thai food, said the Foggy had called about having dinner in March. She said that sounded good. He said he missed her. She said she missed him too, and the words were true and not true simultaneously, true in the sense that she missed the Matt who had said you're whatever kind of person you want to be in a dress shop in Savannah and not true in the sense that she was standing on a balcony in Vermont wearing a necklace someone else had put around her neck and she was not, at this precise moment, missing anything at all.
She said goodnight. She went back inside.
He was sitting on the bed when she came in, his phone on the nightstand, dressed and looking at nothing in particular with his jaw set in the way he had when he was thinking about something he didn't want to think about. She recognised the look. She had been married to a different version of it for several years.
The real world had re-entered the room with her from the balcony, the way it always did when one of them made one of those calls, and she stood with it for a moment, the weight of the dual life, the thing she had chosen and was still choosing, the guilt that had settled into something she could carry and had not stopped being guilt, and then she looked at him and he looked at her and she recognised in his expression the same thing, the same weight, and she felt, despite everything, less alone in it.
She went to get dressed.
She put on the black dress because she had packed it for exactly this, dinner, Vermont, him in the black shirt she had mentioned once and that he was, she noticed when she came out of the bathroom, wearing.
He looked at her with the expression he described as not a face and that was absolutely a face, and she told him to stop it and pointed him at the door, and they went down to the bar.
The cocktails were excellent and the bar was warm and dim and the world that required them to manage themselves was several hours away, and she felt the managing simply stop somewhere in the third drink, the way a muscle released after long tension, and she was just herself, the full version, sitting across from a person she found interesting and funny and, she was sitting with the morning's thought now, not running from it, loved, and she talked about the new book because she wanted to, because she had been building toward telling him about it for weeks, because he was the person she wanted to tell.
He listened with attention that had undone her, quietly, for months. He asked the questions that took the idea further. He said she would be better off pitching it as a thriller with different architecture, which was the worst pitch she had ever heard, and she laughed and told him so, and he defended it with the straight-faced confidence of a man who argued for a living, and she kissed him across the table because the alternative was to say something considerably more significant.
"What's the position of the new book?" he asked.
She looked at him for a moment. She had been thinking about the answer to this question since December, when the book had started assembling itself in the hotel room at the Marlowe, and she had not yet said it out loud because saying it out loud would be an act of transparency she hadn't decided to commit to.
She committed to it.
"That the most dangerous thing is not wanting something. It's wanting something you're not supposed to want and finding out it's exactly what you need."
She held his gaze. He held hers. The piano started.
She watched him stand up. She watched him hold out his hand. She looked at his hand and looked at the small dance floor and looked at his face and thought: This is a terrible idea and I am absolutely going to do it.
She took his hand.
He was a decent dancer, she had known this in the abstract, had danced with him at various group events over fifteen years, always with the polite distance of friendship, but this was not that. This was his hand at her waist and her hand in his and the music warm and unhurried and the room dim and his face level with hers at this distance and she looked up at him and felt the evening settle into something she was going to be thinking about for a very long time.
He was looking at her with the expression from the morning, the one she didn't have language for. The one that lived between tenderness and want and something larger. He was looking at her like that in a hotel bar in Vermont and she looked back at him and thought the thought she had thought that morning in the grey-white light, clearly and without qualification: I love you.
I love you and I don't know what to do about it and I'm not going to say it and you're not going to say it and we are going to stand here in this bar and dance to this song and neither of us is going to say the true thing, and that is both the saddest and the most bearable version of this that I can currently manage.
She looked at him and he looked at her and the music continued and the February night was cold beyond the windows, and she let herself exist entirely in the present tense for the length of the song.
They were laughing before the door was fully closed.
She wasn't entirely sure what had started it, something in the lift, something about the otter documentary they are watched back in the Marlowe, some accumulated residue of the evening's cocktails and warmth, but they came through the door of their suite already undone, and she was laughing the helpless kind and so was he and the door closed and she turned and he was looking at her with the expression that was not the careful deliberate version, not the one he usually brought with all its weight and intention, but something rawer and more immediate, and he crossed the room and kissed her before she'd finished the thought.
Not careful. Not considered. The version of him that existed on the other side of three cocktails and a jazz pianist and whatever had been moving through his face on the dance floor, the version she only got in moments when the discipline that he usually applied to everything, including this, simply lapsed. She kissed him back with both hands and the full force of the evening behind it and felt the wall at her back and his body against her and thought: Yes. Here. Finally. This.
She kissed him back without hesitation, her hands already moving, to his face, his jacket, his shirt. The desperation of it surprised her, the way her body responded to him with such immediate intensity. She needed him closer. She needed less between them.
He walked her backward and she let him, felt the wall meet her back and then his body meet her front, bracketing her between the solid surface and the hard warmth of him. She looked up at him in the low light, at the focus in his expression, and felt something shift inside her chest.
"Hi," she said, breathless, the laughter still caught in her voice.
"Hi," he said back, and then he was kissing her again, deeper this time, his hand moving to her jaw to angle her face up toward his. The sensation of his mouth on her throat made her gasp, he knew exactly how to undo her, exactly which places made her forget to think about anything except him.
She said his name, the one that meant she wanted more, and she felt his hands move to her hips. He lifted her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs around him without hesitation, pressing herself against him in a way that drew the breath from both of them. This was what she wanted, to be held like this, wanted like this, desired so completely that caution fell away.
Her hands went to his jacket, shrugging it off his shoulders, and then to his shirt. She worked the buttons deliberately, needing to feel his skin, needing to close every gap between them. He helped her, one-handed, holding her weight against the wall with the other, and then his shirt was gone and her palms were flat against the warmth of his chest. She could feel his heartbeat racing beneath her hands, and the knowledge that she did that to him, that her touch made his heart race, sent a thrill through her.
He reached for the zip at the back of her dress and drew it down slowly, his fingers trailing her spine in a way that made her shiver. The dress fell away, and she felt the cool air of the room against her bare skin for just a moment before his hands were on her waist, warm and possessive. She hadn't worn a bra, and she saw the moment he registered that, the way his breath caught, the way his eyes darkened with want.
"James," she said, the word carrying all the impatience she felt, all the need.
"I got you, sweetheart," he murmured against her collarbone, and his hands moved lower, to her hips. She felt him hook his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and she shifted to help him, suddenly desperate to have nothing between them at all.
Then she was bare against him, nothing but skin and the wall at her back and his body pressing her into it. She felt him pull back slightly, and she knew he was looking at her, at all of her, and the vulnerability of it should have made her uncomfortable. Instead, it made her feel powerful. She was completely exposed to him, and he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The intensity of that gaze did something to her insides, made her want to be seen by him in exactly this way, stripped bare, available, entirely his.
His trousers came off quickly after that, and then he was hard against her core, and the anticipation of what was coming made her nerves sing. She reached down and wrapped her hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling him gasp at her touch. She positioned him at her entrance and pulled him closer with her legs, and then he was pushing inside her.
The sensation was overwhelming, he filled her slowly, deeply, and she threw her head back against the wall, her mouth open in a soundless cry at the feeling of him. When he was fully inside her, he stilled, and she could feel him feeling her, both of them suspended in that moment of complete connection.
"Move," she whispered urgently. "Please, James, move."
He did. He began to thrust into her, hard and deep, and she met each movement with her hips, using the wall at her back for leverage. His hands gripped her, his mouth found her neck, and she could feel herself building already, the tension coiling through her, the way her body was responding to him with such immediate intensity.
"That's it," he murmured against her skin, and the words landed like a caress. That's it. Like she was doing exactly what he wanted, like her responses mattered to him, like he was paying attention to every sound she made. "Take it, take all of me."
The command sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Take all of me. There was something about hearing him say it, the raw demand in his voice, the possessiveness of it, that made her feel claimed in a way that transcended the physical. He wasn't asking. He was telling her, and something in her, something primal and responsive, wanted to obey. She wanted to take him, to show him that she could, to prove to him that she was worthy of this intensity.
She tightened her inner muscles around him deliberately, and felt him groan against her collarbone. The sound of his pleasure made her dizzy. She was doing that to him. Her body was making him lose control.
"That's it," he said again, and his voice was rougher now, more urgent. "Just like that. You feel so good. So fucking good."
The dirty words, words he didn't usually say to her, made her core clench with need. She wanted more of them, wanted to hear him say exactly what he was thinking about her, what she was doing to him. There was a rawness to it that stripped away all pretense, all the careful distance they maintained in the rest of their lives. Here, against this wall, with his body inside hers and his words filling her ears, there was no room for anything but this, the two of them, unfiltered and desperate.
His pace increased, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and she made sounds she didn't try to suppress, small gasps and moans that he swallowed with his mouth on hers. She could feel him driving deeper, hitting that place inside her that made her cry out, and she clung to him, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Yes, yes, right there," she gasped against his mouth. "Don't stop, James, don't stop."
"I won't," he said, and there was a promise in those words that went beyond this moment. "I've got you. Just come for me. Let go for me."
Let go for me.
The request, the command, was the final thing she needed. It gave her permission to stop holding anything back, to let herself completely unravel. The physical sensation of him inside her combined with the weight of those words made something break open inside her chest. She could feel her climax building, not slowly this time, but with urgent intensity, her body tensing as it approached. She was close, so close, and the fact that he was still inside her, still commanding her to come, still telling her to let go, it all converged into something overwhelming.
When it hit her, it was like nothing else existed except this: his body inside hers, his mouth on her skin, the wall solid behind her, his voice in her ear telling her she was beautiful, she was perfect, and the overwhelming sensation of being completely, utterly claimed by him.
She came hard, her body rigid against the wall, her inner walls clenching around him, his name torn from her lips in a cry that was half-pleasure, half-relief. She felt him follow her moments later, felt him bury himself deep inside her and come with a groan of her name, and for a moment they were completely still, locked together, breathing heavily.
When his legs steadied enough to lower her, she slumped against the wall, still trembling. He held her there, his forehead pressed to hers, and she felt the rapid thud of his heartbeat against her ear, still fast, still elevated from what they'd just done.
"Hi," she whispered, a smile playing at her lips, her voice hoarse from the sounds she'd made.
"Hi," he said back, and kissed her, soft and tender now, a stark contrast to the urgency of moments before.
They stayed like that for a long moment, neither of them moving. His breath was warm against her neck. The wall held them both. Outside, the Vermont night was absolutely silent, the snow absorbing all sound, and the room was warm and amber with lamplight, and she was held against him and he was holding her, and she felt the weight of what this was, what he was to her, settle over her like something inevitable and terrifying and completely unavoidable.
He carried her to the bed. She laughed when he set her down, the real kind, the deep uncomplicated kind that came when something was simply and straightforwardly good, and she looked up at him with the necklace still at her throat and the pendant warm against her skin and thought: I'm going to wear this forever. I'm going to wear this until it falls apart.
He lay down beside her and she turned toward him and put her hand flat on his chest, over his heart, and felt it beating under her palm, steady and present, and he covered her hand with his.
"The bar was good," she said, because something ordinary was required and this was the most ordinary thing available.
"The bar was excellent," he agreed.
"The wall was better," she said.
He laughed, the full version, helpless and real, and she smiled against his shoulder, and the lamp stayed on, and the snow held its silence, and she lay with her hand over his heart and thought the thought she was not going to say and let herself be held, and that was how she slept.
Sunday came in grey and quiet and she didn't want it.
She lay still when she woke, aware of the quality of the light through the curtains, the low, unconvincing light of February, the kind that didn't commit, and aware of him beside her, and she held the morning carefully, the way you held something you knew you were about to have to put down.
He was awake before her. She knew this the way she had come to know things about him, the small tells, the shift in breathing, the particular quality of his stillness when he was thinking rather than sleeping. She waited and he ordered breakfast and it arrived and they ate it in the unhurried way of the past two days, her with her book and him with his newspaper and the comfortable silence of two people who had nothing left to perform for each other.
She put the book down.
She looked at the window. The snow. The bare trees. The grey February sky that didn't know it was over.
"Sad?" he said.
She looked at him. He already knew. He looked at her the way he looked at her when he already knew and was asking anyway, giving her the space to say it.
"I don't want the weekend to be over," she said, and let it be as simple and honest as it was.
He put the newspaper down. He reached for her and she went into his arms with the ease that had been building for months and was now simply a fact, and he held her against his chest and pressed his mouth to the top of her head and said: "Me too, Sweetheart. Me too."
Sweetheart. The word he used when the careful neutral register lapsed. She pressed her face into his chest and held it.
The drive back was quiet in a way the drive up hadn't been.
She sat with her feet tucked under her and her head against the window and watched Vermont become Connecticut become New York and felt the weekend receding behind her like a tide going out, leaving the ordinary life where it had been all along, unchanged, waiting. She knew this feeling, had been feeling it, in smaller doses, after every snatched hour and careful lunch for five months, but the scale of it was different this time. The weekend had been too long, too complete, too much itself, and the leaving of it was correspondingly larger.
Her fingers found the pendant.
She had not taken it off. She was going to have to take it off before she got home, was going to have to put it somewhere safe where it would not require explanation, and she was going to do that, she was going to be practical about it, but not yet. For now she let her fingers find the glass and the slight irregularity of it and thought about the jewellery shop and the back of her neck and the old women and the way he'd laughed, the full version, the one that rearranged his face.
She fell asleep somewhere in Connecticut.
She didn't mean to, had intended to stay awake, had thought she would sit with the landscape and the quiet and the last of the weekend, but the warmth of the car and the motion of it and the specific exhaustion of two days of being entirely present undid her, and she slept with her head against the window and the pendant in her hand.
She woke on the Westside Highway with the disorientation of someone who had gone further under than intended, and looked around at the city coming back through the windows and then at him, and found him watching the road with the expression he had when he was thinking something he wasn't going to say.
"How long was I asleep?"
"About two hours."
She straightened. Touched the pendant. "Sorry."
"Don't be."
She looked at the city. Manhattan assembling itself back into the thing it was when it was home rather than the thing it was when you were leaving it, the skyline familiar and claiming. She felt herself put herself back together the way she always did when the real world was approaching, the slight adjustment, the return of the composure, the careful repositioning of the version of herself that existed in the life that was waiting.
She took the necklace off four blocks from her building. She held the pendant in her palm for a moment, the blue-green glass warm from her skin, and then put it carefully in the zip pocket of her bag, the inside one, the one she checked every morning.
He pulled to the kerb.
She looked at the street. She looked at him. There was no goodbye kiss, they both knew the geography of this, had known it since New Jersey, and she picked up her bag and looked at him one more time and said:
"Thank you. For the weekend."
She meant all of it. The balcony he'd booked because she'd mentioned balconies once. The hat he'd bought for twelve dollars. The necklace. The snow. The morning. The dance floor. The thought she hadn't said and neither had he and that sat in her chest beside all the other things she was carrying, quiet and certain and heavy.
He said: "Yeah."
She got out of the car.
She walked. She didn't look back, she had learned, over the past months, not to look back, because looking back served nothing and cost something, and she turned the corner and the car was gone and the street was ordinary and the city was cold and entirely indifferent to the nature of the weekend she had just returned from.
She walked to her home. She put her key in the lock.
Matt was in the kitchen. She could hear him, the particular sounds of him, the radio he always had on and the way he moved in a kitchen, comfortable and unhurried. She stood in the hallway for a moment with her bag on her shoulder and the zip pocket closed over the necklace and the weekend receding and the ordinary life arranged around her, familiar and unchanged.
"Hey," Matt called. "Good trip?"
"Good trip," she said.
She put her bag down. She went to the kitchen. She kissed him on the cheek and accepted the glass of wine he held out and asked about the Foggy's' dinner in March, and the evening proceeded in the way that evenings proceeded, ordinary and continuous and asking nothing of her except presence.
Later, in the bathroom, she opened the zip pocket and took out the necklace and held it in her palm.
She looked at it for a long time.
Then she put it in the drawer of her nightstand, the back of it, beneath the things she kept there, and closed it quietly, and went to bed.
She lay in the dark and thought the thought she had been thinking since the Vermont morning and the dance floor and the wall and every moment in between, and it sat in her chest with the solidity of something that was not going to be moved by the application of reasonable thinking, and she held it and let it be what it was.
Outside, the February city made its ordinary sounds.
Summary: When Bucky returned from his service, there were many things different about him. An arm less, metal baggage more. What stays is his loving husband that tries to help him through life again and images he'd rather forget
Warnings: none
Word Count: 2.4k
Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist
The first three days after Y/N moves in go by relatively unexcited.
Bucky lounges around, giving her the space she needs to get accustomed to her surroundings. Nonetheless, she stays as a dog, not really daring to change to her human form despite the man knowing who she is. She doesn’t dare to change at night as well. Uncertain Bucky might need her. Though up until now, he seems fine. No episodes, no panic attacks, no night terrors. At least Y/N didn’t catch any of the typical signs so far. Throughout the days’ Bucky seems okay as well, if not a tiny bit clingy. He stays close to Steve, trailing behind him if the blonde leaves the room or calls Y/N over to lie with him.
So, she settles for focusing a bit more on the daily habits the two men have. Bucky seems fairly comfortable lying around and reading books, strolling around in the garden, or just… doing nothing if Steve’s not around. The blonde man leaves every day for his run, returning an hour later to shower only to vanish for work again.
Sometimes he’s gone for a couple of hours, and sometimes he’s back after just ninety minutes. He always comes home slightly exhausted looking, and Y/N can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right with Steve. Something is off, but so far, she can’t really pinpoint what it is.
When Steve’s home though he always walks up to Bucky, kissing and hugging him, whispering things into his ear that make the brunette smile and duck bashfully. They seem to love each other really deeply. Y/N sometimes catches them cuddling on the couch or in bed, one of them sneaking behind the other to circle him in his arms and kiss him. She has to admit that she likes seeing it. The picture of Bucky gets a different shine to it. He isn’t only closed off and silent. No, sometimes he is ecstatic and happy. Y/N finds that she likes him most when he’s harboring all these cute smiles that linger on his lips. He is genuinely happy then, and Steve seems more relaxed as well.
Today Y/N’s running around again, sniffing at her usual spots. You never know if someone broke in and touched them or if something changed. So far, everything’s fine. She notices the spots Bucky’s in more than Steve, his smell slightly different.
Y/N spots Steve in the hallway and quickly runs up to him. She tilts her head, a bit curious about what he’s doing, so she decides to follow him for a while. He’s drawing, washing the dishes, washing laundry, sketching, changing the sheets… Every few minutes, she runs back to Bucky, inspecting his form on the couch. He’s still lying there, reading his book. His eyes always slip back to her, and he smiles and pats her. She sees some uncertainty in Bucky’s eyes, but that’s to be expected, especially with his clinginess. Maybe he misses cuddling with Steve? They haven’t done it today.
Back in Steve’s art studio, she lies down beside him, watching him paint a bit longer. “Hey, you.” Steve smiles down at her, his hands coming up to her head, ruffling her fur. Her tongue lolls out, just as Bucky enters. He doesn’t say anything but instantly walks over to the small couch in the corner of the room to lie down, facing them with a throw blanket above himself. He gets comfortable and opens his book again, continuing where he stopped. Y/N stands back up, stretches to her full length with a yawn, and walks to Bucky. She sits down and licks a few times over his bare arm before rolling to a small fluff ball next to the couch on the ground. Unintentionally her eyes fall shut, and she slips into a light slumber to the faint sound of Steve’s brush against the canvas.
Around noon Bucky lifts himself from the couch, brushing his hand softly over Y/N’s head. She rouses slowly, blinking sleepily at Bucky’s smiling face. “Hey. Do you want to go for a walk?” Instantly Y/N’s wide awake. After all, she’s just a dog right now, and ‘walk’ is one of her favorite words after ‘cuddle’ and ‘food.’
Bucky laughs lightly, clapping his hands. “All right, pretty girl. Come on.” He walks past Steve but stops then, clapping his hand on his shoulder and kissing his cheek. “Are you coming with us?”
“Sure. Let me just finish this section, and I’ll be downstairs with you.”
Y/N runs down and up the stairs, making Bucky stumble more than once, but the brunette takes it lightly, laughing the whole way to the entrance door. “All right, all right. Calm down.” He grins at her, taking her harness from a hook and holding it out for Y/N to step in, which she quickly does. It takes a few more minutes until Steve joins them, and they finally get going. They don’t go far from the house though, but Y/N doesn’t mind. It helps her to get a better picture of the neighborhood. She tries to memorize as much as she can, though she has time to do so, knowing they will walk around here a lot. While Y/N busies herself with sniffing around she listens to Steve and Bucky talk about their weekend plan, which is kind of boring to her since the weekend is still two days away.
The day ends with dinner and a movie which sends Y/N to sleep almost halfway in. So far, everything seems okay; nothing is off. She can picture living with them like this, though there were families and times when she thought that too but still got returned. It has a bitter taste to all the calmness.
* * *
It's deep in the night. The house is black, shadows forming creepy creatures in her room, though that’s not what’s waking her. There are sounds.
Grunts and whimpers.
Y/N’s instinct kicks in, and she’s out of her door in seconds, rushing through the hallway to stop in front of Bucky’s door but hesitates to enter. Should she just barge in? Steve’s with him, and he will take care of any distress Bucky might have, right?
For a moment, she stands there, staring at the half-closed door. Another whimper reaches her ears. Isn’t Steve in there? Didn’t he wake from the sounds?
She looks around, catching the dim shimmer of light under the door to Steve’s art studio. Is he in there drawing again? Another grunt reaches her ears. Her instinct tells her to walk into the room as quickly as she can, so she does.
Slowly her nose nudges the door further open so she can slip in. The room is dark, but Y/N can make out the figure that’s lying on the mattress. The blankets are pushed to his feet, his head turning and tossing a bit. The whole room reeks of sweat, distress, and fear. What startles her, though, is the fact that Bucky seems to be the only one in bed. Steve really is nowhere to be seen, and she has half a mind to go to his studio to get him. Why would he leave his struggling husband alone in the middle of the night?
Quickly, Y/N rushes to the bed, jumps onto it, hoping not to startle the brunette awake and frighten him even more. Slowly she walks forward, closer to his face, lies and sniffs carefully. Whatever dream Bucky has is bad. His forehead is slightly glistening, and his clothes seem drenched. Her nose presses against Bucky’s hand and cheek, soft whines leaving her. It’s not loud enough to wake the brunette, but thankfully he reacts, nonetheless. His hands flex sluggishly; he turns a bit with a few more whimpers, and his arms sling around her body. He’s pretty strong for a sleeping man.
Y/N whines silently for a bit, hoping to rouse the brunette enough to get him out of his nightmare. It takes a bit more time. Bucky’s hands fist into her fur and his face hides in her belly but eventually, he calms down, still wrapped up around her. Instead of falling asleep herself, she stays awake for a while longer, watching the sleeping brunette for any other signs of distress. She notices some tear tracks on his cheeks and exhaustion in his face. It almost looks like he’s been awake for days. It makes her think back. Was he sleeping since she came to life here? He went to bed with Steve, right?
The creak of a door lets her look up. Soft light filters into the room and the silhouette of a man stands at the door. Y/N perks up a bit looking Steve’s way but she is surprised by the look on his shadowed face. It’s a neutral expression, his eyes seemingly focused on her rather than his husband. She knows these looks, has seen them way too often. Though there is something resembling sadness in his eyes as well. The blonde doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, he turns around and vanishes back into his art studio, taking all the light with him. Y/N stays where she is, staring at the door.
* * *
The next morning, Bucky is pretty clingy. He hasn’t shown any sign of wonderment that Y/N was in bed with him, but his husband wasn’t. Instead, he never leaves her side and when Steve enters the room, he’s quick to rush to the blonde and cling to him. Steve soothes him rubbing his back and pressing kisses to his head. Y/N notices the sadness in Steve’s gaze and the exhaustion in his features. It looks a bit like he hasn’t been sleeping good either.
Throughout the day Y/N notices that Steve’s keeping his distance from her, never coming close enough to Bucky when she’s right beside him. Bucky seems off enough that he doesn’t notice that much but to Y/N it is apparent. Both men talk less than before, they don’t go on an actual walk, just let Y/N out into the garden. She doesn’t mind, knowing Bucky isn’t up for a long walk. Back in the living room, she trots to her bed, still watching the man but not daring to come close to give Steve a sign that he’s the one in charge of Bucky. Hoping that this will get him off of her back. She doesn’t want to fight him on anything. Not his place in the house, not his husband, and not his position as the main caretaker. She’s simply here to help him out. Though the longer she pays attention to Steve she notices that something’s not quite right with him either. When the night rolls around, Steve orders dinner, and they put on a movie and cuddle on the couch.
Y/N keeps her distance, hoping to not pour oil in troubled water. Bucky glances at her now and then, but she’s quick to shut her eyes, pretending to be asleep, hoping that Bucky doesn’t catch her glimpse. When Bucky gets up and kisses his husband good night with the silent prayer to not take too long, she stays on her bed, letting Bucky pat her. Only when he’s gone does she open her eyes and lift her head. Steve’s not looking at her. Instead, he’s staring at the black TV screen. The look in his eyes seems far off, almost like Bucky’s the day Y/N helped him out. Steve shakes himself out of his daze after a few minutes. He heaves a deep sigh, his head landing in his hands as he hunches over. Some bells ring in Y/N’s head, the need to comfort grows, but she doesn’t move, not sure if Steve actually wants her to help him. Instead, she stays put, watching him stand up and leave the room, shutting the light off.
She stays put for a few minutes longer, then slowly strolls after the blonde. The door to their bedroom is shut and Y/N has the feeling Steve did it to keep her out. Sighing she walks to her room, jumping on the bed, and rolling into a ball. Her gaze is fixed on the window, staring at the stars and the dark sky outside. For a moment, she contemplates what to do next. She could just lie down and go to sleep or wander the house again, like a late night security check. But she also could change. Her skin feels itchy, ready to be something else for a while, but her mind is still set on protecting and helping, paired with the uncertainty of what might happen, when she changes. Though, she’d like to use the chance to go out on the balcony and look at all the pretty stares. For just a few more seconds she looks around her room, a yawn slipping past her but then she sighs. Lets just do it.
Taking her chance to shift, since Steve’s with Bucky, she does so, slipping into the burrowed clothes from the men that Steve had given her the day of her arrival. She opens the door and steps onto the balcony, careful to still be able to hear any sign of distress from Steve and Bucky’s room. Looking up at the sky again, she thinks about Steve. He is acting off, not only with the looks that he sends Y/N but in general. The first time she met him, he seemed happy, all lively, but now that she lives with them, she sees him more and more with sad looks. Always though when Bucky’s not around or not looking. He’s not sleeping that much, not napping with Bucky, and always keeping busy. Could it be that he…? Shaking her head, she dismisses the thought, though she wants to keep just as close an eye on the blond as she has on her actual person.
this one is inspired by... the thought i had in my head for a few days and this huge urge to write it as a fic and not only a blurb or a moodboard and the only way for me to write something is to make it a bucky barnes fanfiction... once again i'm not much of a writer but i hope some people will like this sweet, a bit awkward but also spicy story :) it's the longest fic i've ever written. oh and it had to be civil war bucky. i needed a big guy. and i miss my husband. if they k word him in doomsday i will cry. anyway enjoy, reblogs and feedback are appreciated!! and if anyone wants part two of this... let me know i may think about it!! because there is an idea for part 2 of this fic 👀 (divider found on pinterest)
masterlists || ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• [click for a playlist]
words: 3.7k
warnings: civil war beefy bucky (he is a warning himself); both bucky and reader are in their mid 20s; clueless and blind reader; skipped all the firefighter talk because i have no idea what i'm doing, i'm just here for smut; size kink; yearner bucky; a bit of stalker(ish) behavior; awkward crushes; slow burn(ish) but not really - they fuck on a first date...; cat dad bucky; big biceps; drinking mention; kissing; pussy eating; fingering; petnames (sweetie, good girl, baby, angel); finger sucking and also dick sucking; heavy eye contact; hair pulling; piv sex; unprotected sex; big dick bucky; mention of shower sex; aftercare; implication of ghosting;
it was a very normal day for you. waking up, drinking your usual coffee with oat milk, getting ready for work and just leaving the house. nothing unusual or weird... but one thing — today you had a little trip with your class and that meant a very perfect day: no chaos in classroom, no cleaning, just kids having fun outside. there were also downsides of a trip: trying not to loose a child and go back to their parents in one piece. but what can happen with four adults and a little bit over 30 kids? it is going to be a great day!
kids were definitely more excited than anyone else, because show me a kid whos not obsessed with any sort of big car... your kids were always glued to the windows when there was a garbage truck outside a preschool so they were obviously very excited for a trip to the fire station.
"the last time they were so excited was when we were watching new paw patrol movie." your friend and coworker laughed when you finished helping kids with their shoes.
everyone was ready. you had to take a bus to get there, but that's just another attraction kids adore.
"we could be driving around the city in a bus for a whole day and they will love it." you laughed.
it took you a little bit over 30 minutes to get there. kids were more and more excited with every second. you and three other teachers weren't that excited, you did it for children and your only goal was to just survive another day.
you arrived right on time. there was already a few firefighters waiting for you ready for the tour. they introduced themselves, the one who was doing most of the talking said his name is james, but everyone calls him bucky.
"this is the bestest day ever!" one boy who was holding your hand exclaimed with a huge smile on his face.
everything went great. all the kids had a great time, they were really interested. you weren't paying much attention to what was being said, you were there for the children and if they had a great time so had you. the most exciting part for the kids was a fire truck. they were obsessed. and that's what they were talking about all the way back. you took a lot of pictures for the parents, so they also knew how fun your little trip was. everything was so casual and normal, but on your way back to work that's where things got... interested.
"i may be delusional, but the talking guy was looking at you all the time." was the first thing your best friend said to you when you left the fire station.
"huh? me? noo... what are you talking about?"
"girl, are you blind? the big guy was... i want to say what he was doing with his eyes to you but we are still with a bunch of 5 year olds, so i will tell you that later."
nooo... it cannot be. she's obviously joking, right? you would notice... or maybe not. not like you were paying much attention to the firefighters or what they were saying or what they were looking at. but you had to admit, that talking guy was... attractive. and now he will be the only thing on your mind for the rest of the day. thanks to your very observant best friend.
he seemed pretty focused on his job.
and on talking to kids.
and on kids.
and he seemed to be good with kids too.
and he was big.
like big big.
and hot.
okay he was hot.
fuck.
now you wished your work bestie was telling the truth, but at the same time what can you do now? it's not like you can go back without the kids after work and what? pretend you left your phone? or that a child lost something? like a hat? it's dumb. and it won't work. no way it will work...
"hey! earth to y/n! you okay?"
"huh?" you looked at your friend when your kids were having a nap after your trip. there was still a few hours before their parents have to take them home and they were really tired after all day of activities.
"what are you thinki- wait. are you daydreaming about that hot firefighter? seriously?"
"hey! don't judge me! you've put this into my head... it's your fault."
"i just told you what i saw, y/n."
your day at work was almost over, still with only one thought on your mind. him. and the worst thing? you haven't even said one word to him. your delusion was based on what your best friend told you. at this point you accepted that you will probably think about him for a week and it will be over. with only one hour of work left and only 5 kids in your group you were playing with dolls and animal figurines ready to go home, but that's when things got... interesting. one of your other coworkers came to your classroom and said there is someone asking for you and waiting in the waiting area.
"who? can you stay with the kids for a second?" because you can't just leave them alone. when they agreed you left your classroom and a few moments later you looked like you saw a ghost. just blinking a few times to be sure you are not daydreaming again.
"hi." was all he said at first, nervous. he was clearly nervous. scratching the back of his neck, just looking at you.
"um... hi, is... is there something wrong? we left something? or did the kids break something?" you asked it really quickly, your mouth faster than your brain. okay why are you talking so fast, you are asking normal question. just calm down.
"no, no, no! not that! i was just looking for you and i had to come here." he paused for a second. "okay, that sounded a bit creepy. let me just start again. hi. i'm bucky. i obviously saw you today, you were with the kids and i will be honest i was kind of... it was hard to focus and i was wondering if you maybe want to go out? i wanted to ask you that earlier but... they would probably kill me for doing that at work, so..."
you had to blink a few more times, because what? he did what? oh fuck your friend was so right.
"i- okay, wait. i guess i know how you found me... it's... i was not expecting that. i mean you. here. i was not expecting you here... bucky. yes. yes i do want to."
he smiled. he was grinning like a child who was just told he can put his dream toy into a shopping cart.
"you do! okay... okay! can i get your phone number then? and we will set a date later?"
you nodded and he gave you his phone. you quickly saved your number with your name and gave him back his phone. after that he just looked at his screen and said your name out loud with a huge smile. your legs became weak that second. oh god.
after that you had to come back to work. still over 40 minutes left. but now you had that strange feeling inside of you and nosy coworkers gossiping about you for the rest of... now the day but realistically speaking for the next month.
when your work day ended and all the kids were picked up by their parents you came back home with a big smile on your face. the first thing you did was obviously texting your best friend about it.
the call lasted almost an hour. in the meantime you had dinner, cleaned your place a little bit and picked an outfit for tomorrow. it was late and you had to take a shower. were you waiting for bucky's text? yes. but the only notification on your phone was new sabrina carpenter's post on instagram. nothing else.
when you stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around yourself, you looked at your phone again and you froze. it was finally him.
that's how you ended up with a date. next saturday. so in like 2 days. all of this felt like straight from a book. almost like the airport run for a girl, but you met the guy today and he just found you at work... but you have to start somewhere. all you have to do now is survive all the gossip at work for a few days and pick an outfit.
×××
bucky planned a really sweet date. you went for a long walk and had a really nice dinner. nothing too fancy, but the food was really good and the company was even better. you talked a lot, actually it felt like you knew him for a long time. he was a bit shy at first, but after a few moments conversation became way more comfortable. you two got to know each other pretty well during that first date. you found out you both chose your career paths because you wanted to help people, but with a clearly different approach. you are helping kids learn and you are building their personalities and he's saving people. you learnt about his family, his hobbies and his fluffy white cat (he showed you pictures and it was the sweetest kitten you've ever seen).
"you know, you are really smart, that's very attractive." he said when he was walking you home after your dinner. it was late, but the date went so amazing you wanted it to last forever.
"you are making me nervously giggle when you say things like that, bucky." that was true, he was complimenting you all night. his eyes on you all the time. and it was a look of pure adoration. he was making you both blush like some high school crush and weirdly turned on the whole evening.
when you arrived at your doorstep he looked at you looking like a lost puppy but also like a hungry dog. this huge man needed you. the truth was he needed you from the second he saw you for the first time. but he was too much of a gentleman to do anything before he was sure you wanted something more too.
"i had a really great time, y/n." he said with a big smile, but the truth was he wasn't ready to say goodbye, not yet.
"me too! thanks for... stalking me at work, i guess?" you laughed and also just stared at him. a few moments of not really uncomfortable silence passed. a lot of thoughts passing through your head. mostly about him. about his body. about his big body. about how sweet and kind he was all evening. about his biceps. oh god his biceps. should you or should you not- fuck it.
"do you want to come inside?" you just asked, not even a five seconds later you also added "i have wine."
"yes! i mean- i would love to!" he said it way too fast with so much enthusiasm, it was actually cute. he made you laugh again.
you found your house keys in your bag and opened the door. after your invitation he stepped inside your apartment and looked around. it was small, but cozy. a few little trinkets here and there. it was obvious that a teacher lives here with some puzzles or colouring books on a shelves. also a lot of paper work left on the table in the kitchen.
"sorry, i wasn't expecting guests." you said as you started to gather your papers in a pile.
"you don't have to worry, it's cute. i can tell you actually live here. there is a life in this place, i like it." he gave you a warm smile.
when you cleaned the area a little bit you found your wine glasses and a bottle of wine.
"we can go to the living room or stay he- oh." you turned around to face bucky and there he was. so close to you. your breath stuck in your lungs for a second. "um... hi." you whispered after a deep breath.
"hi." he was looking into your eyes. fixed your hair by putting one loose strand behind your ear. his touch soft. gentle. "i have to be honest with you, can i be honest with you?" when you nodded he continued. "when i saw you for the first time a few days ago i knew i wanted you. it was hard to focus on work... you were so hot and pretty and i had no idea what happened to me but i've never felt anything like it. i had to find you and talk to you. i needed it. i needed to see your pretty face, your gorgeous smile. and i did that. now there are a few more things i still need. i need to touch you. i need to feel your body in my hands. you are so cute and small and i know you are going to feel amazing in my arms... is this okay? for me to need this? to need you like thi-" he had no chance to finish his last words because the next thing he felt were your lips on his. a few seconds later your hands found their way to his hair. his hands on your hips as he kept you closer and closer with every second. your kiss quickly became more passionate, both of you needed each other.
you don't remember when you ended up on a kitchen counter but you did. bucky's lips on your neck as you wrapped your legs around his waist keeping him as close as you could. the kisses on your neck were wet and a little bit chaotic. it was obvious he needed you. really needed you. when he left a little mark on your neck you gasped. a few moments later your dress was rolled up around your waist and bucky was on his knees before you. he gently spread your legs. his eyes on yours the whole time. fuck he was so hot like this. first bucky gently kissed your skin. leaving a lot of little kisses on your legs, then your thighs, slowly coming closer and closer to where you needed him.
soon your panties were gone and that moment when you felt his lips on you, you were thrilled with the fact that he came to find you at work, because this man knew what he was doing. he was slow but his tounge was working magic on you making you only more and more wet. you started to moan and whimper a little bit. your hand grabbed his hair keeping him close. bucky moaned into your pussy and that made you whimper. when you pulled his hair a little that was when he added his finger. only one at first. starting slow, but you had a feeling he won't be like that for a long time and that was the truth. in just a few more minutes this man that you met a few days ago was making you feel like you've never felt before with only his mouth and fingers.
"don't stop or i will kick you out-" you moaned when you were getting really really close. he had no plan to stop. he needed you to cum on his face. he needed to feel it. and it was making him really horny.
"i won't stop, i want you to cum, sweetie." he hummed. "can you do that for me? you are being such a good girl for me, making such a sweet noises..." he just kept going and it was impossible for you to hold it longer. with a loud moan of his name you finished on his tounge, pulling his hair and keeping him close to your already sensitive pussy.
bucky was so turned on by just eating you out. it was insane for him, he knew you for a few days and was already obsessed with you. intoxicated by you. by your noises. by your taste. by the feeling of your skin in his hands. he was addicted. and honestly? you were too.
he gave you a few moments to breath.
"you okay?" he asked and licked his lips as he looked at you. you nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "can i keep going?" another nod from you and the next thing you see are his fingers. so close to your mouth. "open up, baby and suck on them."
and you did just that. your head dizzy. empty. this man had to put a spell on you, there was no other option. you tasted yourself on his fingers. he kept eye contact with you the whole time you were sucking on them. you knew it was making him hard. and you needed to feel it. with bucky's fingers still in your mouth you started to unbuckle his belt. eye contact very strong as the attraction and tension between the two of you was insane. when his fingers left your lips you whispered softly.
"my turn, james." his eyes widened. more because of you using his full name, not because of what you wanted to do. now you needed to taste him. a few seconds later you were the one on your knees in front of him, unzipping his pants, still keeping that eye contact.
bucky was hard. really hard and your mouth watered at even just the thought of him. he groaned when you took him inside your mouth. his hands were in your hair even faster than yours ended up in his just a few moments ago.
"fuck, i had a feeling your mouth would feel amazing, but that's pure heaven, baby."
his words only made you work harder and really do your best. you were getting turned on again and him pulling your hair only added to the feeling. at the same time bucky felt like he was loosing it, he tried not to be too rough with you but you were making him feel so good, it wasn't easy to keep himself from straight up fucking your throat.
"you look so pretty, fuck- i just want to-" he pulled your hair harder, you moaned around him. the thing about bucky - he was big everywhere and when he finally started to be more rough with you - you really felt it.
you were sucking him for a couple more moments, but then he just stopped.
"fuck it, i need you. bend over."
you just blinked, but you obeyed. you stood up and quickly bucky was behind you next to the same kitchen table you were cleaning before. you felt his breath next to your right ear. he gently kissed it, then left a few slow kisses on your neck. you felt it behind you, your pussy getting more wet with every second.
"i can't promise i will be gentle." he whispered and bit your ear. this made you moan and bit your lip right after.
"you don't have to be." you said breathlessly.
"that's my sweet and brave girl." he hummed and you gasped at the sudden feeling of him filling you. at first he was slow, giving you time to get used to him and you needed that. but when it started to feel comfortable he lost all of his restraints. he was big and he was really getting into it. it was rough, it was deep, it was hard. he was holding you by the hips as you were slowly becoming a moaning mess under his touch.
"you are so tiny in my hands, angel." bucky growled as he kept going. you were so wet it was so easy for him to keep hitting all the right spots. you've never felt anything like this and it was a paradise on earth right now with him. soon your body started to shake a little as another orgasm was coming closer and closer. you needed it.
"please-" you whined.
"please what?"
"don't stop."
"awww are you close, sweetie? c'mon give it to me."
and you did. you came with almost a scream and it was enough to send bucky over the edge too. he held you tighter and he finished inside you with a hard bite on your shoulder.
bucky kept holding you as you were a weak puddle in his hands. he smiled when you both caught your breath. now he was next to you, but still holding you close.
"shit... i'm obsessed with you." he giggled and so did you. you looked at him with hazy eyes. "let me give you a glass of water." he said and took the wine glass that you prepared before you kissed him first and filled it with water. bucky gave you the glass and you drank almost all of it. he put you on top of the table again so you were sitting on it.
"you okay?" he simply asked.
you nodded and said a very quiet "more than okay."
the rest of the evening went smoothly. you took a shower, together and yes his fingers ended up inside you again. after that you got dressed and finally had that wine you promised him. he left your house almost in the morning leaving you satisfied and empty headed, but at the same time full of... a very weird feeling inside you. no, you can't have a crush on a guy you met not even a week ago... but fuck, wasn't he hot, funny, charming and good in bed?
×××
in the morning you woke up very late, at least late for you. you checked your phone hoping to maybe see a message from bucky, but there was nothing on your phone. you wanted to text him, but... what if he just wanted that? good sex? and a fun one night stand? you decided to wait, at least a little bit and then text him later... he is going to say something, right? right?
