Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
warnings: 18+ MDNI. angst + comfort. and there was only one bed. mutual pining. communication is key guys, do that.
word count: 2.9k
prompts: lemonade: something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution: “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
missed call: almost connection, the one that got away → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been: “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.”
summary: road tripping would be a lot more enjoyable if you hadn’t kissed the driver, bucky barnes, two months ago. and if you would, you know, talk about it.
sc talks: i’ve never done a prompt thing like this before, so hopefully it’s decent enough!. sc write anything other than angst challenge: impossible. i plan on writing a cute little fluffy counterpart to this, so hopefully i can have that out soon! p.s. shoutout to @tookhimtomypenthouse for the sunglasses and t-shirt ;)
Bucky was going to have words with Sam.
He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”
“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”
You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position.
“Hey, feet down.”
You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”
Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”
Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”
Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him.
"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add.
The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments.
“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you.
Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”
“I’m a good driver!”
Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”
Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS.
“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”
Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.
“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio.
It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders.
The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement.
You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night.
The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”
You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.
“Sounds good.”
“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.
The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”
Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time.
The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.”
You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly.
Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else.
“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more.
“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud air conditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”
Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”
“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”
Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”
Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”
Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting.
His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”
Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.
He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him.
What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.
The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying.
“Good shower?” He asks tentatively.
You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like.
“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”
Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”
“Go for it.”
Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.
A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”
Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”
In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”
“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”
“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all.
“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”
“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”
“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark.
“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you pick up?”
There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.”
It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared.
“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours.
“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”
Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap.
This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like you're something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark.
Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.
“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”
Bucky exhales, gathering you into his arms and feeling you relax into him. “That,” he hums, “I can do.”
warnings: +18 MDNI, angst, hurt/no comfort, implied smut, graphic depictions of physical stress, mentions of blood and medical trauma, separation/implied breakup, self-destructive behavior, isolation, near death expriences, panic/grief, lots of crying. happy ending, mutual pining, canon divergence, fluff, a lot of cameos.
word count: 15.9 k
status: completed. | read on AO3
Part I — Lethal Love
summary: After the mission of returning the infinity stones goes wrong, the power stone leaves you with something you can’t get rid of. You survive the exposure, but now Bucky can only survive you in small doses.
Part II — Our Love Remains
summary: Six months after disappearing, you're alone in a remote cabin in Norway, slowly becoming something not entirely human. Meanwhile, Bucky tears through the universe trying to find a cure because aftr everything you've gone through, Bucky refuses to believe your story ends in separation. And this time, he's not letting you go.
summary: After decades of being away from his wife, Bucky Barnes tried to make his way back to her, only to find out that he was too late. Coping with that hurt, but instead of wasting his life mourning what he didn‘t have, Bucky trusted that he would meet you again when the time was right.
word count: 2.6k
warnings/tags: kinda hurt/comfort, female reader, fluff, bucky is a little softie, a little bit of angst, mourning a loved one, grief, coping with death, mentions of injuries but nothing graphic, kinda angsty ending but it‘s a good one
author‘s note: This was inspired by Noah Kahan‘s new song We Go Way Back, honestly the storyline has nothing to do with the lyrics but there are a few references. I‘ve been wanting to post this since Tuesday, unfortunately I didn‘t have any time so you‘re getting it now.
Honestly I didn‘t really know how to tag this as it‘s a sad ish ending but it‘s also happy? I don‘t know how to describe it, you‘ll see what I mean when you get there.
Also, I really want to thank you guys for the support my work has gotten over the last few days!! I appreciate it so much and can‘t wait share more stuff with you in the future, I‘m a little sick right now so I have some time to kill the next few days which I‘ll definitely spend writing. That‘s it with my little rant, I really hope you‘ll like the story just as much as I enjoyed writing it!!
I do not give my consent for my work to be posted on other platforms or to be fed to AI.
dividers by @cursed-carmine
The grave didn't look like it used to when he first came here anymore.
Back then, after delaying actually visiting your grave for as long as his conscience allowed him to, Bucky had known that it wouldn't be easy to face this.
He'd been right. It hadn't been easy.
As a matter of fact, Bucky had broken down the second he'd read your name on the gravestone, more than grateful that Sam had insisted on coming with him, because he was pretty sure that he would've stayed there for the whole night if it wasn't for him, just staring at your grave as if that would make your death any less real.
As if it would be enough to bring you back to him.
It didn't, of course, but the human brain sometimes had a funy way of planting hope were sun could never actually reach to make it bloom.
Looking back on it, Bucky didn't think that the grave had been what set him off, at least not in the way he'd expected.
After he'd found out that you'd still been alive, living in a small nursing home in Brooklyn whilst he was all the way across the world in Wakanda, he'd promised himself that he would come to visit you, no matter what consequences going back to the US might bring for him.
Then the blip happened and before he knew it, yet another five year of his life had been taken from him.
After coming back, he had to come to the realization that during his absence, the inevitable had happened.
You were dead.
He'd known that it was going to happen, of course. Bucky wasn't stupid, after all, and 102 already was an impressive age, considering that you didn't have the same bullshit running through your veins like him or Steve did.
He'd just thought that he would have more time.
The grave had been in a horrible state when Sam and him first got there, which probably hurt the most.
His sister still had family that was taking care of hers, people he didn't really have anything to do with, but they kept it neat.
Whenever he visited, there was already a boquet of flowers sitting where he added his, the occasional candle burning sometimes.
You didn't have any of that.
Wether your family didn't care or you didn't have one, he hadn't known at the time.
After a little bit of research that Sam had done for him, Bucky now knew that you never actually had kids, let alone got married again.
That was enough of a reason for him to take the complete responsiblility for your grave, making sure that it was in good state again, visiting as often as his tight schedule allowed him to, because he would be damned if anyone ever walked past it again, smiling in pity because they thought that there weren't any people that cared about you to maintain it anymore, which couldn't be further away from the truth.
Bucky cared about you. And now that he couldn't tell you that in person anymore, he could at least make sure that all the love he carried in his heart had a place to go, which happened to be the place you were buried.
Bucky'd made a promise, after all.
On the evening before his deployment started, when you'd cried because you'd been so scared of never seeing him again, Bucky'd promised that he would come back to you.
He'd made it a pinky promise, too, well aware of how much those meant to you.
Sometimes, he liked to think that it had been the only reason he'd survived that hellhole of a place he'd spent more than seven decades of his life in, the gravity of what he'd promised you back then stronger than any pull towards death could ever be.
Unfortunately, he still hadn't been able to keep his promise to the extend he'd actually wanted to.
He did come back to you, just like he'd said he would, you just weren't alive to witness it anymore.
Now your grave was the only thing he had left of you, so he made as much of it as he could.
Sam had once tried to gently tell him that it maybe wasn't exactly the healthiest way of coping, but Bucky couldn't help it.
He was thinking about you all the time anyway, so it didn't matter if he spent his time doing it at home or if he came to visit you.
The weather was nice when Bucky made his way to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was already a regular at by now.
He tried to get you flowers at least once a week, just like he used to when he took you out on friday nights, a tradition he knew you'd always looked forward to even though you had always scolded him for spending his money on that kind of stuff.
Bucky never cared, though. He did his damn best to treat you well, taking on a few extra shifts whenever he could so money wouldn't be too tight at the end of the month.
To be able to afford your engagement ring, he'd worked so much that he actually passed out on the job once, nearly crushing himself under one of the crates they always had to unload from the cargo ships.
You'd been mad as hell when you'd found out and Bucky'd only gotten half of the usual pay for the shift, but it'd been enough money for him to get the ring just in time for when he had the proposal planned.
Even though his whole body had ached for the next to weeks, you'd said yes when he had asked you to marry him, the two of you standing under the starts of Brooklyn, the moon illuminating your face beautifully when you threw yourself into his arms, knocking him over from where he was kneeling on the ground.
That had made all the strain he'd put on his body more than just worth it.
The weather was nice when Bucky made his way over to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was a regular at by now.
The familiar bell chimed when Bucky entered the flower shop, all the flowers shining with how the sun illuminated them.
The young girl that worked at the shop sometimes looked up from where she was organizing some stuff, face lighting up immediately when she noticed that it was him, already familiar with Bucky because of how often he came here.
He never got you the same boquet- mostly because he thought that you'd find it endearing how excited the kid always got when he told her that she could put together whatever she wanted to, but also because he was sure you'd like the variety of it.
It wasn't like he really had a budget, anyway.
Now that he didn't have to worry about that kind of stuff anymore, there was nothing that could ever be too expensive for you.
"What's up, Mr. Barnes? Anything in particular I can do for you today?" Bucky almost had to smile at that. She never failed to check in with him, even though he could already see her fingers twitch against the counter, more than ready to get creative again.
"Nah, kid. You go ahead, don't let me stop ya."
She didn't need more permission than that and quickly made her way over to the buckets overflowing with color, hands reaching for all different kinds of flowers that Bucky couldn't even name if he tried.
"Can I ask you something, sir?"
Even though her eyes were still focused on the boquet she was currently arranging, Bucky could hear the nerves in her voice, which intruiged him a little too much to shut her down. He wasn't usually one for nosy questions, butt he supposed he could deal with them for once. "Go ahead, kiddo."
"Does your wife ever say anything about the flowers? It's just that you come here so often and always let me do whatever I want, doesn't she have any preferences?"
There was something so endearing about the innocent curiousity of teenagers, Bucky just couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.
"You got nothing to worry about, kid. She always loves them."
Bucky supposed that keeping the answer vague was a little better than actually lying, because he was certain that you would love the flowers. You'd adored the colorful ones the most, claiming that the uncertainty of what the next boquet he'd get you looked like was what made you look forward to receiving them the most.
You'd always made a game out of it, too, trying to get behind the pattern he used to chose the flowers.
There wasn't one, if he had to be honest. He always just picked whatever he thought suited you best.
"Well, I'm glad she likes them. She's really lucky, you know, It's cute that you do this for her so often."
Now, he couldn't help the quiet rumble of laughter that slipped past his lips. "Trust me, I'm the lucky one. This is the least I can do."
He should probably not be doing this. He should just tell her that his wife wasn't alive anymore, that he didn't get you flowers because he was such a great husband, but because they were for your grave.
He couldn't bring himself to do that, though. No matter how pathetic it might seem, it was nice to escape the reality of his life and just pretend that you were sitting at home, preparing pancakes for breakfast whilst he walked the familiar route to the florist, coming back home afterwards instead of going to the cemetery.
Maybe in another life that was the reality he got to have.
Not in this one, though, but he still liked to imagine sometimes.
"May I ask how the two of you met?"
Finished with picking all the flowers and seemingly happy with the result, the kid walked back to the counter again and started wrapping the boquet with practised ease.
She seemed to notice that Bucky didn't actually mind her curiousity, he noticed that she got more comfortable asking questions which was actually pretty nice to witness.
It was refreshing to talk to someone that didn't carry the usual wariness most did when talking to him.
"We go way back, actually. Been friends for ages before we started dating."
"Naw, that's cute. Friends to lovers is the best trope, actually. Hands down."
Bucky wasn't entirely sure about what that meant and made a mental note to ask Sam about it later, even though he would probably just make fun of Bucky's lack of knowledge about pop culture again.
She didn't keep asking questions, seemingly aware that any more questions might border on being too personal, which Bucky appreciated. So instead of feeling the need to keep the conversation going, she just handed the finished boquet over to him.
"That'd be fifty dollars, Mr. Barnes."
Bucky didn't hesitate to hand over a crisp hundret dollar bill, dismissingly waving his hand as she reached for the change. "Keep it, kiddo. Boquet's looking extra great today, thank you."
He grabbed the flowers and left before actually giving her a chance to answer, because he wasn't really up for an unnecssary discussion about whether or not the money was too much for a tip.
The kid was respectful and friendly, and Bucky was a grown man. It was for him to decide what he wanted to spend his money on.
Besides, if she even had to work on the weekend, maybe she could use it.
The remaining walk from the florist to the cemetery was quick, especially because Bucky was eager to get there as soon as possible.
When he was still a young boy, Bucky never understood how visiting someone's grave would actually help to miss them a little less.
Now, he couldn't imagine going without it anymore.
In the beginning, talking to you had felt a little akward and weird, but he'd gotten usd to it by now. He didn't stumble over his words as much anymore and instead talked for hours on end sometimes.
He occasionally told you about missions, but it was mostly things that made him think of you or that he thought you would like if you were still here to experience them with him.
He often apologised, too.
Sometimes because he hadn't held his promise like he thought he would, other times because you'd lost him before the two of you ever got to live together properly.
You'd been freshly married back then, only four months into being Mr. and Mrs. Barnes before war took him from you without either of you actually being able to do anything about it.
Sitting on the grass in front of your grave now, sun shining down onto his back whilst the birds chirped in the background, something settled in his chest.
It wasn't uncomfortable like the anxiety he used to carry everywhere he went. In fact, it felt really close to something that could resemble contentment.
Bucky liked the life he got to live right now.
He liked that he got to go on missions with Sam, but that they weren't what he spent the majority of his time anymore.
He adored his apartment in Brooklyn, had people in his life that he loved and cared about and got to visit you whenever he pleased.
He could finally spend his life the way he wanted to, not having to worry about money or war or the freezing cold of cryostasis running through his body anymore.
He was free.
And even though he really did enjoy his life after years of learning who he was again, he knew that he wasn't afraid of death either.
Bucky wasn't sure if an afterlife and heaven were things that existed for people like him, neither if he even really believed in that kind of stuff.
He was certain that he would get to see you again, though. After all, eight decades had passed since Bucky had fallen of the train and you never tried to love someone else again, didn't get married again.
You'd kept his name, and Bucky realised that the choice you made, the fact that you let him have the honour of being your husband until the very last moment of his life, was enough to reassure him that everything was going to be okay.
After that day, Bucky still came to your grave at least once a week. He still left the girl at the flower shop too big tips and told her about you, but he didn't hold onto you as anxiously as he did before, when it felt like you slipped through hands more and more with every second that he got to live and you didn't
Now it felt like he got to live his life, just like you lived yours, before the two of you would be reunited again.
And when he was lying on the battleground five years later, too much of his blood already covering the ground for him to have any hope anymore, he didn't feel scared.
Sure, he was going to miss Sam. He'd also miss Joaquin, Sarah, the kids and the flower girl, but he knew that they were going to be okay.
Just he was going to be okay, after his eyes grew heavy and he left the world with a smile that pulled on his lips, truly at peace for the first time in what felt like forever, because he knew that when he'd open them again, you'd be there with him.
And now, the time the two of you'd get wouldn't be limited.
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, civil war canon compliant, smut, mentions of size difference, widows have a red room variant of a super soldier serum, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, sex pollen, touch starved, bucky is so down bad, dry humping, bucky is a virgin, virginity loss, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, body worshiping, arguments, banter, physical fights as foreplay
⭐︎ word count: 11.1k
⭐︎ a/n: first time writing for civil war bucky and a black widow/avenger reader, kinda nervous. this is also my first attempt writing sex pollen. i hope i make the founding fathers proud with this one. gif
synopsis:
While Bucky Barnes is on the run, Steve entrusts you to look after his old friend while the rest of the team tries to resolve the conflict with Tony Stark peacefully. As if babysitting a grumpy ex-Hydra soldier wasn't hard enough, an airborne toxin gets released—one designed to weaken a super soldier's resolve with the intention to trap them... and an unexpected side effect that skyrockets their libido.
Between the constant bickering and fighting for your life, you have to keep reminding yourself, "I refuse to be Bucky's first."
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There were a few things you could respect Steve Rogers for.
He always seemed to know what was best for the team, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he always tried to find a way to resolve conflict with the least amount of bloodshed possible. He was a respectable man—respectable enough for people like you to follow him into hell.
But there were also plenty of things you disliked about him.
Namely, once he had a plan, he stuck to it whether the people around him agreed or not. Unfortunately for you, his current plan involved you babysitting the world’s most wanted Hydra assassin.
And that was the Winter Soldier.
“What!” you barked in disbelief, throwing your hands in the air. “No! I am not watching him. I’m coming with you—”
Steve was already gearing up—wearing the suit he stole from the Smithsonian and strapping on his shield last.
“No,” he replied, sharp and firm. “Trust me, it’s better if you stay put. If I show up with Buck by my side, it’s not gonna look good.”
Steve motioned towards Bucky, who just stood there looking about as useful and clueless as a bag of bricks.
The kicked puppy look on his face almost made you feel bad for him. Almost. Because if it weren’t for him, and your own stubborn loyalty to Steve, nobody would be in this mess in the first place.
“Look, you’re going to talk to Stark, right? Nat’s with him. Let me come. I can talk to her while you work things out with Stark, and maybe we can figure out a better solution—”
“We shouldn’t even consider talking to Nat. She’s in deep with Tony and the Accords. And besides, I don’t trust—” Steve cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes flickered between you and Bucky. “Never mind.”
You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Don’t trust what?”
The tension in the parking garage turned uncomfortable really fast.
No one dared speak or move—it felt like a bunch of kids walking in on Mom and Dad arguing and refusing to pick sides. Even though you already knew what he was going to say, you kept your eyes fixed on Steve with a silent threat for him to continue.
Steve sighed and stepped forward, mentally cursing himself for letting the words slip.
“You Widows—they’re known to be deceptive,” Steve explained as calmly and gently as he could, though it didn’t help.
“I just… can’t risk you talking to Natasha. It’s too dangerous.”
Offended wasn’t even the right word for it.
Everyone in this line of work—including you, especially you — knew about the Black Widows and their reputation. You were a group of young girls broken down and rebuilt into perfect chameleons. Widows were trained to whisper sweet nothings into a victim’s ear, only to hold a blade to their throat, slit it without remorse, and go about the rest of their day as if nothing had happened.
Steve wasn’t wrong, but the hypocrisy of his logic made you feel sour.
He didn’t trust your background, yet in the very same breath, he was willing to leave you entirely alone with Bucky—his best friend, and the only piece of his past he had left. If you were truly so deceptive, so inherently untrustworthy, what was stopping you from turning Bucky over to Stark the second Steve cleared this garage?
You wanted to cry. You had been loyal to Steve, standing by his side while the rest of the team split up and tore at each other’s throats—and this was how he repaid you? By humiliating you in front of everyone?
But you’d die before you let a single tear fall in front of Steve, or anyone else for that matter.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tightened your jaw until your teeth hurt and forced your gaze away.
“Fine.”
You were going to protect his precious best friend—not out of submission, but to shove his own prejudice right back down his throat. You would prove to him, definitively, that you could be trusted.
“I’ll watch over him,” you added, trying to keep cool. “I’ll keep my comms open, too—just in case you want to pop in and check if he’s still alive.”
Steve returned your sarcasm with a relieved exhale. “Thank you—”
“Don’t mention it,” you cut him off, waving a hand dismissively as you walked past Bucky—who was standing there looking like a child of divorce. You headed for your motorcycle.
“Are you coming, Barnes?”
Before joining you at the bike, Bucky walked over to Steve with a fond look in his eyes. They shared the same brotherly hug they'd been exchanging since they reunited. Steve mumbled something into his shoulder—probably reassurance that everything was going to be okay—before finally sending him off to you.
You rolled your eyes, slipping your helmet on to block them out.
As everyone else cleared out of the garage, Bucky walked over to your bike. You handed him a helmet, and he started strapping it on.
“Should I drive?” He asked.
You blinked at him, your face going blank despite him not being able to see it.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve been hiding in Bucharest for a while,” Bucky explained. “I know some discreet spots where they won’t find us.”
Even though neither of you could see the other’s expression, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky was testing your competence—and on top of everything that had led to this moment, especially that little conversation with Steve, your patience was wearing dangerously thin.
“Barnes, I assure you that whatever spot you’re thinking of, a SWAT team is already sweeping it.” You revved the engine. “Get on.”
Bucky muffled a deep sigh inside his helmet. Based on his stiff posture, you thought he might argue, but he finally conceded, swinging his long leg over the back of the seat.
As you gripped the handlebars, you waited for him to hold on, but nothing happened.
Glancing at your side mirrors, you saw him awkwardly plant his hands at the edge of his seat, leaning back as far away from you as the space would allow.
“I’m gonna need you to hold on,” you ordered without looking back.
Bucky hesitated, not moving an inch.
Annoyed, you killed the revving engine for a second and glared at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to fall off?”
Bucky still didn’t budge. He kept his posture uncomfortably stiff, his eyes boring down at the empty space between his hips and the arch of your back.
“I’ll be fine right here.”
You couldn’t believe the gall of this guy. You had been tasked with something that was supposed to be so simple—tedious, sure, but easy enough—yet he was making your job twice as difficult. You glared at him through your visor, your voice strict even through the muffle of your headgear.
“Steve entrusted me to look after you. If he finds out on the evening news that his most wanted best friend fell off the back of my motorcycle and got captured by the government, then he’s never going to talk to me again. And everyone who is risking their lives for you did it all for nothing because you chose to be stubborn. Now, I am not going to repeat myself. Hold. On. To. Me.”
You couldn’t make out his expression, but slowly and reluctantly, he leaned forward and wrapped his thick arms around your waist.
“Tighter,” you commanded.
From the short time Bucky had known you, he already knew there was no point in arguing.
He let out a sigh into his helmet and wrapped his arms around you just a little tighter than before—but still kept his hold loose and, well… as respectful as he could manage.
“Bucky, I need you to hold me tighter,” you urged again.
It had already been a good five minutes since everyone left—and here you were, stuck with the man who, if caught, could risk your life and your position, all because he refused to hold onto you properly.
To you, this was nothing but a nuisance.
But for Bucky…
Bucky was holding onto every thread and reminder left from the forties of what it meant to be a respectful man. Especially since it had been so long since he’d not only been this close to a woman, but held one.
“Tighter!” you shrieked, patience finally snapping.
“Fuck, you know what? Fine!” he snapped back, adjusting his hips so that his chest was pressed up right against your back, wrapping his strong arms around you tightly enough to make you gasp.
“Is that tight enough for you?”
“Perfect,” you croaked sarcastically.
Without giving him another second to respond, you kicked the bike into gear and finally steered it out of the garage.
You were determined to keep your pride intact. His broad chest was pressed up against your back, trapping your body heat until your leather jacket felt burning hot against your skin. His metal arm was a hard band across your midsection, while his flesh arm gripped you still.
You were so small compared to him. He could easily take over—yet here he was, being your obedient puppy.
“Where are you taking me?” Bucky shouted over the rush of wind as the two of you whipped through the busy streets of Bucharest.
“To an amusement park,” you shouted back. “Don’t you want to ride a roller coaster?”
Bucky let out a tired sigh.
You managed to find sanctuary at an abandoned, overgrown rooftop greenhouse. Located on the very outskirts of Bucharest, it was far enough from the city center to avoid suspicion, but still close enough to keep your comms within range of Steve.
You paced the rooftop, feeling restless as your mind overworked with what Steve and the rest of the team could be doing right now.
Were they already fighting? Would Stark actually listen to reason and put all of this to rest?
Letting out a defeated sigh, you kicked a stray pebble, watching it skid across the concrete of the rooftop.
“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself. “Stuck on babysitting duty when I should be out there.”
Lifting your head, your eyes locked onto Bucky. He was standing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distant streets below.
“Hey!” you barked, pointing a finger at him like a mother scolding a child. “Step away from the edge! You’re going to fall.”
“I’m just keeping a lookout,” Bucky mumbled, his back still facing you as he refused to step away from the edge.
“You’re just making my job harder than it already is,” you argued, throwing your hands up in exasperation.
You pointed aggressively to the dusty wooden crate tucked against the brick wall.
“Just go sit over there or something.”
Bucky’s brow twitched the same time his patience snapped. He turned around to finally face you, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.
“Would you stop talking to me like I’m a child?” he snapped, stepping away from the edge—not because you had ordered him to, but to match your hostile stance as he stalked toward you. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the shitty job of watching over me, but I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”
His defensive outburst made you raise a brow.
“Oh, really? You can handle yourself just fine?” you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Is that why the entire global government is hunting you down right now? Is that why Steve had to throw away his entire reputation just to keep you out of a cage? Because you’ve got it all handled?”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.
The mention of Steve’s sacrifice definitely hit a nerve, you could see the guilt in his eyes.
A part of you wished you hadn’t said it at all, and you were just about ready swallow your pride and apologize, until…
“You’re from the Red Room,” he said, stepping closer. An involuntary shudder went down your spine. “You’ve done terrible things in the past—just as I have. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone like Steve bend over backwards for lowlifes like us.”
You didn’t realize just how close he was standing until his hot breath hit your face, only shortening your temper.
“We don’t ask for the help, yet they do it for us anyway,” Bucky’s voice graveled into a whisper. “Don’t talk down to me like you don’t know what it’s like. When in fact, you’re worse—”
You were already seeing red before he could even finish his sentence.
You quickly unsheathed a pocket knife from your belt and lunged at him, aiming straight for his throat just as a threat to silence him.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me!”
But Bucky was faster.
He brought his metal forearm up just in time to block the blade, making an ugly scraping sound. He twisted his wrist to disarm you, but your grip on the knife was tight. While one arm was held captive by his, you used your other to try and deliver a punch—which he also dodged.
You resorted to your legs, bucking them up to deliver hard kicks to his stomach. He grunted after each hit your leg managed to put out, but his hands moved quickly to grab the collar of your jacket and hurl you backwards to the nearest wall.
You cried out, face scrunching into a wince as your back slammed into hard brick.
The impact made you drop your knife. Bucky pressed his heavy body right against yours, aggressively tucking his legs between your thighs so you couldn’t use the space to swing your knees at him again.
“I can’t believe this is who Steve decided to trust me with,” he hissed in your face.
“Get off of me!” you yelled, squirming beneath his body.
“You drew your knife at me,” Bucky roared back. “Maybe Steve was right. All you Widows have a tendency to break your vows whenever things go even remotely south for you—”
You weren’t going to sit there and take his insults. Gritting your teeth with a brace, you pulled your head back and slammed your forehead directly into his face.
Bucky groaned out in pain, his grip on you loosening as he stumbled back with a hand to his face. Seizing the small window of opportunity, you shoved his chest away and dove towards the floor, reaching for the dropped pocket knife.
Before your fingers could even brush the hilt, his large hands grabbed you from behind and slammed you right back into the brick wall again.
You let out a breathless gasp as your face was forcefully squished up against the brick.
Bucky’s flesh hand came to the back of your head, pushing your skull firmly against the wall to keep your vision pinned away from him. At the same time, his metal hand gathered both your wrists behind your back, locking your two arms prone.
“Let go of me!”
You started to violently squirm and writhe, trying to buck your back against him—to tire him out, but Bucky moved his entire lower body to seal the space. His hips pressed tightly up against your bottom, his chest to your back, pinning you completely helpless as you were left trapped between him and the wall.
“No. I don’t care if you’re Steve’s friend, or if Steve respects you,” Bucky hissed, his breath right at your ear. “If I find my life in danger—after finally being free from Hydra, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way. Even you.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving against your back.
He was angry.
He hated how much a woman like you could get under his skin with just a few sarcastic words and petty jabs.
One moment he was flustered just holding onto your waist during the bike ride, and now, he had you pinned up against the wall, your life completely in his hands.
You grit your teeth. “Dammit, Barnes—”
“—do you hear me? Hello? Anyone copy?”
You and Bucky froze. His eyes went wide as he leaned his head down toward the earpiece tucked just behind your earlobe where Steve’s voice was emitting. You glared at Bucky through the corner of your eye.
“Steve’s calling for me. I can’t answer it unless you let me go.”
“Status check. Code Blue-Alpha. Repeat, Code Blue-Alpha. Do you copy?”
Bucky was hesitant.
He didn’t want to let you go—afraid that you might actually threaten his life again the second he backed off.
Instead of releasing you, his metal hand kept the tight grip on both your wrists, while his flesh hand finally let your head free. Shifting his body closer, his finger reached around to press the button on your earpiece, activating the channel and allowing you to speak.
“Steve,” you breathed, catching your breath. “I’m here.”
“There you are!” Steve let out a relieved, staticky sigh through the comms. “How are things over there? Are you two alright?”
You and Bucky side eyed each other.
The situation was ridiculous—the two of you were still tangled in each other’s limbs, bodies pressed tight against one another, chests heaving in sync as the adrenaline from the fight slowly began to die down.
“We’re fine,” you lied. “Your boyfriend’s still alive.”
Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh right against your ear. He didn’t say it out loud, but you could already hear his thoughts. This fucking woman.
Steve wasn’t laughing, however. His voice was serious.
“Listen to me carefully. We just got word that there are traps set up around the highest points of Bucharest. They’re wired to release an airborne toxin—specifically meant to target the biology of a super soldier.”
You watched Bucky’s eyes. His brows furrowed, concentrating on Steve’s voice as his grip on your wrists loosened slightly.
“They’re trying to smoke him out,” you reasoned. “What about the regular civilians? Will it affect them?”
“No. Just us. I’m already wearing a rebreather mask on my end,” Steve continued with a rasp. It sounded like he was running from something. “But Bucky doesn’t have one. You need to keep him inside and be extremely careful.”
There was a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach.
Steve was thinking about Bucky, and Bucky was thinking about himself, but neither of them knew your full medical history—how could they?
During your time in the Red Room, they had pumped your veins full of a biochemical serum. It wasn’t the exact super soldier formula that created Captain America, but it was a heavily modified variation meant to enhance your physical abilities, speed up your healing, and maximize your strength.
It was what made you into a Widow. And right now, you had no idea if that same chemical footprint was enough to trigger the airborne toxin.
“Steve,” you swallowed hard, your voice shaking with worry. “How is Natasha doing? Is she with you?”
If Natasha was fine, then maybe you would be, too.
Behind you, Bucky must have sensed the sudden spike of panic in your posture. He took a step back and finally released his tight grip on your wrists—relinquishing his hold over your body.
He inhaled a deep breath to steady himself, but stopped midway, choking as if something had gotten stuck in his lungs. His chest hitched. He sniffed the air again, letting out a harsh, hacking cough in return.
“Fuck—” Bucky choked out, his hand flying to his throat.
You spun around, catching the way Bucky stumbled blindly against a wooden crate. Your heart started to race in a panic.
“Steve?” you called into the earpiece, your eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of the trap he had just mentioned over comms. “Steve, do you copy?”
There was no answer.
The static on the other end had cut out completely. Steve had already ended the line to focus on his own escape—either that, or his comms had been jammed. You tapped the button behind your earlobe again desperately, but there was nothing.
“Steve! Respond!”
Bucky called your name from where he held himself against the crate—a sound that was broken, small, and almost whiny.
“Bucky!” you cried out, abandoning the comm line completely and focusing entirely on the man you were tasked to protect. “Are you okay?”
“Hot,” he winced, letting out a deep groan. “It feels... hot.”
You knelt by his side, the palm of your hand flying to his forehead to check his temperature. Your eyes widened at how warm he had suddenly become. He wasn’t nearly this hot when he had you pressed up against the wall just mere seconds ago.
“Fuck. Did the toxins get to you already? But how! We’re on the outskirts—”
Bucky lazily raised a finger just past your head. You whipped your head around, squinting past the sunlight that pierced the clouds.
There, you saw a hazy, almost pollen like fog beginning to drift from across the rooftop building far from you.
“Shit,” you cursed, wrapping your arm around his waist and positioning his heavy arm over your shoulders to help him up.
“Come on, we’ve gotta hide you somewhere. You’re too weak to run if you get caught.”
You tried lifting him up, but he was too heavy to carry just on your own. You groaned beneath him, using every bit of your strength to try and keep him steady.
While you struggled, Bucky’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused—he could barely keep them open.
“Stay with me, Bucky,” you murmured against him with a grunt, dragging your feet to get him inside the greenhouse.
It was a glass enclosure, but the walls were muddied with dirt and the plants were overgrown enough to provide decent cover. It wasn’t as indoors as you’d like, but it was the closest place you could take him with your current strength.
Bucky’s eyes fluttered down to you, letting out a heavy sigh.
“I think… I need to sit.”
Suddenly, he felt like he was suffocating in his own clothes. The breeze in Bucharest was cool, but his body felt like it was burning up from the inside. What was even worse was your touch—having your body pressed up against his made him react in ways he never thought he would.
Or at least, not anytime soon.
You stumbled over an overgrown branch, losing your balance and your grip on Bucky.
“Shit—I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
Bucky lay on the ground, adjusting his body so that he was flat on his back. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, the organ trying to tear its way out. His vision and mind went hazy, and his flesh hand was clammy.
The tension was even worse whenever he looked at you. His pupils would dilate the second his eyes landed on your body, his breath getting stuck in his throat.
You knelt down, trying to get your hands under his arms to haul him back up, but Bucky flinched away with a sharp hiss.
“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”
You furrowed your brows. You had no idea what kind of side effects the airborne toxins had been released—Steve hadn’t specified. But right now, you couldn’t afford to stand around and ponder it. You groaned, trying to lift him up one more time, but your body suddenly felt even weaker than before.
Your knees buckled as a strange aroma began to drift into your nose. It was a musky, almost tangy smell filling the deep pockets of your lungs.
“W-what the hell…?”
Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavily from where he lay on the floor, his dark, half lidded eyes meeting yours. “Do you feel it, too?”
Meeting Bucky’s eyes in this state was the worst thing you could have possibly done.
Suddenly, the greenhouse felt smaller—a glass enclosure closing in on the two of you. Your body felt molten, and you wanted nothing more than to strip your clothes off.
Grunting, you began to pull down the zipper of your jacket, and Bucky inhaled sharply.
“Hey—what… what are you doing?”
“It’s hot,” you breathed, your head spinning. “Need to take my jacket off.”
The heat inside your own skin was hurting, but for Bucky, it was absolute torture.
The super soldier serum in his veins processed the toxin at an accelerated rate, making his flesh feel like it was working overtime. His blood was rushing—hot and heavy—pooling lower until he was completely and unapologetically hard under his pants.
He wanted to rip his own clothes off. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice the tent poking between his legs—or maybe a dark part of him did, and he wanted you to offer to take care of it.
Fuck. What was he thinking?
But it wasn’t like you were thinking straight, either. Abandoning your jacket, you were left in just a tank top that clung tightly to your chest, offering Bucky a full view of your tits. You knelt right back down beside him, your hands clumsily reaching for his shoulders to lift him up again.
This was going bad for Bucky.
Too close.
Too close. Too close. Too close.
Bucky caught your scent—a natural floral and feminine smell mixed with an underlying musk of sweat that made his head spin with an overwhelmingly dangerous amount of desire.
“Stop,” Bucky choked out, his voice dropping deep and dangerous.
His right hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your bare wrist, while his metal hand gripped your hip to keep you from leaning any closer.
“Don’t... don’t do this. Get away from me right now.”
“Bucky,” you panted. “I need you to get up for me.”
“I can’t,” he groaned, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I mean it. Move away… or I swear to God, I won’t be able to control myself—”
Your gaze drifted down his body, your eyes widening at the prominent bulge waiting for you between his large, strong legs.
It throbbed and twitched beneath his pants, growing harder and more unbearable by the second.
This position was too compromising—too vulnerable, and far too dangerous for you both.
Bucky had no strength to get up on his own, and you could feel your own body betraying you by the second. You would have to relieve this for him now, or it would be doom for you both.
“Goddammit,” you cursed, bracing yourself mentally.
You moved to cradle Bucky between your thighs, mounting his lap while he was pinned weak to the floor.
His eyelids flew open, and he used all the strength left in his body to lift his head and stare up at you, bewildered and off guard.
“What the hell are you doing—!”
“We need to take care of this,” you muttered, grinding your hips tight and firm against his, making him let out a groan.
“We need to fix your problem before they find us. They set up that trap not too far from this building. There’s a chance they’re already scouting it out. It’s only a matter of time—”
Bucky’s eyes were filled with hungry lust as he stared at the point where your hips were rubbing against his. He was so hard it fucking hurt. He didn’t dare touch you—because if his hands made contact with your waist, with that warm, smooth skin just beneath your tank top that was begging to be licked, he would probably embarrass himself and cum in his pants right then and there.
“Shit—wait. Hold on. I—fuck.”
You reached for his zipper, tugging it down, and the sudden movement made his hips buck up against yours.
“Now’s not the time to talk, Barnes,” you panted, the toxin blurring your thoughts. “We need to take care of this now, or we’ll be in deep trouble. And Steve’ll have my head—”
“Fuck, shit. Wait—! I’ve never…”
You were losing your patience. You stopped your hands, glaring down at him. “Never what, Barnes?”
His face burned an embarrassing shade of red. He refused to look at you, his eyes suddenly far more interested in the overgrown plants next to him than your face.
“I’ve never had… sex,” he admitted quietly, swallowing hard.
Oh.
Oh.
Bucky was a virgin?
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
You felt incredibly foolish straddling him with your hands still hovering over his open zipper.
You felt shameful—you felt like a harlot, throwing yourself onto him and thinking you could resolve this entire crisis just by getting him off with a few strokes. You felt dirty, humiliated, and deeply guilty.
“I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly scrambling off his lap.
Your legs felt like jelly—a testament to the toxin fully taking hold of your own system.
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know. I mean, that doesn’t excuse it, but—”
“No,” Bucky rasped, his hand catching your wrist before you could back away entirely.
His grip on you was so tight and dominant, it felt like a pickaxe slowly chipping away at your remaining resolve.
“Don’t go,” he broke out, his voice a desperate, tortured rasp. “Please. Keep going. It hurts. I need you to relieve it.”
If he had said that to reassure you, you felt anything but. In fact, you felt even guiltier because of how broken and desperate he sounded.
“Bucky, I can’t.”
His brows knitted together tightly, his face twisting unpleasantly—he was upset.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because—”
“Because what!” he barked back, rolling onto his side to give you his full attention. You tried really hard not to look at the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “You threw yourself onto me. You promised Steve you’d take care of me—so you’re going to come back here and finish it.”
“Bucky, I’m not going to be your first!” you yelled out, and that finally stunned him into silence.
Your chest was heaving with a frustration you didn’t even know how to name.
With confusion and a flash of embarrassment taking over his gaze, his fingers finally loosened, releasing your wrist reluctantly.
“I’m sorry,” you said, much softer this time. “I’m sorry. Just… if you need a minute to take care of it yourself, I’ll be over there—” you pointed to the far end of the greenhouse “—I’ll keep watch.”
“And what about you?” he asked, his dark eyes trailing down your body in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. “Don’t you need to take care of yourself, too? You feel it, don’t you? That… primal need.”
You pressed your lips tight and tore your gaze away, not trusting yourself to look at his pained, desperate expression. You couldn’t look at the way his body was open and inviting you back in, or the way his voice went so coarse when he said the word need.
“I’ll be fine.”
You were not fine. And Bucky certainly wasn’t, either.
You tried to keep your concentration focused outside the greenhouse, forcing your hazy eyes to stare through the glass panes to keep watch. But your gaze kept betraying you, drifting right back to the corner to watch Bucky where he sat propped up against a wooden crate, his legs spread wide.
His chest was still rising and falling heavily, his long hair damp with sweat and falling over his darkened eyes.
You had told him to take care of his business, but he hadn’t made a single move since you stepped away from him. Your own urges were becoming impossible to control, too. You found yourself squeezing your thighs tightly together, trying to find any form of friction, any relief from the ache that had been building up ever since the toxin first wafted into your lungs.
It didn’t help that you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, watching you from behind, tracing your silhouette.
It felt telepathic—as if his silent gaze was speaking directly to your body, knowing you wanted exactly what he was desperately craving too.
No. You couldn’t go to him.
If you walked up to him right now, neither of you would have any control left, and you would both submit to the drug completely.
He was a virgin. You couldn’t take something so precious from him. He had already been through a lifetime of torture and lost autonomy. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you took his first time over a stupid, weaponized toxin.
Sex was meant to be reserved for someone special—and you were far from it.
“Bucky,” you finally called out, still refusing to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay back there?”
“…No,” he muttered with a thick rasp. “Come here.”
You sucked in a breath.
Every instinct in your brain was telling you stay exactly where you were, but your body was entirely out of your control now.
Your feet dragged you across the dirty floor until you were standing over him again.
You dropped to your knees in front of him with a sigh. Trying to frame it as purely medical check, you lifted a hand and pressed your palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature once more.
He was still burning up, but the fever felt even worse.
Every hot breath he exhaled hit your exposed collarbones, and the way he was sitting—legs spread wide with you kneeling directly between them—made you feel like a mouse being lured into a trap.
Realizing just how dangerous this proximity was, you swallowed hard and began to pull your hand away. But Bucky didn’t let you. His fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist to hold you back. He let his heavy eyelids flutter shut and slowly leaned his head into your touch, rubbing his stubbled cheek right against your warm, open palm.
“Stay,” Bucky pleaded as he his metal hand came to hold your hip. “Stay here. I need you.”
A breathless groan rumbled warmly into your palm. You froze, your eyes locked onto him as you watched the lethal super soldier—the very man who had pinned you up against the wall just minutes ago—unravel helplessly right in front of you.
As he held you there, you felt an unbearable heat trickle between your legs.
Your cunt pulsed, and you squeezed your thighs tightly together to soothe the desperate ache spreading through your lower body.
The friction was a temporary fix, but the tight grind of your thighs only made you ache for more.
Bucky nuzzled his face deeper into your palm, inhaling your scent like a dying man catching a breath of fresh air.
Then, his parted lips pressed a soft, wet kiss against the center of your hand. And another one. Then another, right against the inner skin of your wrist.
“Bucky… what are you—”
“Please,” Bucky whispered against your skin, looking up at you through his dark, thick lashes.
His eyes were dilated, the blue completely washed out by a lust that made you burn from the inside out.
“I need you.”
“You… You don’t know what you’re saying,” you muttered, shaking your head in a desperate attempt to find your reason.
Bucky held your hand tighter, refusing to give you any chance to escape.
“Please, don’t go. Fuck—I need you so bad, it hurts,” he choked out. “This ache won’t go away until you help me take care of it.”
His eyes never left yours. Under normal circumstances, every confession leaving his lips should have left him feeling deeply ashamed or embarrassed. But right now, he didn’t care. His body was on fire, and your touch was only stroking each and every flame.
“I know I’m a virgin, but I don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either,” Bucky rasped.
His large hand covered yours, forcing your palm down his chest—slick and damp with sweat—until he guided your hand directly over the heavy erection waiting for you beneath his pants.
“I can make you feel so good. I can fix this for both of us. Please.” He begged.
You let out a shudder as his large hand swallowed yours, guiding your palm to slide up and down against the length of his cock. Even through the denim, you could feel him throb and harden rapidly beneath your touch, his breathing turning incredibly shallow and fast.
“It hurts so bad,” he groaned, his eyes unhinged by the toxin. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too?”
You looked down, biting your lip hard at the sight of Bucky’s thick bulge pressing directly against your fingers. He twitched beneath your touch.
There was nothing you wanted more than to finish the job you had started earlier—to finish unzipping his pants, sink right down onto him, and show him exactly what it felt like to be inside a woman for the very first time.
But you couldn’t.
Not like this.
“Bucky, I can’t—” you whispered so softly, it sounded like a whine. “I can’t be your first.”
Bucky trembled a sigh, his head falling back against the wooden crate. But he didn’t let go of your wrist. He began to subtly shift his weight, rocking his hips up in a tilt that forced his thick length to slide right against your captive palm.
“Why not?” he murmured, deep and gravelly. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’d do a good job?”
His question was so innocent, though the very thing he was doing wasn’t. He kept grinding his clothed cock into your hand—seeking pleasure from just your palm—and you felt yourself going insane.
“No, it’s not that,” you tried to pull your hand back, but he held you tight, using your trapped hand for his own pleasure. “Sex is supposed to be something that you save. And your virginity is something you give away to someone special. Not… not a casual teammate—not someone like me—”
Bucky interrupted you with a groan, his hips bucking up higher against your palm. All of your words went in one ear and out the other. The only thing he could process right now was how good your hand felt—and how much better it would feel if he sunk into something tight, wet, and warm.
Like your mouth… or your…
“I don’t care about any of that,” he choked out.
His hips rolled into your palm with a needy jerk.
“I need this. I need you. I’d be more than happy to give it to you. Fuck—I’ll give it to you so good. You’re the one I want. I need you—”
Bucky’s mouth dropped into an o shape, a sharp hiss of breath filling his lungs as his hips bucked uncontrollably. His eyes never left yours as he suddenly started spilling in his pants. A warm, thick liquid began to seep through his jeans, leaving your fingers sticky with his seed and musk.
You couldn’t believe it.
Bucky had just finished right in his pants.
“Bucky…”
His face was unreadable.
His head was tilted back against the crate, his eyes boring into yours through heavy lids and long lashes. He was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath while letting his cum shamelessly pool in the tight space of his pants.
You figured he’d pull your hand away any second now—that finally releasing all that pent up frustration would make him feel well enough to move to a safer location.
You tried not to point it out to save him from the embarrassment. And most importantly, you tried not to give in to the intense sensation of his warm spunk right beneath your fingertips.
“You should be feeling better now, right? We should keep moving—”
With his grip on your wrist tightening, he hauled you forward until you collapsed back to the ground. Two strong arms wrapped completely around your body, caging you flush against his chest.
Your knees—already so weak—forced you to straddle his lap. Your hands flew to his broad shoulders for balance as you found yourself perched directly over his ruined pants.
“Hey—what are you—!”
Bucky nuzzled his face straight into the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breaths turning into open mouthed kisses against your skin.
“More,” he begged, the deep vibration of his voice tickling you. “S’not enough. I need more.”
Your breath hitched when his hands started to roam over your body. His fingers tickled beneath the hem of your tank top, the metal fingers cooling your skin and making you gasp out loud from the sudden cold.
No.
I won’t let this happen.
I refuse to be Bucky’s first.
But despite your emotional turmoil, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not with the way his hands were roaming around your body, claiming every inch of you as his through touch alone. Not with the way he was looking at you, his mouth parted with desperation.
And especially not when he had just let himself spill in his jeans from nothing but your touch and closeness.
“I know you feel it too,” Bucky rasped against your neck. “I know you’re wet down there, begging to be touched. Begging to be filled. I can fix you, baby. Just let me take care of you, please.”
He pulled back slightly, looking up at you with wide puppy blue eyes that made your heart ache and your pussy clench.
“Can I kiss you?”
You searched his gaze, breathless. “You want to kiss me?”
His metal hand left your waist, slowly crawling up your spine until his fingers tangled firmly in the hair at the back of your head, keeping your eyes pinned to his. His pupils were completely blown out, his gaze demanding an answer right now.
You should have said no. You should have pushed his chest, reminded him of the drug, and scrambled away to safety.
He was a virgin, sure. But with the way he was looking at you while holding you tight—you felt like you were going to be ravaged.
But your resolve was already a fragile thing. And with the way he was looking at you, you knew you were in too deep. Your body was hurting—aching for him in the exact same ways he was aching for you. The only way you two could fix it was each other.
You pressed your lips hard against his, and Bucky let out a rough, needy sound into your mouth.
His grip tightened in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.
The fever burned through your veins, and the way his tongue danced with yours only made the fire burn hotter. He was tasting you, broken whimpers tearing from his lips with every slick slide of his tongue. Saliva mixed together, leaving you both completely breathless, your lips and limbs tangled.
You rolled your hips back, grinding yourself deeper against Bucky’s pelvis.
His cock twitched inside his jeans, poking hard against you. You didn’t know how—but he felt even bigger and harder than he had before.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he panted against your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t—I need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”
His hands scrambled down to your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of your pants. He popped it open with a rough tug—threatening to break the button itself—as his knuckles brushed against your hot skin.
Bucky groaned at the sight.
The lace of your panties was poking through the opening, damp with sweat and your scent. He inhaled deeply, and you wondered just how much his heightened senses were actually taking you in.
When he let out a satisfied sigh, you knew he could smell everything.
“Look at you,” he praised, his eyes tracing the curves of your body. “You’re so beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you.”
You chuckled—a sound that came out raspy and sultry without your intention, making Bucky’s cock twitch beneath you.
“Quite a bold statement for someone who’s never had sex before,” you teased, your hands trailing slowly down his chest.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He accepted your challenge, gripping the waistband of your unzipped pants and yanking them down your thighs.
The moment your bare skin was exposed to the cool air, Bucky wasted no time traveling his eyes down the expanse of your legs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from drooling like a madman, his gaze raked over the inner and outer curves of your thighs. His mouth went dry at the sight of the little wet spot that had collected near your clit.
His large hands slid up your thighs and behind you, squeezing your ass firmly in his rough palms.
“So fucking beautiful,” he growled, his thumb swiping over your clit, smearing your own juice all over the lace.
“Fuck—you’ve been dripping all this time. You need this just as bad as I do, and you’ve been holding back?”
You swallowed hard. “It’s not too late. We don’t have to—oh!”
You cried out once his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties. His fingers dipped between your folds, collecting your arousal with embarrassing wet noises as he tried to rub at your clit.
“No, Bucky… it’s right here—” You grabbed his forearm, guiding him to the right spot, and arched your back with a sharp cry when he started rubbing deep circles against the sensitive bud.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
This was the pleasure you were looking for—but it wasn’t nearly enough.
There was an empty ache deep inside you that was begging to be filled. But you weren’t going to demand that of him just yet, in case he changed his mind.
A lazy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he watched you come undone from his fingers.
“Yeah?” he huffed out a breath. “That feel good, baby?”
“Yes—don’t stop, please,” you cried helplessly.
His other hand lifted your tank top up and over your head, quickly unhooking your bra to fully reveal your tits. With a low grunt, he leaned forward, capturing one of your perky nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth.
You moaned loudly, your hand flying to the back of his head and giving his hair a hard, desperate tug. He liked that a lot, moaning against your skin in pleasure.
Bucky’s tongue swirled around your nipple, licking and sucking until you were arching off his lap at his mercy.
He was making a beautiful mess of you, switching between both buds and letting his mouth worship your body. His rough stubble tickled your chest while his fingers continued their clumsy work down below, sliding through your slick folds and rubbing messy circles right against your clit.
The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers moving against your soaking flesh filled the greenhouse—the filth of it only making you wetter and causing the toxin to course even harder.
He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your chest, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin, and finally looked up at you.
His lips and chin were slick and shining from giving your breasts such sloppy, adoring kisses.
“I need to be inside you,” he pleaded. “Please… I need to put it in. I need to stuff you so full of me, baby. Please, let me fuck you.”
Your eyes searched Bucky’s.
He looked like an even bigger mess than before. He looked and sounded utterly helpless, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face tight with an expression that made it look like he was physically hurting.
Even though he had just come in his pants moments ago, he needed so much more.
You knew that once you gave in to him completely, there would be no holding back for either of you. He would have to live with the fact that you would be his first.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky slowly slipped his hand out of your panties, bringing his fingers up to his lips and licking the juices clean. “You’re scared, but I’m not. I know what I want, and what I want right now is you.”
Bucky gripped your waist, raising you off his lap and pinning you flat against the ground.
He slipped his large body directly between your legs, his strong thighs forcing yours wide open as he covered your frame with his.
Your hair was messy across the dirt floor, framing your face as you laid beneath him breathless. The toxin was taking over control of your body—every single nerve demanding to be touched by the man between your legs.
You felt like you were in heat, consumed by a fever that only Bucky could cure.
His eyes fell over your body, tracing your tits and stomach, his gaze locking onto the way your panties—already a soaked mess—looked like they were begging to be torn away by his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands making quick work of your underwear.
With a harsh tug and a sharp tearing sound, the fabric gave away.
“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do to you.”
Your panties didn’t even make it past your knees before tearing clean off your thighs. You winced slightly.
It was dizzying to think about how you had found the strength to fight Bucky earlier, only to now be reduced to a breathless, aching mess over a piece of torn fabric.
Bucky leaned back on his heels, unbuckling his belt and shoving open his unzipped, stained denim jeans.
The moment he pulled his cock free, it sprang forward then back—the tip slapping against his abdomen.
He was thick, his cock fully engorged and begging to be wrapped in something tight and warm. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, trailing down his shaft and mixing with the creamy white essence from his earlier release.
His eyes were glued to your soaking center, legs spread wide and inviting. His jaw slacked as he lazily pumped himself at the shaft, prepping his cock for your warm embrace.
He claimed he was a virgin, but the way he was looking at you with such a hungry look in his eyes made you think otherwise.
“Bucky,” you breathed, heart racing. “Are you sure you want to do this? With… me?”
Bucky leaned over your body, using his metal elbow to prop himself up while he slapped the tip of his cock against your entrance.
You weren’t sure where he learned that from, but the dirty act left you clenching around nothing.
“The more you ask, the harder it is for me to stay in control,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m just gonna have to stuff you full of my cock just to prove how much I want you.”
You craned your neck, watching Bucky rub his tip up and down your folds—smearing his pre-cum while coating his shaft in your own slick juice.
When he positioned himself right at your opening and poked gently, testing your stretch, your folds immediately parted for him. You were so wet and pliable from the toxin that you were sure he would slip right in without a fight, despite how big he was.
“Just… just enough to get rid of the side effects, okay?” you muttered, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.
Bucky either didn’t hear you, or maybe he did and he just chose to ignore it.
With a clench of his jaw, he slowly pushed his hips forward, his eyes glued to the spot where your cunt wrapped around the head of his cock.
The sensation was delicious. Your body was burning hot, tight, and dangerously wet. He had only sunk the tip in, but it was already the greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back as a deep groan tore in his chest.
“Ohhh…”
Despite the toxin making your body more accommodating, you were still tighter than either of you expected.
You were being stretched completely and fully as Bucky kept going, relentlessly sinking his cock all the way inside until his dark, hairy base pressed flush against your folds. He was so big, and a part of you was grateful that he had already come once before this—because right now, his entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable need.
“So goddamn tight,” he cursed, his face twisting that looked almost like pain. “I never… fuck, I never expected pussy to feel this good… Christ.”
He stilled inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. But in reality, he was the one who needed time to adjust to your tightness.
You paced your breathing. Being stretched full by him made you want to scream at him to hurry up and move, to fuck you right into the dirt floor of the greenhouse—but you couldn’t make that kind of demand of a virgin.
Since it was his first time, despite the unfortunate circumstances, you were going to guide him gently.
“Hold me here,” you murmured, taking his hands and guiding them back to your thighs. “Feel me. It’s soft, isn’t it?”
Bucky breathed hard, nodding as he held you.
“When you’re ready, just move your hips nice and slow. Take your time.”
His face fell into a tight scowl, as if displeased with that order.
Every single one of his base instincts was screaming at him to fuck you hard and fast—to claim every surface of your pussy with his cock.
“F—fine,” he reluctantly agreed, his voice strained. He gripped your thighs tightly, spreading you open as he began rocking his hips back and forth.
His eyes were glossy with desire, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your body.
A thick, creamy white ring was forming around the base of his shaft, staining the unruly dark curls that sat at his pelvis.
Every time he pulled out, he made sure to sink back in even deeper, rolling his hips forward until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.
Your eyes rolled back, your hands clutching his broad shoulders as he buried himself inside you.
“Fuck… just like that,” you moaned. “Keep going.”
“Does… does that feel good?” He swallowed hard, fingers digging deeper into your thigh.
You nodded fast. “So good—I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Your breathless plea made him scowl , a frustrated snarl leaving his lips.
“This is torture.” He groaned.
You furrowed your brows, looking at his angry expression in concern. Torture? That wasn’t what sex was supposed to feel like. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.
“Bucky,” you said, pressing your hand against his sweating chest. “If this is hurting you, we need to stop right now. Pull out of me—”
You gasped as his metal hand circled tight around your wrist, prying it away from his chest and pinning it over your head. He slammed you back to the floor, his large body shadowing yours as his face hovered.
His dark eyes bored deeply into yours—and you felt like if you so much as looked away, he might take it as a threat.
“No, I can’t—I can’t do slow,” he growled. “The drug in my veins, it’s like it's yelling at me to take what I want. And what I want is to fuck you until you cry.”
Your breath left your lungs as Bucky slammed his hips forward, burying himself inside you.
He pulled out halfway before fucking right back in, a broken gasp leaving your lips as you arched your back against the floor from the pleasure. You hadn’t expected him to fuck you this hard—being a virgin and all—but you couldn’t complain.
You had been craving to be taken like this since the moment the drug first entered your system.
“Oh my god—!” You cried out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
“Ah—fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky cried out.
He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath scalding against your skin as he relentlessly pumped his hips in and out of you, using your vulnerable body like his own personal sex toy.
“It feels too good, fuck, baby. Everything feels too good—I can’t stop,” he moaned.
Your moans blended together into a dirty symphony.
The toxin was amplifying every single touch, his thick shaft stretching you out completely—turning your usually strong and poised body into mush with every thrust.
Your wet walls clenched down on him every time he threatened to pull out, as if sucking him right back in. Bucky was entirely lost, his mind short circuiting from the pleasure.
Every time he buried himself deep, your swollen pussy tightened around him like your body was trying to milk him dry. You whimpered with every single thrust he gave you, your teary eyes meeting his in a lustful haze as you wrapped your legs tight around his hips for support.
“Fuck—my god, don’t do that—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re squeezing me so tight. God—if this is what sex feels like, I never want to stop.”
He tilted his head down, his sweaty strands of hair tickling your hot face as he stared back down at the exact point where his hips got lost with yours.
Every stroke of his cock inside your tight body came with a hot wave of pleasure, amplified by the toxin coursing through your blood.
The sensation was addicting.
Bucky had never felt a pleasure like this before. He’d jerked off a few times in his apartment just to quickly relieve some stress, but that was always by himself.
He was a curious boy back in the forties, but he had never been close to getting any action like this.
To him, this was like a dream come true.
But he needed to go deeper. These regular, sloppy thrusts weren’t enough. He needed to feel more.
With a snarl, he leaned back to grip the backs of your thighs and shoved your knees up towards your chest, folding you into a tight mating press.
Before you could adjust to the new position, he pressed his hips against yours to lock you in place and sank down even deeper than he had before.
Your eyes flew wide, nearly bulging from their sockets as a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. His cock was stretching you at an impossible angle, burying himself so deep you could’ve sworn you saw stars.
Because you were already so sensitive from the toxin, having him bottom out so hard against your cervix made your core shudder uncontrollably, causing your legs to shake. Your head fell back against the floor, your toes curling in the air as your vision went hazy.
“Oh my god!” you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “It’s too much—I can’t… you’re gonna make me cum!”
You felt your walls start to hyperventilate around his length. You knew he felt it, too, because he immediately doubled his pace.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Fuck—I’m so sorry. It just feels too good—fuck, I—”
His voice broke into a pained moan the moment your pussy tightened. You came hard around him without warning, your neck arching as a loud moan strained your vocal cords.
Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face twisting in a grimace from how your climax was squeezing him.
The feeling was exquisite, and fuck, he wasn’t going to last another second when he was buried this deep inside of you.
He knew your body was sensitive and overworked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His balls had never felt this full, this heavy. He was close, so fucking close, and the more your pussy fluttered around his shaft, the more desperate he became to chase that same release.
“Shit. M’gonna cum,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he hilted himself deep inside.
His cock twitched—he had never came inside a girl before, but he was determined to do so now.
He was going to make sure he filled you, to stuff your tight hole to the brim with his backed up super soldier seed.
“Gonna cum inside,” he warned, his metal hand sliding beneath your lower back and lifting your hips up to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t control myself.”
You couldn’t muster a single coherent word. Only muffles and teary whimpers escaped you, but it didn’t matter what you said while Bucky was in this state. He had no intention of stopping.
His blue eyes were crazed, rolled back so far in his sockets you could see the white. He grit his teeth, meeting your hips with sloppy and wet thrusts. A litany of curses mumbled in broken strings under his breath, until finally…
“Oh my god—I’m cumming. Take it, baby. Take every single drop of me. Don’t let it go to waste. Please, I need this. I need this so fucking bad—”
With a firm grip on your thigh, he pinned you down and pushed his hips against yours.
His tip kissed your cervix, pulsing twice before his body gave way to your tightness. You were being filled by the thick, heavy pumping of his seed. You could feel his cock twitching relentlessly against your walls, determined to flood every inch of your pussy.
He buried his face in your neck, his chest heaving violently as he stuffed you so completely full that your lower belly felt heavy.
“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded brokenly.
Bucky trembled from head to toe, and despite his mumbled apologies, he kept your hips pinned securely so that not a single drop of his release could escape. He was spent, breathing in shaky and ragged gasps against your skin. He didn’t want to pull out yet, still savoring the feeling of your pulsing walls squeezing the very last drops from.
The two of you lay on the floor, tangled and sweaty in each other’s limbs. Once you finally caught your breath, your hands gently caressed his broad back, a comforting gesture that caught even you off guard.
“How… how are you feeling?” you finally mumbled.
Your body tensed as you braced yourself for an answer.
Now that the side effects of the toxin seemed to be wearing off, dread started trickling in.
You were terrified that everything you had just done with Bucky would be something he’d immediately regret. A part of you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care—that he had despised you before this, and he would simply go back to hating you again.
But after being his first, there was an undeniable connection in the way you felt beneath him.
If he was already starting to feel regret... well, you weren’t sure how you would handle it. Guilt? Probably. The longer he stayed silent, the more the worry gnawed at you.
He eventually huffed a breath, but he didn’t pull away.
“If you’re wondering if I’m going to regret this,” Bucky began, his voice so raspy and tired that it sent a shiver down your spine. “The answer is no.”
You sucked in a breath, expecting a but to follow.
Bucky attempted to lift himself up slightly so he wasn’t crushing you, but he was still so sensitive that the movement made him wince sharply. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out yet, so he collapsed right back against you with a soft huff.
“I wish I could just stay like this,” he muttered, wrapping both arms around you while resting his head against your sweaty chest.
He looked so small and vulnerable in that moment, and it made your heart ache for him.
“Just holding you,” he whispered, hugging you tighter as his voice grew quieter. “Instead of constantly running, fearing for my life, or being taken away. I just want to stay like this. Holding a pretty girl.”
The tension was starting to become too much for you to handle. Your face burned, unsure of how to process the sudden compliment. Trying to break the tension, you huffed a soft laugh and continued to rub your hand up and down his broad back. He seemed to like your touch very much.
“I’m sorry you lost your virginity this way.” you tried to joke.
Bucky chuckled against your chest. “The man I was in the forties probably would’ve done a much better job.”
“Well, this wasn’t bad at all—I’ll tell you that much.”
The two of you lay there, chuckling softly in each other’s arms, until the loud, sudden static of your earpiece made you both jolt.
“Do you copy? Report in.”
You both froze, your hearts beating rapidly for an entirely different reason now.
Bucky cleared his throat as he reluctantly tried lifting himself up. The friction of his slick and semi-hard cock sliding out of you made you let out an involuntary whimper.
“Status update,” Steve pressed, his tone anxious. “Are you two safe, or are you compromised?”
Compromised, sure. But definitely not in the way Steve meant.
Suppressing a giggle, you tapped your earpiece with a bright smile, catching Bucky's eye.
“Glad to hear your comms didn’t break, Steve.”
A relieved sigh came from the other end. “Give me a status report. How are you two? How’s Bucky?”
You watched as Bucky began to pull his clothes back on, his face an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to compose himself. You chuckled softly.
“We’re fine.”
halfway through proofreading this i lowk realized this was slop. i thought i had a good idea and then lost the plot. if you actually liked this please consider leaving a like and hit that subscribe button *epic outro music*
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pairing: scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon bordering noncon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking
word count: 11.3k
main masterlist
a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight ♥️
synopsis:
You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”
If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”
If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.
Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.
From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.
No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.
“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.
He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.
There was no sound.
Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.
After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.
There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.
He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.
You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.
“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”
He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.
“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.
When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”
You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.
He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?
Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.
After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.
Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”
Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.
“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”
You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.
“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.
Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”
He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”
“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”
Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.
“You mean the books?”
You nodded.
He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”
“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.
Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”
Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.
“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.
“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”
Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.
Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.
“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”
“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”
He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”
“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?
He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.
“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”
You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.
“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”
That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”
You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.
Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.
He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.
“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”
You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.
When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.
But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.
A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.
He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.
“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.
But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.
“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”
Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?
“No,” you protested weakly.
Bucky tilted his head. “No?”
You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”
Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”
When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.
You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.
“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”
Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.
But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.
Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.
“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”
You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”
“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”
“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”
He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.
Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.
“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.
He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.
“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”
With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”
He wasn’t leaving.
He was going to fix you.
You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.
Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.
“Lay down, doll.”
The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.
You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.
“Easy, doll. Easy.”
A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.
He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.
Which… in a way, you had.
Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.
“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”
You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.
“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.
Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.
“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”
You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”
Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.
“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”
You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.
“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.
“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”
You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.
Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.
His mind was always on you.
His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.
“Woah, easy there, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.
“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”
Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”
Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”
Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.
“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”
Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”
Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”
Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.
“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”
A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.
It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.
Christ, you were probably starving.
He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.
You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.
He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.
Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.
His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.
“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”
The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.
“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.
“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.
Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.
So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?
“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”
Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”
Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.
“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”
Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”
“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”
Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.
“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”
“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”
Steve let out a long breath.
He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.
“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”
“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.
He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.
“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”
It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.
The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?
The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.
Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.
But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.
You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.
“Bucky! You’re back, I—”
You stopped.
The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.
Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.
“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”
The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.
Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.
“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”
“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”
You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”
He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.
You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.
“Not poisoned. Trust me.”
He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.
After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.
Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.
Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.
As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.
You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.
It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.
“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”
He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.
“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.
“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”
You stayed silent.
“Have you ever been outside this room?”
Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.
“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”
With each word, he moved closer.
Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.
He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.
“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”
He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.
“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.
“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”
Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.
Ah. There it was.
That was how he could get through to you.
Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.
“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”
You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.
That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.
“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”
You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.
To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.
The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.
Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.
“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.
“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.
That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.
“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.
He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.
His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.
You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.
“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”
As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.
You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.
Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.
“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”
You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.
“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”
“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.
“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”
The air left Steve's lungs.
His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.
Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.
“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Did he rape you?”
Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.
But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“What does that mean?”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.
“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”
The door shut quickly as he left.
But the lock didn’t click.
The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.
Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.
You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.
It looked like an obstacle.
You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.
The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.
You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.
Then, a shadow fell over you.
“Going somewhere?”
You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”
The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.
His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.
“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”
He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.
He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”
“I just wanted to see—”
“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”
“No, Bucky, I—”
“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”
You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.
“No one saw me—”
“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.
When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.
“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”
He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.
“You did this to yourself, darling.”
You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”
“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”
You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.
“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”
Bucky didn’t move.
The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.
“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”
“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”
Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.
“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”
Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.
Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.
The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.
“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.
“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”
He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”
The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.
“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”
Another whack.
“Ow!”
“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”
Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.
He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.
With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”
He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”
Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”
Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.
Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.
But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.
“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”
He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.
“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”
Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.
You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.
“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”
Bucky hummed in approval.
He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.
He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.
Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.
You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”
His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.
“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”
You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.
“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”
“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”
One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.
Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.
The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.
The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.
“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”
He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.
You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.
You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.
“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”
Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.
His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.
“Oh—my!”
The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.
He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.
“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”
His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.
“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”
He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.
“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”
You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.
The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.
Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”
Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.
He loved you.
Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.
“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”
Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”
He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.
“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”
He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”
You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.
“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.
Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.
It was hot. It was too much.
He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like a clock.
Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.
“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”
The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.
Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.
You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.
Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.
“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”
Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.
“Morning,” he rasped.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”
He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”
And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.
But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.
The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.
Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.
“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”
“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.
He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”
The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.
“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”
Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.
Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.
“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.
“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”
Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.
All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.
“Bucky—”
Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.
He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.
“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”
The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.
“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.
“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”
Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.
As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.
He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.
“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”
Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.
Was this all your fault?
Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?
“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”
All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.
“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”
Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.
Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.
You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.
With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.
Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”
And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.
The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.
Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.
“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.
His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.
Bucky hated it.
The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.
“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”
Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.
“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”
Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.
“What was she to you?”
Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.
“Did you love her?”
Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.
“More than anything,” Bucky replied.
He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.
Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.
It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.
He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?
He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.
He’d find you.
It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”
The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.
“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”
For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.
Insane?
What kind of question was that?
“No.”
anyway how writing this fic found me
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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synopsis: jason todd swept you right off your feet, until he couldn’t handle how close you got to him. but his brother doesn’t act the same way when you meet him at a college bar so why can’t you stop thinking of jason?
tags: angst, fluff, reader knows jason first but he’s emotionally and idiot apparently. dick doesn’t know they used to talk. suggestive. eventual smut.
a/n: there is absolutely no overlap in their talking or relationship. jason is terrible at communication here and dick is oblivious. #iloveyoujasontodd
if tenderness could be personified, it would whisper jason todd’s name. and if love could pierce your soul, you’d feel his arms around your heart, clenching to pump through your veins.
that’s how much he convinced you of it in the last four months you’d known him. it was almost immediate how you knew you’d like him, and he made him clear with his actions that he felt the same. though you quickly realized that while his words were enough to penetrate your thoughts profoundly, he didn’t know how to put emotions in relation to how he was. he only used humour.
jason peter todd held the key to every good and every bad because he was the most human anyone could get. his hands clasped around yours on that cold summer night. fighting the urge to just pull you into his lap and share his warmth because you were his brothers girl. the one that met him at a gala before jason saw you there. but grayson didn’t know you’d seen jason at that coffee shop first. that he’d ordered something off the menu thinking it was a black coffee but really it was an americano with two lumps of syrup and he grimaced when he drank it. or that he softened when he saw you laugh and point to the menu that no one ever really bought that drink. how his eyes crinkled when you made him a new drink and how he thanked you generously when you told him he didn’t have to pay because he wasn’t used to this.
no one found out that jason would come to your shop often then, bringing his cheeky humour and his roughened edges that you’d dulled. you’d take your breaks around the same time everyday and he’d be sure to be there, sit with you by the patio and talk about the future he knew was uncertain. how his hands would linger near yours but never close enough to really touch. just warmth radiating.
the two of you walked home a few times. only when you casually mentioned you lived close by. he frowned and shook his head at you like you were the innocently naive, saying.
“gotham is dangerous and she is evil, but she’ll love you if you protect yourself, y’know?” He watches you blink at him before he shoots you a smile. “i’ll be back to walk you. wait for me.”
and he did walk you home everyday for the following few weeks.
jason was hesitant on touching you, always needing some reassurance to do so but when he finally took the courage and kissed you, it felt like sparks flew. his palms were clenched tight while he leaned you backwards, just enough for your back to arch. then you guided them to you hips and they found their way around.
he put one of his hands on the small of your back while he changed his tempo, lips curving around yours as he held you closer. desperately, he pressed himself to you, keeping you there like you’d run. god, you wouldn’t dream of running. but that was that. you kissed once and it was insanely good. he’d grown into your mouth and touch your hair like he needed more. you’d feel the weight of him, unmistakable against your body, warm and heavy.
then he disappeared again for a few days.
but by the eighth week, he came by your house when you were off, lounging on your couch. giant t-shirt draping over your body as you ate takeout from the box. he opened the window and let himself in, crawling inside like it was hard to do.
you ran to him, of course you did. grabbing his arm more roughly than intended, you draped it over your shoulder and lugged the man to his feet. pulling him with immense difficulty to the couch and dropping him there to run wordlessly and grab the first aid kit before panicking when you sat.
“i—fuck, what happened? who did this?” rasping as you sat on your knees to clean the cuts on his face. “are you hurt anywhere else? should i take you to the hospital?”
he grabs your wrist when you reach for your phone and brings it to your chest. “no,” the it’s almost a breathless gasp. “please don’t.”
you nod slowly as you start to pull up his shirt and cut through the fabric. not entirely sure what to do but trying nonetheless to help the regular you’d been silently crushing on for the last month. cleaning up the slash on his abdomen and watching his face contort when you put ointment and a bandage. you watch as he falls asleep and his lips part in his sleep. hands reaching out for you when you stand and his eyes still closed, he whispers your name in a sigh.
“thank you ma.”
you let him sleep off whatever the hell it was and wash the blood from your hands despite the shakiness it presented. you shower silently and then the evening over in your mind. nearly forgetting that this man passed out in your couch had gotten into your apartment though you’d never brought him up with you. he’d only walked you to the building. part of you was terrified of him but the other part was worried. you check on him repeatedly on the night but when you see his breathing has evened out, you head back to your room after dealing a blanket over him. you fall asleep unwillingly with your bedroom door locked and a desk in front of it.
when you wake in the morning, he’s gone with all traces of himself with it.
jason doesn’t come by for days later though you don’t stop looking for him. the stain you swore was on your couch is cleaned and the seat he took in the shop was cold. he hadn’t gotten his bitter drink from you in a while and despite his sudden appearance at your place, you miss him.
you look for him even though a part of your brain was nagging you to stop. you ask your coworkers, and even your manager for camera access, they all say no. people say they don’t even remember him, and you start to feel crazy.
did you imagine him?
but when you go to the library by your place to study, you see him hunched over a copy of animal farm and oversized hoodie engulfing him. not even a minute goes by before he sees you too. though to your surprise, he comes up to you.
“hey,” his voice the same strong yet unsure tone that you grew to love.
“hey,” continuing to flip brought your page and sparing him a short glance. “haven’t seen you in a while.”
he sighs and sets his book down at your desk, pulling a chair out to sit next to you. “i’m sorry. i haven’t come by i just didn’t know how to apologize.”
you blink at him, “apologize for what? scaring me shitless and then disappearing without letting me know you were okay? fuck you dude.”
“wait,” grasping his long fingers around your wrist when you try to get up to leave. “i didn’t know where else to go. just let me explain. please?”
his eyes shone with a gentle sheen of wetness that showed his sincerity. the nagging disappeared as you listened to him and nodded, letting him lead you to the corner of the library.
only then does he tell you about his family. about the way the life has treated him like a punching bag and how the man that he thought was protecting him wasn’t willing to take all of the risks. he told you about how he wanted to fix this place for good. how all of the bad people seem to keep winning and that he didn’t want to be part of that anymore. he started to see how his anger was always warranted, and how the world had turned their back on him. the love that fostered over these last few weeks only bloomed further.
noticing how his eyes flicker across your face or how he watched, you take a drag of a cigarette when you stood outside. the both of you had become accustomed to one another, and the familiarity of his gaze didn’t burn, but it warmed you up. It was no surprise when he finally let his eyes fall to your lips. though he was taking aback when you took the initiative and pressed his hovering hands onto your hips.
then you kissed him and it felt like church bells rang in his mind as he lost all resemblance of himself. jason walked you back to the brick wall and pressed you there, hand caressing your cheek as you moaned softly into his mouth. he swallowed it down and shivered when you bit his lip. his strong hands lifted you up and he deepened the kiss, slowly grinding his lips back into yours when you shifted you hips against him. the moment gets heated when you drop your fingers to wiggle at his belt, letting the metal clink and fall open before he reluctantly pulls back. his breath warm and heady as he gasps for air and rubs your cheek with his free hand.
“no,” breathlessly gasping. “i can’t do this to you.”
furrowing your brows at the implication of his words, you shake your head. “do what?”
“this,” he says quickly before gently moving you off of him so he could move away. “touching you.”
entirely confused by his sudden change you only take a couple steps backwards too. hand coming up to touch your lips like it could hold his memory there. jason seems to notice and moves in a little closer.
“i have done bad things in my life. i’ve hurt people because i was angry and i’ve lost control more times than i could remember.” he rasps. “i don’t want to do that to you. i can’t do that to you.”
you can’t help but scoff. “i’m a grown woman jason and you’re the one who broke into my apartment bleeding and ran away before we could discuss it.”
“and i shouldn’t have done that.” he sighs. “i shouldn’t have involved you.”
this time you press on. the tension between you unbearable as you yearn for the touch of his skin. “maybe i want to be involved.”
an incredulous laugh escapes him as he shakes his head. “you are not involved.”
crossing your arms over your chest in defiance, “i think a guy showing up in the middle of the night, bleeding all over my living room makes me involved.”
“it doesn’t. trust me, you don’t want any part of this life. you’re just gonna get hurt.” he argues back.
squinting your eyes at him, you sigh. “let me worry about myself.”
“i can’t.”
“that’s not really my problem now is it?”
jason takes a moment to look you from eye to eye. “listen to me. you are not apart of this.”
“and you listen to me jason.” you reply quickly wanting him to understand without realizing how both your voices had risen. “you made me a part of this the day you walked into the shop.”
“yeah and i regret that!” the words escape him before he can think about how it could hurt.
your lips part and your brows had a soft furrow in them. a breathless gasp slips in shock. “you don’t mean that.”
“i do mean that.” doubling down on his words. “it was idiotic of me to involve you and i shouldn’t have brought some civilian girl into this so let’s just forget it ever happened.”
trying not to show how your heart crumbled, you take a couple backward steps. you watch as his face contorts and returns back to its original form.
“i thought...” you trail off when he finishes it for you.
“you thought i was the boyfriend type?” he throws back more harshly than he needed to. “that i’d be all loving and mushy? that’s not me and that’ll never be me so just drop it.”
he didn’t take the words back. he didn’t try to stop you from believing what he said was true. he wanted you to believe it and part of you did even if most of you was screaming that he was trying to protect you. deep down you knew this was his coping mechanism. this was how he saved you both even if it meant sacrificing himself.
but mostly, a deep rooted sense of distain took for him. this was cowardice. this was a kind of protection that you never asked for and it was all his fault. he was the one to involve you in this in the first place and now he was blaming you for trying. now part of you was blaming yourself for letting yourself believe that this could’ve been something.
a soft sigh escaped you as you slowly nod your head at him. “right.”
turning around and walking back towards where your things sat. You collect your belongings and leave without another word letting him ponder on his own if that’s what he was even really doing. You decide then and there you won’t look for him, but this was not something that you needed to weigh heavy on your mind. So many other responsibilities had already taken form in your life and here he was making it harder for the both of you.
the following weeks you find yourself, looking for traces of him in mundane things. orders of black coffees with no milk and no sugar you find yourself thinking of him. leather jackets and cargo pants seem to bring you to his attire.
you accidentally cut your hand cooking dinner on the third month and the blood droplets seem to capture you. Why did they take you back to him? Why couldn’t he have just been a normal guy?
You try to throw yourself back into the thick of everything else. Your friends invite you out for parties for birthdays and you don’t skip any of them. You go out for lunch you take them to dinner and inevitably you go to a bar.
You tell yourself that this is gonna pass and that you just need to find someone to take your mind off of the guy, the mysterious one, who broke your heart without ever really knowing him.
That’s when you meet him—Dick Grayson.
His dark luscious hair and his beautiful piercing eyes. He was the life of the party. He is everything that you needed to pull you out of the slump. There’s something faintly reminds you of someone else you pushed that feeling and that thought down and instead you let him buy you a drink. And then another. And then another. When he goes in for a kiss, you pull back and you’re not even sure why.
This gorgeous guy was trying to get with you and here you were thinking of some idiot who left you high and dry at a public library.
When you go to work a coffee bar at some fancy gala, there Dick is again.
only this time he’s lost that sleazy unbuttoned shirt that he was wearing at the bar and it’s been replaced by a sleek neatly tucked in suit. one that looked like it costs double what your rent is for the month. you tell yourself you’re not being a look at him you’re not even gonna give him satisfaction or yourself the heartbreak even if that wasn’t even a sure thing.
But he’s the one to approach you and all you really wanted was a distraction.
“well hello gorgeous. i didn’t think i’d see you so soon.”
you blink up at him, hand still holding a half made drink as you awkwardly smile. somehow dick finds entire thing endearing and he gets you out from behind the table, pulling your apron off and leaving the banquet entirely. charming as ever, it doesn’t take much for him to convince you to follow along and fall into his advances.
slowly, he makes his way into your life too. but the difference is dick pulls you into his, bringing you gifts and lavish things that you’d never really cared for. he invited you to parties that aren’t your scene and he introduces you to his friends.
when he kisses you, it’s hunger and delight. it’s on your way back to his apartment, when the both of you had a little too much to drink at one of bruce’s galas.
his hands reach yours while you walk and he brings you closer by your waist. fingers lingering by your hip when he says your name quietly. when you turn to look at him, he presses his lips to yours, soft and plump. it’s teeth and lips when he pushes you against the door, desperate hands trailing down your waistband when he tries to feel your underwear through the silky dress. you gasp his name into his mouth and press your hand to his chest. a small whisper of a not yet, that he nods and takes like it was no big deal.
yet here you were, yearning for something more difficult. something more devastating that you felt guilty for taking this moment for granted. there’s no explicit label on the two of you, but the message is clear to everyone around you and him alike.
you’re his girl.
months go by like this, where nothing progressed beyond sitting in his lap, kissing him hard and apologizing when he wanted more. but dick was patient and he was understanding and he waited.
now you’re sat at another one of the many galas you’d attended in the last year and dick is busy chatting away a group of stupidly rich people. conversing with them like he’s meant to and slyly receiving touches and remarks about his looks that should’ve made you angry or jealous. but you never were. his personality was flirty as is and you didn’t care that other people appreciated how attractive he was. if anything it was like a compliment.
coddling a fruity drink in his hand and another to gesture wildly, dick laughed all evening and secured a couple of deals for his fathers company. the company he’d never truly elaborate on so you wouldn’t know why he was away at odd times in the night. or why he sometimes got phone calls mid-date and needed to leave for a while before texting you that he’s sorry he can’t make it.
somehow, none of it really mattered. part of you knew that dick grayson wasn’t yours.
by the time you get to the manor with dick, he’s wasted and bubbly enough to be looser. though it amplifies his flirty personality and he spends the limo ride home kissing down your neck, leaving marks that you definitely didn’t want to stay. you tilt your head for him and hum his name.
“gray, you’re gonna leave a mark.” you hum even as your eyes roll in pleasure.
“i want to leave plenty.” groaning against your neck as the car stops by the house.
he reaches over and pulls the window up to hide from the rear view mirror, and pulls you up onto his lap. the plush of flesh in his hands are kneaded as he shifts your hips against him. minutes go by like this, friction burning between you as his dark dark sticks to his forehead from how much he was working himself up.
“can we?” he rasps, not needing to say the whole thing before you already understand.
you pull away to look at him and see the desperation etched on his face. part of you wants to give him what he wants, to finally give in to that temptation but the rest of you says to wait for some reason you couldn’t understand.
here was this gorgeous man, sculpted like a greek god with his perfect teeth and his chiseled jaw. he was beautiful and everything anyone could ever want, but you couldn’t just say yes.
“you’re drunk,” you state, pulling yourself off of him and opening the door. “let’s go inside and sleep this off.”
he groans like it hurts when you pull him out but his hands. “hasn’t anyone ever told you how much it hurts when you don’t take care of it?”
you hum and bring his face closer to yours as you walk to the door. hand settled low on his back as he holds himself up with an arm around your shoulders.
“nice try dickie. you can help yourself when you take a cold shower.” kissing his cheek as you shut the door behind you.
coherent enough to hold himself upright, he huffs softly and then smiles. leaning over to kiss your lips again, pecking like he was soothing himself before nodding and pulling off his shoes. from across the corridor you could hear a faint sound coming from a television. low enough to be mistaken for sounds of the house.
dick guides you further into the house by your waist and settles his hand by your hip when you reach the living room. along the way you leave you purse on the counter, phone tucked inside it as you start to see the black haired man sitting on the couch, facing the television.
“took you long enough dick head.” the man’s voice echos with barely concealed annoyance. “you were supposed to help cass tonight.”
dick sighs as he walks himself to the kitchen to grab a beer. “i told her i had to go to bruce’s thing. she’s old enough to patrol on her own now.”
“well duke had to go and—” cutting himself off as he stands and turns his body to where you stood. his eyes widening as he sees you there, standing in a pretty dress and a softly dishevelled appearance, as though perfectly imperfect.
jason’s lips part at you, and you take in the look on his face as one of disbelief. something in his appearance had shifted in the months you hadn’t seen him. something about his face had gotten more mature and intense. like he’s seen a couple things more than from when you last saw him and he looked tired.
“—you shouldn’t be out doing that shit right now anyways. bruce told you to lay low after what happened last time.” dick says as he takes a swig of his beer.
when he noticed how you and jason were looking at eachother, he looks between you. quickly you break the eye contact, but jason doesn’t.
“oh jason, this is my girlfriend.” dick says your name. “this is my brother, jason.”
girlfriend. you nearly grimace at the name he calls you but somehow keep it inside. mentally you’re cursing yourself for not meeting his family before this happened. had you known that they were related you would’ve never even spoken to them. you would’ve never started to talk to Dick in the first place. now you’re stuck in this awkward position where you have to tell the guy you’ve been seeing casually for the past couple of months that hey I actually used to have a huge crush on your brother and I actually made out with him and sometimes I imagine his face on yours. 
well, maybe not the whole thing. he probably doesn’t need to know all of the details.
your mind is going a million miles a minute and you can’t even think about what you’re supposed to do next. do you shake his hand? or maybe you’re supposed to stand frozen like you have been for the past 30 seconds.
but then jason raises his hand, and offers it out to you like it’s the easiest thing. he smiles softly.
“hey, i’m jason.”
somehow this option didn’t even occur to you and it was the one that burned the most.
you offer your hand as well and let him take yours in it, shaking it really really softly. almost intimate if anyone was looking too hard, and thankfully, dick was inebriated enough just to not notice that part.
“hey,” you offer back and repeat your name, trying to forget how bitter it tasted on you tongue right now. he holds your hand for a moment longer than necessary, and you find yourself looking into his eyes like you didn’t know him completely already.
“he’s gonna be staying here for a while since his apartment has roaches and shit.” dick pats jason’s back and still doesn’t notice how he couldn’t pry his eyes off of you. “his rooms across from mine.”
his grip tightens ever so slightly when you try to pull it away.
“guess we’ll be seeing a lot of eachother.” jason says with a gaze on you that could light a thousand fires in your soul.
pairing: hockey player!bucky barnes x reader | 6.3k words | college au
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), friends with benefits, college hookup culture, emotional unavailability, rebound sex, oral sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, multiple hookup scenes, dirty talk, making out, mutual pining, commitment issues, post-breakup messiness
summary: after another breakup, you set out to keep things casual with campus hockey star bucky barnes—but what starts as a rebound quickly turns into something much harder to walk away from.
authors note: super loosely inspired by dean + allie from off campus, so loose can we even say it's inspired?? idk you tell me. either way, i was obsessed with the series when i first read them in high school and i'm obsessed with them now! i loveeee a fic where both people are loudly pretending it’s just sex while being down astronomically bad. also yes the ending hurt me a little too.
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By the third breakup, your friends stopped pretending to be surprised.
Wanda only looked across the sticky table in the student union with one brow raised and said, “So is this the real breakup, or the one before the next reunion?”
You stared down at your iced coffee, at the watery crescent of condensation sliding toward your hand, and gave the only honest answer you had. “I don’t know.”
That was the problem with Ryan. It had been two years of almosts and not-quites, of him swearing he was ready to be better and you wanting so badly to believe him that you kept handing him fresh chances like they cost you nothing. He cheated once, then sort of cheated another time, then did that infuriating thing where he never technically crossed the line but made sure you spent every weekend wondering if he would.
He loved you when it was easy, when you fit neatly around whatever version of him he wanted to be that month. He loved you most when he thought you might finally leave for good.
This time had ended outside your apartment building in the cold, with his hands shoved in his pockets and his mouth set in that familiar wounded line.
“You’re overreacting.”
You had laughed then, short and ugly, because what else was there to do? He had said that after the girl at the tailgate, after the texts you were never meant to see, after the weekend he disappeared and came back with a hickey low on his neck like you were stupid enough to miss it. Overreacting. As if heartbreak could be dramatic if it happened often enough.
You had told him it was over. He had said, “You always say that.”
And maybe he’d had reason to believe you didn’t mean it.
But for once, you had.
Now it was Thursday, classes were dragging, your chest still felt hollow in a way that made you angry at yourself, and Wanda was done entertaining your grief like it was some kind of sacred ritual.
“Move on,” she said bluntly. “Please. For the love of God. Hook up with somebody hot and emotionally unavailable. Cleanse the palate.”
Across from her, Natasha snorted into her drink. “That is terrible advice.”
“It is excellent advice,” Wanda shot back. “She doesn’t need another relationship. She needs a distraction. Preferably one with shoulders.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. “A distraction.”
“Yes,” Wanda said, leaning in like she was about to share state secrets. “A campus-approved, low-commitment, high-orgasm distraction.”
Natasha grinned. “I can think of one.”
The three of you went quiet in unison.
Because, of course, you all thought of the same person.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky to everyone on campus, because nobody who looked like that should be allowed to have a name that sharp and old-fashioned without softening it somehow.
Star forward. Campus legend. Hockey team golden boy with a mouth made for smirking and a reputation so thoroughly established it barely needed repeating. He was good for a good time, not a long time. Everybody knew it. Girls came and went from his apartment above the pizza place off campus. He flirted shamelessly, skated like violence could be beautiful, and had the kind of face that made poor decisions feel reasonable.
In other words, exactly the kind of man you should avoid.
Which was probably why you heard yourself ask, “You think he’d go for it?”
Wanda barked out a laugh. “Honey. Bucky Barnes would go for a girl in a potato sack if she looked at him the right way.”
Natasha pointed at you. “That’s not the point. The point is, would you go for it?”
You thought of Ryan’s smug certainty. You thought of the ache in your chest every time you caught yourself reaching for your phone. You thought of how badly you wanted to stop feeling chosen only in parts.
And then you thought of Bucky’s hands.
You'd never touched them before, but you'd seen them often enough. Wrapped around a hockey stick. Curled around a beer bottle at parties. Tugging the collar of his shirt after games, skin flushed, hair damp at the nape of his neck, looking like sin in broad fluorescent light.
You took a sip of your coffee and said, with all the false casualness you could muster, “Maybe I’m due for a bad decision.”
Wanda raised her plastic cup. “That’s my girl.”
It turned out you didn’t even have to go looking for him.
Friday night, the campus bar was packed shoulder to shoulder after the home game, half the crowd still in school colors and buzzing from the win. Somebody had dragged a table close to the jukebox and was trying to lead a chant that kept dissolving into drunken laughter. The whole place smelled like beer, fried food, and melted snow from the boots piled by the door.
You were there because Wanda refused to let you rot in your apartment and because there was something deeply satisfying about putting on a tiny black top and jeans that made your ex regret ever making you feel ordinary.
You were three drinks in, warm and pleasantly untethered, when the hockey team came in.
The room shifted when they did. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to feel it.
Loud voices, easy confidence, the kind of collective attention only comes from being young and adored in a college town. You saw Sam Wilson first, laughing at something Steve Rogers said. Then Steve himself, all broad shoulders and impossible earnestness. And then Bucky, a step behind them, black henley stretched over his chest, hair pushed back from his forehead, mouth already tipped in a half-smile like the whole world had been built mostly for his amusement.
He saw you before you could look away.
You knew it because that smile changed.
Not bigger. Not brighter. Just different. Sharper. Interested.
“Uh-oh,” Wanda murmured into your ear.
You kept your gaze on your drink. “What?”
“Don’t what me. Barnes just clocked you from across the room.”
You made yourself glance up again, because pretending you hadn’t noticed would’ve been ridiculous. Bucky was still looking at you. He lifted his chin in greeting, casual and self-assured.
Your pulse jumped.
“Maybe he’s looking at you,” you said weakly.
Wanda laughed in your face.
Three minutes later, he was in front of you.
“Hey,” he said, like the two of you had been halfway through a conversation already.
Up close, he was worse. Better. Bigger than he looked on the ice somehow, shoulders filling the narrow space between tables, jaw shadowed with the start of a beard. He smelled like cold air and clean soap and whatever cologne made your brain go embarrassingly blank for a second.
“Hey,” you managed.
His eyes flicked over you once, not leering, just appreciative enough to make heat rise under your skin. “Did you come to celebrate me?”
You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. “I don’t know. Did you do anything worth celebrating?”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Scored the game-winner.”
“Mm. Seems pretty self-serving to throw yourself a party.”
“Who said it was for me?” His mouth tilted. “Could be for the people who like watching.”
That should have been corny. On anyone else, it might have been. On him, it landed low in your stomach and settled there, warm and dangerous.
You could feel Wanda watching you with barely concealed delight.
Bucky leaned an elbow against the high-top. “You want another drink?”
You should have said no. You knew you should have said no if only to preserve some illusion of self-control.
Instead you said, “Depends.”
“On?”
“What you think this is.”
His brows lifted slightly, and for the first time since he walked over, the air between you changed. Less playful. More direct.
He looked at you for a beat too long, like he was recalculating.
Then he smiled again, slower this time. “That depends on what you want it to be.”
You appreciated that. More than you expected to.
No pretense. No fake gentleness. No lying about intentions because he thought it was what you wanted to hear. Everybody knew what Bucky Barnes was. You had practically come here counting on it.
You set your empty glass on the table. “I’m not looking for anything serious.”
The smile didn’t leave his face, but something in his eyes sharpened with interest. “Good.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
You folded your arms, trying not to look too affected by how easy this was. “I just got out of something messy.”
“Then messy’s the last thing I’m offering.”
That surprised you enough to make you laugh softly. “That your line?”
“No.” He tipped his head. “My line would be something a lot smoother than that.”
It was ridiculous how much you liked him right then.
Maybe because he was exactly what everyone said he was, and exactly not. Cocky, yes. Beautiful, undeniably. But he wasn’t slimy or pushy like you would assume. He seemed to understand that there was a difference between wanting and taking. A difference you had become intimately aware of over the last two years.
“So what are you offering?” you asked.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lifted again. “One night,” he said. “No pressure. No promises. You wake up tomorrow and decide it was a bad idea, I’ll survive.”
Your heart kicked once against your ribs.
Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was textbook rebound behavior. Maybe Wanda would never let you hear the end of it.
But maybe, for once, you wanted something simple. Something honest. Something that began and ended exactly where both people agreed it would.
You held his gaze. “One night.”
Bucky smiled like he knew exactly how temporary promises like that could be.
“Come on, then,” he said.
His apartment was warmer than you expected.
Not physically, though that too. The heat clicked in old pipes and the whole place smelled faintly like cedar and laundry detergent and whatever takeout he’d eaten before the game. But also in the way it looked lived in. There was a hockey bag by the door, textbooks stacked on the kitchen table, a coffee mug in the sink, a framed photo of him with the team on a shelf near the couch. You had expected something more anonymous, more designed for quick exits and easy forgetting. Instead it felt distinctly his.
Which was unfortunate, because humanizing him made this harder.
You dropped your coat over the back of a chair while he locked the door behind you. Suddenly the silence felt loud after the bar.
“You want water?” he asked.
The question was so normal it almost undid you. “Sure.”
He handed you a glass from the kitchen, then leaned against the counter while you drank, studying you with a patience that felt at odds with every rumor you’d heard about him.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.” His gaze moved slowly over your face. “Just making sure you’re here because you want to be.”
The warmth that spread through you had nothing to do with vodka.
“I’m here because I want to be.”
He nodded once, like that mattered. Like he wasn’t going to touch you until he was certain.
Then he set his own glass down and crossed the room.
His hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to step back, and settled warm against the side of your neck. He kissed you like he’d been thinking about it longer than the last forty-five minutes. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just deep and deliberate, his mouth parting over yours until your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter and every good intention you’d brought with you dissolved.
You kissed him back harder, because if this was going to happen, you wanted it to happen all the way.
He made a soft sound in the back of his throat when you opened for him, one hand sliding to your waist, the other bracing on the counter beside you. His body was all heat and weight, big enough to make you feel crowded in a way that thrilled instead of trapped. When his tongue brushed yours, you made a helpless little noise and he smiled against your mouth like he’d won something.
“Oh, you like that,” he murmured.
You dragged him back in by the front of his shirt instead of answering.
That got a real laugh out of him, low and delighted, and then the kiss turned rougher. Hungrier. He backed you along the counter until your hip knocked the corner and you hissed, but he only used it to lift you onto it, stepping between your knees like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said against your mouth.
“I won’t.”
His eyes flicked up to yours. “Tell me anyway.”
You swallowed. “I’ll tell you.”
“Good girl.”
The words hit you low and immediate.
He must have seen it happen, because his smile turned devastating. Then he kissed down your neck, open-mouthed and unhurried, and you forgot every defensive speech you’d rehearsed on the walk over.
He took his time with you. That was the thing you hadn’t expected. A man with Bucky’s reputation should have been selfish. Efficient. Skilled, maybe, but with the clear sense that he was working toward his own satisfaction.
Instead he kissed you until you were breathless and touched you like he had nowhere else to be. He slipped your top up with a pause for permission that made your chest ache for reasons you didn’t want to examine. He looked at your body like he liked what he saw, no hesitation, no false flattery. When he got you out of your bra, his hands were reverent enough to be dangerous.
“Jesus,” he said softly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
You laughed, shy despite yourself. “What?”
“Nothing.” He kissed the top of one breast, then the other, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you. “Just think maybe I’m the luckiest guy on campus.”
“That definitely is a line.”
“Maybe,” he said, mouth at your skin, “but it’s also true.”
By the time he dropped to his knees in front of you, your head was spinning.
“Bucky—”
“Let me.”
It wasn’t really a request. More like a promise. His hands slid up your thighs, easing them wider, and when he pressed a kiss to the inside of one knee you nearly came off the counter from that alone.
He looked up at you before he pushed your jeans down, giving you one more chance. You nodded, breathless, and he smiled into your skin.
Then he put his mouth on you, and any remaining thought left your body.
He was obscenely good at it. He paid attention. He learned you almost immediately, like your reactions were clues he intended to solve with his whole body. His tongue moved with slow, merciless precision, and every time your hands tightened in his hair he groaned like this was for him too.
It became impossible to stay quiet.
Your head knocked lightly against the cabinet when you tipped back, one hand over your mouth because the sounds coming out of you felt mortifyingly loud in his kitchen. Bucky only took your wrist and pulled it away.
“No,” he murmured, not stopping. “Let me hear you.”
When you came, it hit you so fast you barely had time to realize you were falling. His hands held you steady through it, his mouth never letting up until your thighs shook around his shoulders and you were gasping his name like a prayer.
He stood only long enough to kiss you with the taste of yourself still on his mouth, which should not have been as hot as it was. You made a desperate sound and reached for his belt.
His laugh was rougher now. “Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
“Not even a little embarrassed.” He helped you with his zipper. “I like that.”
You liked that he was already hard. You liked the sharp inhale he took when you got your hand around him. You liked the way his forehead dropped briefly to yours, composure slipping for the first time that night.
“Bedroom,” he muttered.
You hooked your legs around his waist. “Efficient.”
He grinned, wide and boyish and filthy all at once. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Get used to it.”
He did, over the next several weeks, in every possible sense.
The first time really was only one night. You left in the morning wearing yesterday’s clothes and his mouth on yours in the doorway, and it should have ended there.
Instead he texted you that night.
Had fun. Hope you’re hydrating.
You stared at the message for a full minute before replying.
Is this your aftercare routine with all your hookups?
His answer came almost immediately.
Only the ones I’m worried might have died in my bed.
You snorted, then typed back before you could overthink it.
Still alive. Barely.
Good, he sent. Would’ve hated the paperwork.
You told yourself it was harmless.
Then you saw him a week later at a party thrown by one of the baseball guys, and he kissed you in a dark hallway with one hand under your skirt and the other braced above your head while music pounded through the walls. You told yourself that was harmless too, right up until he dragged his mouth down your throat and said, “Come home with me.”
You did.
After that, it became a pattern.
Sometimes one of you texted first. Sometimes neither of you had to.
You’d see him across campus outside the athletic center, hair damp from practice, duffel slung over one shoulder, and he’d look at you in that way of his that made your stomach flip over. You’d run into him at the library and end up making out with him in the stairwell between floors, your textbooks forgotten on the landing while his hand slid up under your sweater. He’d show up at a party and somehow always end up with you pinned to a bathroom door, your fingers in his hair, his mouth moving over yours like he knew exactly how much pressure it took to make you dizzy.
Every time, afterward, you would gather whatever shreds of your self-control remained and say, “This is the last time.”
And every time, Bucky would look at you with a laugh hovering at the corner of his mouth.
“The last time, huh?”
“I mean it.”
“Sure you do.”
The third time, he said it while lying shirtless beside you, one hand spread warm over your stomach like he belonged there. Your body was still humming from the way he’d made you come on his tongue first and then again with his fingers buried in you while he kissed you deep enough to swallow every sound.
You turned to glare at him, though it was hard to maintain any righteous indignation while completely naked in his bed.
“Why do you look so smug?”
“Because you say it every time.” He brushed his thumb over your skin absently. “And then you come back.”
“You come back too.”
“Yeah,” he said easily. “I never said I was leaving.”
That lodged somewhere under your ribs and stayed there.
Because that was the dangerous part. It wasn’t the sex, even though that was increasingly difficult to think about without losing your train of thought in public. It was everything around it. The way Bucky started feeling less like a mistake and more like a habit. The way you learned his class schedule without meaning to. The way he’d tug you between his knees in his kitchen while waiting for the microwave to finish and kiss you until your lips tingled. The way he’d murmur, “Stay,” after sex in a voice too sleepy to be performative, and sometimes you actually would.
He wasn’t supposed to be considerate.
He definitely wasn’t supposed to be funny.
And he absolutely was not supposed to listen.
But he did.
He remembered you hated mushrooms and picked them off the pizza before handing you a slice. He noticed when you were quiet and didn’t pry, just pulled you against his chest and let you breathe until the tension eased from your shoulders. He asked how your exam went and actually waited for the answer. Once, when you mentioned in passing that your apartment radiator never worked right, he showed up two days later with a space heater balanced on one hip and said, “Don’t make a thing out of it. I got it from Steve’s mom.”
You had looked at him like he’d started speaking another language.
“What?”
“This isn’t very down for a good time, not a long time of you.”
Bucky had shrugged, but his ears went a little pink. “Maybe I contain multitudes.”
He kissed you until you forgot how to make sense of him.
The hookups got better, which honestly felt unfair.
They should have plateaued. Should have become routine. Instead every time with him felt like he’d found some new way to undo you.
There was the night he came over after an away game, still riding the high of a win, and fucked you against your apartment door so slowly you could barely stand it, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you upright while he told you exactly how pretty you looked taking him. There was the Sunday afternoon at his place when you ended up on your knees between his spread thighs, your cheek brushing the worn denim of his jeans as you took his cock into your mouth inch by inch. He had gone so still, fingers tight in your hair, like he was one wrong movement away from losing it. When you looked up at him, he made a wrecked sound and said your name like it had surprised him.
You liked making him come apart.
Maybe too much.
After that, he had pulled you into his lap in the shower, water steaming around both of you while he kissed you with lazy, reverent hunger. By the time he slid a hand between your legs, you were already shaking.
“There she is,” he murmured when your forehead fell to his shoulder. “Been waiting for that.”
You should not have liked hearing him sound proud of you. But you did. God, you did.
Afterward, with your legs tangled and his damp hair curling at the ends, you had said your line again because you didn’t know what else to do with the softness of that moment.
“This has to be the last time.”
Bucky propped himself up on one elbow. “You gotta stop saying that when I’m inside you five minutes earlier.”
You shoved at his chest, laughing despite the sting in your own voice. “Shut up.”
He caught your wrist and kissed your palm. “You’re the one who keeps lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
His expression changed then, something quieter moving under the teasing. “Maybe not on purpose.”
You went still.
That was the first time you saw it clearly, the thing you’d been avoiding by pretending this was all body and no consequence. It was there in the way he was looking at you. Not just wanting. Not just amused. Something heavier. Something that made your pulse turn strange.
So you did what you had become very good at doing.
You pulled away first.
“You’re reading too much into it,” you said lightly, climbing out of bed to gather your clothes.
Bucky didn’t argue. Which somehow made it worse.
By March, your friends had stopped pretending this was a rebound.
“You’re basically dating,” Wanda informed you one afternoon as you sat cross-legged on her bed avoiding your reading assignment.
“We are absolutely not.”
“You spend four nights a week at his apartment.”
“That is not a relationship. That is convenience.”
Natasha looked up from her laptop with the exhausted patience of someone dealing with a child who refused to identify basic shapes. “He walked you to class in the rain yesterday.”
“Because he was already going that way.”
“He does not have class in the humanities building.”
You opened your mouth, then shut it again.
Wanda pointed dramatically. “Exactly.”
You flopped back against her pillows. “I just got out of something awful. I cannot do another relationship right now. I can barely think about next semester, let alone commitment.”
Natasha’s voice softened. “Nobody’s saying you have to.”
“He’s not either,” Wanda added. “At least, not that I’ve seen. But you can’t keep acting like this means nothing.”
You stared at the ceiling.
The truth was, you didn’t know what it meant. You only knew that when Bucky texted, your day changed shape around it. That you had started watching his games because you liked seeing him lit up by something he loved. That sometimes, in the half-second before you remembered to protect yourself, you caught yourself imagining what it would be like if this were allowed to become something real.
And that terrified you.
Because real things could hurt you.
Casual things were supposed to end clean. That had been the whole point.
Then came the fundraiser.
The hockey team and a bunch of other campus organizations had teamed up to raise money for a local youth center, and the bar just off campus—The Lantern, with its warped stage and sticky floors and surprisingly decent fries—was hosting the whole thing. There were raffle baskets and signed jerseys and a local band playing covers in the corner while students crammed too close to the tables and shouted over each other.
You went because Wanda had helped organize half of it and because staying home would have felt suspiciously like avoidance.
Bucky was there because where else would he be? The star athlete in a henley that hugged his chest like a prayer answered by someone with questionable morals. He was working the room with the rest of the team, taking pictures, charming donors, signing a little girl’s hockey stick with solemn concentration while her mother beamed.
It should not have done things to you, watching him kneel to the kid’s level and ask what position she played.
“This is sick,” Wanda muttered beside you. “He’s hot and good with children? Honestly offensive.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Can’t. I’m a truth teller.”
Bucky looked up from across the room and saw you.
His whole face changed.
There it was again, that awful, lovely thing where the crowd seemed to blur at the edges. He handed the hockey stick back, said something to the girl that made her grin, and then he was moving toward you with that easy confidence that made everybody part for him without realizing they were doing it.
“You came,” he said.
“You invited half the campus.”
“Still.” He smiled. “You came.”
You hated how much warmth those two words carried.
“You clean up nice, Barnes.”
He leaned down just enough for only you to hear. “You trying to flirt with me in public?”
Your stomach dipped. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Liar.”
Wanda made a very pointed noise. “I’m going to go do literally anything else.”
She disappeared before you could glare at her.
Bucky took your drink from your hand, had a sip like it belonged to him, then offered it back. “Come upstairs with me for a second.”
“The Lantern has upstairs?”
“Office. Quiet hallway. Couple of storage rooms. Endless possibilities.”
You should have said no.
Instead, because apparently you had no survival instinct where he was concerned, you followed him through the back corridor past the restrooms and stacked kegs to a narrow stairwell. He only got as far as the landing before turning and pulling you into him.
You hit his chest with a breathless laugh. “Subtle.”
“You came in wearing that skirt. You don’t get to talk to me about subtle.”
“I’ve worn this skirt before.”
“Yeah,” he said, mouth brushing yours, “and I thought about it for three days.”
The kiss stole the rest of your reply.
He backed you gently against the wall, hands finding your waist with the ease of someone who had done this often enough to know exactly how your body fit against his. Below you, the bar pulsed with music and voices muffled by floorboards. Up here it was dim and private, the kind of hidden space college towns are built on.
He kissed like he meant it and that was the problem. He kissed like he’d spent weeks learning the shape of your mouth and still hadn’t gotten over it.
When he pulled back, you were breathing hard.
“Come home with me tonight,” he said.
You blinked. “I probably was.”
He smiled a little, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No. I mean come home with me. Stay. Stop pretending this is casual when it isn’t.”
Everything in you went still.
The music downstairs shifted to another song. Someone laughed too loudly. Somewhere nearby, a door banged shut.
You stared at him. “Bucky.”
He rubbed his thumb along your hip. “You don’t have to freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“You are a little.”
“Because you’re doing exactly what we said we wouldn’t do.”
His jaw flexed. “Did we? Or did you?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
His voice stayed gentle, which almost made it worse. “I liked this being easy. I did. But it stopped being just sex for me a while ago, and I think you know that.”
Your pulse thudded in your throat.
“Don’t do that,” you said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Make me answer something I’m not ready to answer.”
He looked at you for a long moment. “I’m not asking you for forever.”
“That’s how it starts.”
The words came out sharper than you meant them to. You saw him feel the edge of them and hated yourself immediately.
You dragged in a breath. “I just got out of something awful. I am not doing this again. I’m not throwing myself into another thing because it feels good right now.”
His hands loosened at your waist but didn’t leave. “You think that’s all this is to me?”
“No,” you said, because lying would’ve been insulting. “That’s what scares me.”
He was quiet.
Then, very softly, “You think I’d hurt you like that?”
The answer should have been no. It was no. You knew it.
But fear doesn’t care what you know. Fear only cares that once, you were stupid enough to trust somebody who treated your heart like a revolving door, and now even kindness felt like a setup.
“It doesn’t matter,” you said. “I can’t do this.”
His face closed off in small, careful increments. Not anger. That would have been easier. Just hurt, managed so tightly it made your chest ache.
“Can’t,” he repeated. “Or won’t?”
You stepped out of his hold.
“Please don’t make this ugly.”
He laughed once without humor. “I’m not the one making it ugly.”
That stung because it was true.
You folded your arms, protecting yourself from the look on his face. “We had an agreement.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And then we kept breaking it.”
“Because of sex, Bucky.”
“That is not why you know my coffee order.”
You went silent.
His eyes searched your face like maybe, even now, he could find something to hold onto. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You couldn’t.
And because you couldn’t, because the truth sat living and dangerous between you, you did the only thing you knew how to do.
You fled.
Not literally at first. You walked downstairs with as much dignity as you could gather, heart beating too hard, skin still warm from his hands. The noise of the bar hit you all at once. Wanda saw your face and stood immediately.
“What happened?”
You picked up your drink from the table with fingers you hoped didn’t shake. “Nothing. I’m done here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Done as in leaving or done as in arson?”
Before you could answer, the band onstage wrapped up their song and the lead singer leaned into the mic. “Anybody got requests?”
You looked up.
Bucky had followed you down. He was standing near the back hallway entrance now, one hand braced on the edge of a chair, watching you with a stunned, wounded kind of focus that made it hard to breathe.
He was gorgeous even when miserable. Which felt deeply inconvenient.
Maybe it was petty. Maybe it was defensive. Maybe it was the only way you knew to grab control of a moment that had started slipping out of your hands the second he asked you for something real.
You crossed to the stage before you could think better of it.
The singer bent down to hear you over the crowd. You leaned up, said the title into his ear, and his eyebrows shot up in delighted recognition.
“Oh, that’s evil,” he said, grinning.
“Can you play it?”
“For you?” He glanced toward the band. “Absolutely.”
The opening chords rang out less than thirty seconds later.
Wanda made a strangled noise of disbelief as the first unmistakable bars of “U + Ur Hand” cut through the room.
You turned.
Bucky was still by the hallway, one hand over his mouth now, eyes wide with something that looked dangerously close to laughter despite everything. Around him, Sam doubled over against Steve’s shoulder. Steve himself looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. Half the team had clocked what was happening and were reacting with open, delighted horror.
You should have felt guilty.
Instead, to your own surprise, you felt a slow curl of satisfaction.
Because if he was going to push, if he was going to try to crack open the part of you that still felt raw and healing and unready, then he was going to have to accept that you had claws.
You lifted your glass to him in a tiny salute.
His eyes met yours across the crowd.
Then, finally, his mouth curved. The worst part was he didn't look smug or mocking. He looked impressed, like he couldn’t quite believe you had the nerve, and liked you more for it.
That, more than anything, nearly made you falter.
Wanda grabbed your arm. “You insane, beautiful menace. We are leaving before this becomes a public incident.”
You let her pull you toward the door, Natasha right behind you already laughing. The cold hit your cheeks the second you stepped outside, music still thumping through the walls behind you.
“Holy shit,” Natasha said. “You requested that song?”
“I had to make sure he knew what he was going home with.”
Wanda stopped under the awning and looked at you with wild admiration. “I have never been prouder of anyone in my life.”
You laughed, breath fogging in the air, though there was a crack running straight through the center of the sound.
Because underneath the adrenaline and the petty thrill and the relief of escape, you could still feel the shape of him on that stairwell. The way he’d asked not for forever, but for honesty. The way you had refused him because honesty might have undone you.
“You okay?” Natasha asked more quietly.
You shoved your hands into your coat pockets. “Ask me tomorrow.”
Wanda linked arms with you and started tugging you down the sidewalk. “Fine. Tonight we’re getting fries and overanalyzing every detail.”
Behind you, the song swelled louder as someone opened the bar door, a burst of laughter spilling out into the night. You didn’t turn around.
Keep your drink, just give me the money
It's just you and your hand tonight
Inside The Lantern, Bucky Barnes stayed exactly where you left him for a few seconds longer, staring at the door like it might open again.
Sam clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Man.”
Steve, traitor that he was, looked openly entertained. “You gotta admit, that was pretty good.”
Bucky let out a breath through his nose, eyes still on the door, and finally laughed.
Not because it didn’t sting. It did. He could still feel the ghost of her stepping out of his hands upstairs, all fear and stubborn pride and defenses stacked so high he hadn’t known how to climb them without making everything worse.
But Jesus.
Requesting that song before walking out on him in front of half the athletic department?
That was brutal.
That was funny.
That was so completely, infuriatingly her.
He tipped his head back, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m gonna get that girl.”
Sam barked a laugh. “After that? You still think you got a shot?”
Bucky looked back toward the door, toward the empty space where she had been, and smiled slowly.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Now I know I want one.”
And if getting her meant patience, then he’d be patient. If it meant proving he could be more than a rebound, more than a warm body and a safe kind of almost, then he’d do that too. If it meant standing outside every barricade she put up until she was ready to let him in, he could do that. He’d spent months learning the difference between the lines she said and the things she meant. He could wait a little longer.
Because she had walked out tonight with her friends and her chin up and that wicked, bright spark in her eyes, and instead of making him give up, it had only made him admire her more.
The band played on. His teammates kept laughing. Somewhere out in the cold, the girl who had sworn over and over that each time was the last time was pretending she hadn’t just blown apart whatever was left of casual between them.
Bucky took a pull from the beer somebody handed him and grinned into the bottle.
He was in trouble.
The best kind.
And for the first time in his life, James Buchanan Barnes was more than willing to do whatever it took for the long game.
Summary: An unexpected pregnancy test forces Bucky and you to confront your deepest fears. Amid silences, doubts, and fears that neither of you can fully articulate, you’ll both discover that starting a family may be the hardest—and most important—battle of your lives.
Tags: Post-TFATWS, Established relationship, accidental pregnancy, miscommunication, angst, hurt/comfort, fear, trauma, mentions of HYDRA, mentions of abortion, mentions of reader with irregular periods, mentions of Sam, mentions of Bucky working with Sam, Bucky emotionally constipated, Bucky afraid of fatherhood, Bucky crying, reader crying, no y/n, happy ending. My native language isn't English (I apologize if there are any mistakes).
Masterlist.
Notes: Hi! I should really be working on the drafts I have, but this idea just popped into my head and helped me get past a little writer’s block.
You’d been trying to pay attention to Bucky for almost half an hour.
With his usual calm demeanor, he was telling you how that day’s mission with Sam had gone. He talked about a chase that ended sooner than expected, his partner’s constant jokes, and a plan that had gone surprisingly well. You nodded from time to time, even smiled out of sheer habit, but in reality you hadn’t heard half of what he was saying. Your mind was trapped in a single thought that repeated itself over and over, impossible to ignore.
The positive pregnancy test.
The little plastic strip was still tucked away in your sock drawer, as if its mere existence had upset the balance of your entire life. You felt it took up a lot of space, even though it barely took up any at all. Ever since you’d seen it that morning, emotions had swirled inside you in a way that was impossible to sort out: fear, uncertainty, nerves, surprise, and a strange sense of hope that you still didn’t dare to accept.
You had no idea what to do.
During your early dates, the two of you had talked about starting a family. It had been a calm conversation, without arguments or promises. Bucky had admitted that he hadn’t imagined himself as a father and wasn’t even sure he could ever be one; after everything he’d been through, the idea of bringing a child into the world seemed too overwhelming to him. You, for your part, didn’t feel it was the right time either.
And yet, there you were.
Facing a situation neither of you had planned for.
The silence between you began to stretch because you had stopped responding several seconds ago. Bucky finished speaking and waited for a reaction that never came. That was when his senses picked up on what your words weren’t expressing.
Your heart was beating too fast.
The rapid, irregular, and persistent rhythm made him turn his full attention to you. He noticed the slight furrow of your brow, the tension in your jaw, and the way your fingers nervously fiddled with the rim of the cup resting on the table.
His expression changed instantly.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” he asked in a soft voice, full of concern, as he leaned slightly toward you.
His hand sought yours on the table and gently wrapped around it, giving it a light squeeze, as if to remind you he was there.
That simple gesture finally broke down the barrier you’d been maintaining throughout the conversation.
The words slipped from your lips before you could finish turning them over in your head.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Time seemed to stand still.
A complete silence settled between you, heavy and almost tangible. Bucky’s eyes widened slowly until they were wide with surprise, as the air left his lungs in a held breath. His fingers trembled slightly around yours, unable to hide the impact of the confession.
You lowered your gaze and let out an unsteady sigh, trying to control the lump that had formed in your throat and the anxiety coursing through every corner of your body.
“I took a pregnancy test because my period was later than usual…” you murmured in a low, tense voice, feeling as though every word required an enormous effort. “I thought it would be a false alarm, but… it came back positive.”
As you finished your sentence, silence once again enveloped the room with an almost suffocating intensity. The world seemed to have come to a sudden halt. Only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness, along with the rapid beating of your heart, which Bucky could still hear with absolute clarity. Each beat revealed the fear you were trying to hide behind a serene expression. They both remained motionless, realizing that a few words had been enough to completely change the course of their lives.
“When…?” he whispered, almost to himself, his gaze lost somewhere on the table.
The question didn’t seem directed at you, but at his own memories.
He looked down as he mentally reviewed every moment of the past few months, trying to find an explanation. Then he remembered. His expression slowly changed until it twisted into a small grimace filled with recognition and regret.
That night.
The only time they had both completely cast caution aside, convinced that nothing would happen, letting themselves be carried away by desire, closeness, and the heat of the moment.
In her memory, that slip had seemed insignificant. Now she realized that just once had been enough.
Her fingers tensed slightly before slipping from yours.
You parted your lips shyly, ready to say something—anything—to break the silence or calm the growing anxiety that was beginning to settle in your chest. You wanted to explain that you didn’t expect an immediate answer, that you didn’t know how to feel either, that the two of you could work it out together.
But Bucky stood up before you could utter a single word.
The movement was so sudden that the chair slid a few inches backward, making a sharp clatter against the floor.
He ran a hand over his face, breathing heavily as he avoided looking directly at you.
“I need some air…” he said in a low voice, though the weight of those four words fell on you like a slab of stone.
There was no anger in his tone, nor rejection, but there was no calm either. Just a confusion so deep that he seemed unable to stay another second within those four walls.
You watched him walk with hurried steps toward the apartment entrance. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack almost out of habit, without bothering to put it on properly, and opened the door.
For a moment, you thought he would stop, that he would turn his head to say something else or to reassure you.
It didn’t happen.
The door closed behind him with a sharp click that echoed throughout the room.
You stood motionless, staring at the spot where he had disappeared, as silence once again took hold of the apartment. The pressure in your chest increased immediately, and fear began to make its way through all the thoughts you’d been trying to hold back.
☆
The faint blue glow from the TV was the only light in the room you shared with Bucky. Images flashed one after another across the screen, accompanied by the distant voices of a show you’d been trying to follow for over an hour without success.
You were sitting on the bed, your back against the headboard and your legs drawn up to your chest, wrapping both arms around them as if that small gesture could hold you together while you felt everything else beginning to fall apart.
Your eyes remained fixed on the television, but they didn’t really see what was happening on it.
Your mind kept returning to the same place over and over.
The positive test.
Bucky’s expression when you told him.
The way he’d let go of your hand.
And, above all, the door closing behind him.
It had been almost five hours since he left the apartment.
Five hours without a call.
Five hours without a reply to any of the messages you’d sent him with trembling hands—messages that had gone from a simple “Are you okay?” to a worried “Just tell me where you are.”
The phone lay beside you on the sheets, completely silent.
You were worried about him.
You knew that the idea of becoming a father had never held an important place in his life. After everything he’d been through, the decades that had been stolen from him, and the burden he still carried for acts he hadn’t even committed while in his right mind, starting a family seemed like a dream reserved for other people.
He had never told you he didn’t want children, but he hadn’t said he wanted them either.
And now the decision had gone from being a distant possibility to an unexpected reality.
Yet, as you thought about him, it was also impossible not to think about yourself.
About what that new life growing inside your body meant.
About how it would change your future.
About whether you would be able to handle it.
About whether you would be alone.
A lump formed in your throat as you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to return.
The only sound that managed to snap you out of your thoughts was the unmistakable turn of a key in the front door lock.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Then came the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the soft thud as it closed again.
And finally, the heavy echo of boots echoing through the apartment.
You lay motionless on the bed, your gaze fixed on the bedroom door, listening as those footsteps moved slowly down the hallway. Each one seemed to last an eternity.
The doorknob turned and the door opened slowly.
Bucky stood in the doorway for a few seconds before entering. For the first time since you’d broken the news to him, his eyes met yours.
Silence settled between you once more.
You couldn’t help but notice the state he’d returned in.
His hair was more disheveled than usual, as if he’d run his hand through it countless times. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have deepened, betraying that he hadn’t found peace during those hours either. His jacket was still on, slightly wrinkled, and his shoulders remained tense.
But what caught your attention most was the expression on his face. There was fear and guilt.
His eyes scanned the room until they settled on the only source of light: the television.
He was silent for a few seconds before speaking, in that deep, restrained voice that barely let his true feelings show.
“You’re going to ruin your eyes like that…”
It wasn’t a rebuke; it was the only everyday thing he could think to say.
He walked over to the light switch and turned on the room’s light.
The warm glow instantly filled every corner.
You winced slightly at the sudden change in lighting and turned your face away a little, too late to hide what was obvious.
Your eyes were swollen and red. Dry tear stains remained on your cheeks.
Bucky stood still, his jaw tightening slightly. He looked down for a moment before looking back at you, as if he’d been struck by a silent blow.
He didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t someone who found words easily, but the way he took a deep breath and stood motionless was enough to make it clear that he regretted leaving you alone for those hours.
With slow, measured movements, he took off his jacket, draped it over a nearby chair, and walked over to the bed.
The mattress sank slightly as he sat down beside you, leaving just a few inches between you and turning his back to you.
He didn’t try to touch you, but he didn’t move away either. He simply stayed there, his forearms resting on his legs and his hands clasped, staring at the floor as he searched, unsuccessfully, for the right way to sort through everything going through his head.
Silence settled in again, heavy and uncomfortable. Filled with questions neither of you dared to ask.
Several seconds passed before Bucky slowly exhaled.
“I walked down to the pier…” he murmured without looking up. “Then I kept walking. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere… I just needed my head to stop making noise.”
He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and fell silent again.
“I didn’t answer because… I didn’t know what to say.”
The words came out clumsily, forced, as if each one took an enormous effort.
“And because I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
You felt a twinge in your heart and could barely manage a shaky exhale as you watched his back.
“I was never good at this.”
He didn’t specify what he meant, and you weren’t sure what he was referring to either. Maybe he meant talking, feeling, imagining a future, or becoming a father. It was probably all of those things at once.
The distance between you was still just a few centimeters, but the real obstacle wasn’t physical.
Your nails dug lightly into your legs before you began crawling toward him to gently take his chin and make him look at you.
He let you do it, and his eyes finally met yours. That blue you loved so much looked different; there was no anger or rejection, only a deep, silent fear mixed with an uncertainty that seemed to have robbed him of his breath.
For a moment, it seemed to you that you were looking at the soldier who had survived a war, not the man who always found a way to protect you.
You traced the rough line of his beard with your thumb.
“What do you want to do?” you asked in a barely audible whisper.
The question hung between you.
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, and his face twisted into an expression that was hard to read—a bitter mix of guilt, vulnerability, and resignation.
He was fully aware that this decision belonged solely to your body and your life. He also knew that he would never try to push you toward a choice that would benefit him over you. Even if he felt terrified, even if the idea of being a father overwhelmed him.
"I'll support you... whatever you decide." His voice was deep and low, almost hoarse.
It was the only certainty he had amid the chaos.
He paused for a moment longer before adding, almost as if he were struggling to get the words out.
"I don't know if I'll do this right... But I won't let you carry this burden alone."
☆
The next day, the uncertainty was still there.
After a nearly sleepless night, you began to convince yourself that maybe that home test had simply been wrong. After all, even pharmacy tests could yield false positives.
It was a possibility, so you clung to it with all your might.
After discussing it briefly over breakfast—if you could even call a cup of coffee you barely touched and the untouched toast on the plate breakfast—you decided to go to the hospital.
An ultrasound could provide answers almost immediately, and you wouldn’t have to endure the endless wait for a blood test.
When they called your name in the waiting room, your stomach turned instantly.
You stood up, your legs trembling, and without even thinking, you reached for Bucky’s hand and gripped it tightly.
He remained seated for another second, motionless, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the floor. He seemed unable to force himself to walk through that door, not because he wanted to leave, but because he feared what he might find on the other side.
He stood up and walked behind you after you gently took his hand.
The office smelled just like the rest of the hospital: a clean, pungent mix of disinfectant and antiseptic products. However, the atmosphere was different.
The lights were warmer, and the walls were covered with informational posters about conception, birth control methods, fetal development, and drawings showing the approximate size of a baby week by week.
Your eyes lingered for a moment on each one.
Week 4—Poppy seed.
Week 6—Lentil.
Week 7—Chickpea.
Week 8—Cherry.
Week 9—Olive.
And the weeks and illustrations went on.
The illustrations seemed absurdly small for the enormous change they represented.
You swallowed hard as you clung to Bucky’s hand.
Your fingers were cold, and so were his. The slight tremor in his fingers betrayed that he was just as nervous as you were.
He stood beside you with his shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the floor as if he found it impossible to look up at any of those images. His jaw remained tense.
When the specialist told you to lie down on the examination table, you obeyed with slow movements. You lifted the fabric of your clothes just enough to expose your abdomen.
Moments later, the contact of the cold gel on your skin drew a small, involuntary grimace from you. A shiver ran through your entire body.
Without realizing it, you squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter, and he reacted almost reflexively, interlacing his fingers with yours and holding them firmly.
The careful squeeze of his hand was enough to make you understand that, even though he was still emotionally lost and the words remained stuck in some corner of his chest, he had decided to stay with you until he knew the answer.
The room was enveloped in an expectant silence.
The doctor moved the transducer calmly over your abdomen while watching the screen in front of her intently.
To you, that mass of shadows made no sense at all.
To her, every little change seemed to say a lot.
You felt your breathing start to quicken, and Bucky noticed it instantly.
Without taking his eyes off the monitor, his thumb began to slide slowly across the back of your hand—an almost automatic movement that he probably wasn’t even aware he was making.
It was strange and overwhelming for him.
A man who had survived wars, experiments, and decades of violence was completely defenseless in front of an ultrasound screen.
The doctor remained silent for a few more seconds, and your imagination began to fill in the blanks.
Maybe the test had failed after all.
Maybe your period was just coming soon.
Maybe...
“There it is.”
Her voice interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts.
She pointed to a tiny dot on the screen.
“It’s still very early, but we can see the gestational sac.”
You felt the air leave your lungs.
It wasn’t a mistake.
It wasn’t a false positive.
It was real.
Your eyes remained fixed on that tiny image, trying to understand how something so small could change two people’s lives so completely.
Bucky’s hand tightened around yours.
He didn’t say anything and didn’t even blink; he seemed to be holding his breath.
His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, as if trying to memorize every shadow despite not fully understanding them.
The doctor continued explaining a few things about the estimated gestational age, prenatal vitamins, and the tests that would be advisable to perform over the next few weeks.
Her voice reached you like a distant murmur. Neither of you seemed to be processing much; you just nodded.
At one point, the specialist smiled kindly, already accustomed to all kinds of reactions to this news.
“Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”
You turned your head toward Bucky, who remained completely still.
His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but for the first time since they’d entered the office, he seemed to lose control of his expression.
He looked completely vulnerable.
And, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head before closing his eyes for a moment.
It wasn’t a “no.” It was someone trying to muster enough courage for something he couldn’t bring himself to say because of the weight of the moment and his fear.
“We… We need to talk about this first,” you murmured, your voice strained by the wave of emotions.
The doctor nodded understandingly, printed out some images, and began wiping the gel from your abdomen before walking over to Bucky’s side, where her desk was.
“It seems to be developing as expected for the sixth week,” she explained calmly. “We’ll schedule another checkup in a few weeks and proceed according to your decision.”
You nodded automatically and slowly sat up on the stretcher.
Bucky remained seated where he was, staring at one of the photographs the doctor had just placed on the desk. He seemed unable to take his eyes off that small gray smudge.
Finally, he stood up and slowly let go of your hand to pick up the image between his fingers with an almost absurd delicacy, as if he were afraid of breaking it. He looked at it for a long moment before carefully putting it away in the folder the doctor had given them along with all sorts of recommendations and informational brochures.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't ask any questions.
He just stayed by your side, supporting you when it seemed like the strength in your legs was about to give out.
☆
The days that followed weren't easy.
Both of you tried to cling to a routine that no longer felt entirely your own, as if pretending nothing had changed might delay the moment of facing reality.
You made a conscious effort to carry on with your usual life. You went to work, tidied the apartment, read, replied to messages, and tried to fill every minute with some activity that would keep your mind occupied. There were moments when you even succeeded. For a couple of hours, you forgot the constant fear that had settled in your chest, the uncertainty about the future, and the enormous decision that was still waiting for you.
But those moments of calm never lasted long; something always came along to bring you back to reality, and anxiety would wash over you like a wave.
Things didn’t seem any easier for Bucky either.
He kept taking on missions with Sam, though not as often as before. He started turning down smaller jobs and heading back to the apartment as soon as operations were over.
He didn’t say why—and probably never would—but it was clear he wanted to be close to you, even if he still didn’t know how to be there for you.
Many times he would sit on the couch while you read in silence. Other times you simply shared the same space without exchanging more than a few words, finding a strange sense of calm in each other’s mere presence.
It was his way of saying he was still there.
There were days when the tension seemed to grant you a respite, and you looked like yourselves again.
You’d curl up on the couch under a blanket to watch a movie neither of you paid much attention to, sharing a bowl of popcorn while Bucky complained about the main character and you ended up laughing at his comments.
Other afternoons, you’d cook together. He would chop vegetables with precision while you tried to steal a piece of carrot from him before it made it into the pan, causing him to shake his head and hide a barely perceptible smile before kissing your forehead.
They even resumed their habit of going for walks around the city. They wandered through familiar streets, small cafes, and parks where time seemed to move more slowly.
For a few hours, they managed to forget... Or at least pretend they did.
But the subject of the baby always found a way to come back.
It would surface when you caught yourself imagining how his life would change if you decided to continue with the pregnancy. When you wondered if Bucky could ever feel happy with that possibility. If the two of you could truly become a family.
It also came up during those walks when you passed a pregnant woman absentmindedly stroking her belly, a father pushing a stroller while a baby slept peacefully inside, or a little hand clutching its mother’s tightly as they crossed the street.
Then your steps would slow, your gaze would linger a few seconds longer, and the weight would settle back onto your shoulders.
Bucky never made any comments or asked what you were thinking, but he always noticed the change. He saw how your smile faded little by little, how your fingers unconsciously sought to rest on your abdomen, and how the sparkle in your eyes dimmed.
He could only walk beside you, keeping silent as he felt that familiar tightness settle in his chest.
The words remained trapped inside him.
He had learned to survive without uttering a single word for far too many years, and now, when he needed them most, they wouldn’t come out either.
The nights were the worst.
There were times when the weight of the decision would end up crushing you.
You’d wait until you were sure Bucky was breathing deeply before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving behind the warmth of the sheets and the arms that, even in his sleep, seemed to reach out for you.
Silently, you walked with the folder in your hands to the dining room and opened it once more to reread every brochure and recommendation with obsessive attention.
You read about prenatal vitamins, nutrition, hormonal changes, and medical checkups. Then you turned to the pages that talked about abortion clinics and the procedure.
You set them aside and always ended up doing the same thing: you held the ultrasound photo between your fingers.
The corners were slightly bent, and the paper had lost some of its stiffness from all the times you’d held it in the early hours of the morning.
You slipped out of bed again and again to look at that blurry image where you could barely make out a tiny white dot.
That was all.
A tiny speck.
And yet, it already occupied every corner of your mind.
What you didn’t know was that those worn corners weren’t just your fault.
Many nights, when he woke up and found your spot empty, Bucky would wait a few minutes before getting up and finding you sitting at the table.
He didn’t interrupt.
He simply returned silently to the bedroom, and when you finally fell back asleep, he was the one who left.
He stood in front of the open folder for minutes, sometimes for over an hour, staring at the same photograph without moving, feeling a fear and vulnerability that were completely foreign to him.
A silent terror that no mission, no battlefield, and no enemy had ever managed to awaken in him.
He never told you that he also looked at that ultrasound.
He never confessed that he already had it etched in his memory.
You sighed softly as you held it between your fingers. With the tip of your index finger, you slowly traced the tiny, barely visible figure on the paper.
According to one of the posters in the doctor’s office, when you found out, it was the size of a lentil. Now it was close to the size of a cherry.
It was a tiny difference, and yet, to you, it meant that time was still moving forward.
For days you’d tried to imagine every possible scenario and had made mental lists, thinking about work, money, the future, fear, Bucky, and yourself.
You’d tried to make a decision based solely on reason, but, for the first time since it all began, you stopped trying to convince yourself of an answer and simply listened to the silence.
Slowly, you brought your hand to your belly, which was still flat. Yet you felt a twinge in your chest at the thought of it being empty by your own choice.
You closed your eyes as you realized that the fear was still there, but it was no longer fear that was guiding your thoughts.
It was something else.
A small, fragile, and hard-to-explain feeling that had been growing almost without your noticing over those days.
It was hope.
Your lips trembled before forming a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and tears slowly rolled down your cheeks.
They weren’t tears of anguish.
Not entirely.
They were the silent relief of someone who, after weeks of doubt, had finally found an answer.
“I want to get to know you…” you whispered, your voice breaking.
The decision was made.
The fear hadn’t disappeared; it had simply stopped being greater than love.
☆
When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the bedroom curtains, drawing golden lines across the rumpled sheets, you slowly opened your eyes.
The first thing you saw was Bucky, who was already awake.
He lay on his side, his metal arm resting on the mattress and his elbow bent to support his head in the palm of his hand. He’d been watching you in silence for who knows how long, with that almost hypnotic calm and intensity so characteristic of him, as if while you slept he were trying to read all the thoughts you were never able to put into words.
You blinked a couple of times before letting out a sleepy sigh.
The sound snapped him out of his own thoughts, and his lips curved into a faint, discreet smile—so small that anyone could have easily missed it.
“Good morning, sweetheart…” he murmured in his deep, hoarse voice.
He leaned slowly toward you. First he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another at the corner of your lips, and finally a slow, gentle kiss on your mouth.
“Good morning, Buck…” you replied, your voice barely audible against his lips.
For a few moments, everything seemed to return to normal.
It was the same tranquility as any Sunday morning. Those mornings when neither of you was in a hurry to get up and you could spend an hour or even two under the sheets, embracing without saying much, stroking each other’s hair, sharing absent-minded kisses, or simply enjoying each other’s warmth while the world kept moving on outside the windows.
A sanctuary that had always belonged only to the two of you.
But something in your expression made him slowly step back to get a full view of your face. His blue eyes scanned every inch of your face, searching for that look he knew so well.
It was the look you had when you’d already made a decision and were gathering the courage to say it.
The faint trace of his smile vanished.
The silence in the bedroom was broken only by the distant traffic beginning to fill the streets and the soft rustle of the sheets as you slowly sat up. Bucky did the same.
“I know what I want to do…” Your voice came out almost as a whisper.
Bucky barely looked up, and there was something in his expression that broke your heart. He looked like a wounded animal trying to stay still so no one would notice how much pain he was in.
Your fingers sought his, and you wanted to intertwine them as you had so many times before, but he remained still, his hand unmoving.
You took a deep breath and spoke.
“I want to continue with the pregnancy.”
Your words came out soft, firm, and without hesitation, and yet they seemed to strike the air with impossible force.
Bucky remained completely still.
He didn’t respond.
He didn’t pull his hand away.
His expression didn’t change.
He simply sat there in front of you, watching you as if he needed several seconds to grasp the meaning of those five words.
Then he slowly lowered his head, and his lips parted slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again, and only a muffled sound escaped.
His throat moved with difficulty as he swallowed, and his chest began to rise with deeper breaths than usual.
Fear had suddenly taken hold of his entire body.
It wasn’t fear of the baby or of the decision you’d made. Because during those days, as he walked with you through the city or lay awake staring at the ultrasound in the middle of the night, he’d discovered a truth he’d never wanted to admit.
He wanted to be a father with you and no one else.
He wanted that pregnancy to continue.
He wanted it more than he ever thought possible.
He wanted to meet that little life.
He wanted to hear that tiny heartbeat at the next appointment.
He wanted to be with you as your belly grew little by little.
He wanted to hold your hand during every checkup and for the rest of his life.
He wanted to try to be better for you and for that little boy or girl.
He had even caught himself imagining a messy room with toys on the floor, little footsteps running through the apartment, and a tiny voice calling them “Mom and Dad” while they both laughed as they prepared dinner.
He had allowed himself to imagine a home.
And that was precisely why the fear was unbearable. He had never longed for anything so intensely since regaining his freedom, and he had never felt such terror at the thought of not being up to the task.
The questions began to crowd his mind, giving him no respite.
What if he didn’t know how to be a father?
What if he wasn’t truly free and one day lost control?
What if his past caught up with them?
What if she deserved a simple life, far from someone like him?
What if her children deserved a different father?
He looked down at his own hands—the flesh-and-blood one and the vibranium one—and studied them as if seeing them for the first time.
He remembered the wars, the orders, the HYDRA labs, the lives he had taken, and the names he could never forget.
When his gaze settled on the gleam of the dark, golden metal, all he could think of was the gray metal with the red star. An unbearable shame squeezed his chest.
How could he imagine holding a newborn with hands that had been used to kill for so long?
How could someone who still woke up some nights convinced he was still a weapon promise protection?
The weight of each of his thoughts kept him frozen and unable to speak—that was why he was silent. It wasn’t because he rejected your decision, but because he accepted it so deeply that fear had left him speechless.
He only returned to reality when he felt your trembling hands encircling his face with infinite tenderness. As he looked up, seeing the tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks, something inside him snapped, and an unbearable pressure squeezed his chest.
His silence had lasted so long that you began to interpret that absence of words in the worst possible way. You thought he didn’t agree with your decision, that he could never accept that future... That, sooner or later, you would both end up going your separate ways.
That possibility, reflected in the pain in your eyes, was infinitely more terrifying to Bucky than any of the ghosts he carried with him.
For a moment, all the ghosts of his past fell silent.
Now there was only you, crying in front of him, thinking you were going to lose him.
His breath caught.
He raised a hand with obvious hesitation, as if even that gesture cost him an enormous effort, and ended up covering one of yours that you were holding against his cheek.
His fingers held you with desperate strength, as if he feared you were going to pull it away.
He slowly shook his head.
He tried to speak, but his throat kept closing up long before he could utter a single word.
The inability to speak made him feel more helpless than any enemy he had ever faced.
“No…” he finally managed to say, his voice breaking.
He swallowed with difficulty and looked down for just a second before meeting your gaze again.
“Don’t think that.”
His thumb began to absentmindedly stroke the back of your hand. It was a clumsy, instinctive movement, the same one he made every time he tried to calm you down without finding the right words.
“I don’t want… you to leave.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want the same thing you do…”
That confession was so quiet it was almost lost amid the noise from outside.
“I’m scared. Really scared.”
He said it plainly, without trying to hide it; it was a brutal honesty that he was finally letting out into the open.
Bucky looked so fragile and vulnerable, until he finally broke down.
His eyes had filled with tears without warning, and a sob welled up from deep within his chest.
His hands wrapped tightly around your waist—but without choking you—as he did his best not to cry like a little child on your shoulder.
You didn’t hesitate for a second to cling to his body as you let yourself cry after all the fear and anxiety that was beginning to dissipate. You could finally feel relief knowing you wouldn’t be alone.
Bucky let out a brief, bitter laugh, filled with disbelief in himself, and shook his head.
“I’ve been imagining it for days,” he confessed, almost ashamed, his voice breaking slightly. “I see you walking around the apartment with the baby in your arms.”
For the first time, a tiny smile appeared on your face through your tears as you heard him.
Bucky looked up fully. His eyes were glistening with small, unshed tears, and there was an obvious, immense fear, but there was also a certainty he was finally ready to voice.
“I want to meet our little one.”
The words hung between you.
Bucky seemed surprised to have said it out loud and without trembling, as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.
“I want to hear his heartbeat at the next appointment.” His lips trembled as a smile full of emotion appeared on his face. “I want to watch him grow…”
His gaze slowly drifted down to your still-flat abdomen, and with reverent slowness, he brought his vibranium hand to rest upon it. The tremor running through his fingers was entirely human.
“And I want to be there when the baby is born.” His voice broke again. “I want to hold him.”
He fell silent for a few seconds to compose himself.
“I still think you deserve better than me.” He admitted in a whisper.
You shook your head quickly. You searched desperately for his gaze as one of your hands reached out to touch his face again, but his metallic fingers gently caught your hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.
“I’ll probably think that for a while,” he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you both deserve.”
You threw yourself at him without thinking, and Bucky barely had time to react before wrapping both arms around you with absolute firmness. You buried your face in his shoulder while he buried his in your hair.
They stayed like that for several long minutes.
Without speaking.
Without moving.
The future remained uncertain, but for the first time since that positive test forgotten in your drawer, the two of you stopped facing it alone.
They would face it together.
And for someone like Bucky, who clung to the idea of not making grand promises and was used to showing love through presence rather than words, standing there, holding you as if he wanted to protect you from the whole world, was the most sincere way of saying that he had chosen to stay with you.
pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x bakers daughter!reader
summary: james buchanan barnes has been a thorn in your side ever since you moved to brooklyn when you were eight. you refuse to let your guard down, no matter how much his stupid good looks & incessant flirting tear at your defences
warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, flirty!bucky, stubborn!reader, slow burn, teasing, overuse of 40s slang, lots of dialogue, probs not canon compliant, bucky is a ladies man 🙂↕️, 'doll' used a lot, reader wears a dress & heels, lil bit o' jealously, bucky is down bad, suggestive content at end, heavy making out, dry humping, not beta read, barely proofread, no use of y/n
word count: 7.8k
authors note: this one's for @phoenix-in-writing and my flirty 40s bucky peeps 🫶 post covid low has me doubting everythingggg, but i managed to birth this baby. i'm fragile so pls be kind. 40s slang meanings: necking - making out; cheesed off - annoyed; bird-dogging - trying to steal someone else's date/romantic partner.
song inspo: beware.. the south london lover boy. - raye
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, letter dividers by @/httpssturns
He's just so charismatic
And he talks as if he's doing road
And he says, "I'm too toxic for you, darling,
but when we kiss, it feels like home"
A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.
A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."
The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.
You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.
"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.
You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.
"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.
The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.
"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."
"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.
James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.
"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."
You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.
His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."
You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.
"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.
James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."
The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?
"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."
"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."
James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.
"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”
His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.
His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.
"As long as I'm your pest."
All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.
You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.
The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.
"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"
James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.
Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.
Fifteen Years Earlier
The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.
You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.
Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.
"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.
Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.
"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"
The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.
"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.
"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?
"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.
"I won't forget this, James."
When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.
One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.
It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.
Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.
"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.
"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.
You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.
Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."
"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.
"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."
A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.
Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.
"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.
"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.
She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"
Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.
You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."
Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"
Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?
"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.
Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.
"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.
What the hell was that?
You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.
The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.
"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.
"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.
"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."
"I know."
You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"
He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."
You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."
He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"
"Unwillingly."
He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.
"She was just practice."
Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."
You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."
He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.
He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"
Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.
"I'm right where I want to be."
His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.
A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.
"Look at the mess you've made, doll."
Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.
His lips are so pink.
He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.
"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.
His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.
James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.
"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."
He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.
The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.
Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?
The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.
Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.
James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.
"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."
"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.
You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.
You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."
"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."
James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.
You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."
He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.
"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.
You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.
"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.
The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.
You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.
"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.
"Again, it's none of your business."
"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.
You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."
He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.
"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.
"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.
His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"
You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."
James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."
He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."
You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"
Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.
"No, he was boring."
His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.
Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.
"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.
He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.
"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.
You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.
Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.
This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.
You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.
"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."
His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.
He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.
He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.
"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.
You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.
"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.
He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."
You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.
"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.
He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.
You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."
His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"
You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.
James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.
"Keeping you safe."
A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.
He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?
"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."
A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."
He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."
You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.
"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.
You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.
"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."
His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."
You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."
You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."
"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."
You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.
The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.
Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.
"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.
You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.
"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.
"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."
You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?
He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.
"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.
You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?
He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."
You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"
He shrugged again. "'Cause."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.
You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.
"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.
You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."
"I mean it when I say it to you."
You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.
"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.
You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.
He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."
Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?
He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.
God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.
"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"
There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.
"…What?"
He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."
A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."
He took another small step forward. "I do."
You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."
You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.
He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.
"Just—listen to me."
You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"
He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.
You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.
"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.
"What?"
"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.
He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.
"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."
Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.
"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.
You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."
"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."
You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.
"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.
His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
"You've never called me that before."
Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.
His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.
He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.
"Kissin' you feels like home."
A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.
"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.
"Taste sweet, too."
Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.
"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.
He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."
He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.
You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.
James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.
"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."
pairing: scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon bordering noncon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking
word count: 11.3k
main masterlist
a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight ♥️
synopsis:
You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”
If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”
If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.
Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.
From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.
No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.
“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.
He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.
There was no sound.
Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.
After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.
There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.
He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.
You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.
“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”
He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.
“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.
When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”
You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.
He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?
Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.
After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.
Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”
Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.
“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”
You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.
“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.
Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”
He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”
“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”
Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.
“You mean the books?”
You nodded.
He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”
“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.
Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”
Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.
“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.
“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”
Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.
Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.
“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”
“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”
He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”
“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?
He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.
“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”
You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.
“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”
That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”
You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.
Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.
He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.
“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”
You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.
When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.
But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.
A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.
He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.
“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.
But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.
“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”
Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?
“No,” you protested weakly.
Bucky tilted his head. “No?”
You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”
Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”
When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.
You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.
“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”
Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.
But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.
Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.
“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”
You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”
“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”
“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”
He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.
Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.
“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.
He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.
“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”
With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”
He wasn’t leaving.
He was going to fix you.
You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.
Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.
“Lay down, doll.”
The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.
You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.
“Easy, doll. Easy.”
A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.
He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.
Which… in a way, you had.
Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.
“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”
You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.
“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.
Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.
“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”
You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”
Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.
“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”
You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.
“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.
“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”
You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.
Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.
His mind was always on you.
His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.
“Woah, easy there, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.
“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”
Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”
Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”
Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.
“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”
Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”
Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”
Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.
“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”
A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.
It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.
Christ, you were probably starving.
He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.
You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.
He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.
Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.
His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.
“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”
The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.
“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.
“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.
Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.
So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?
“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”
Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”
Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.
“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”
Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”
“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”
Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.
“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”
“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”
Steve let out a long breath.
He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.
“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”
“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.
He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.
“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”
It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.
The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?
The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.
Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.
But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.
You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.
“Bucky! You’re back, I—”
You stopped.
The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.
Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.
“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”
The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.
Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.
“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”
“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”
You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”
He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.
You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.
“Not poisoned. Trust me.”
He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.
After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.
Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.
Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.
As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.
You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.
It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.
“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”
He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.
“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.
“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”
You stayed silent.
“Have you ever been outside this room?”
Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.
“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”
With each word, he moved closer.
Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.
He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.
“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”
He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.
“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.
“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”
Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.
Ah. There it was.
That was how he could get through to you.
Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.
“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”
You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.
That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.
“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”
You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.
To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.
The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.
Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.
“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.
“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.
That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.
“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.
He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.
His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.
You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.
“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”
As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.
You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.
Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.
“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”
You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.
“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”
“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.
“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”
The air left Steve's lungs.
His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.
Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.
“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Did he rape you?”
Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.
But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“What does that mean?”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.
“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”
The door shut quickly as he left.
But the lock didn’t click.
The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.
Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.
You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.
It looked like an obstacle.
You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.
The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.
You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.
Then, a shadow fell over you.
“Going somewhere?”
You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”
The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.
His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.
“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”
He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.
He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”
“I just wanted to see—”
“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”
“No, Bucky, I—”
“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”
You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.
“No one saw me—”
“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.
When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.
“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”
He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.
“You did this to yourself, darling.”
You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”
“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”
You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.
“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”
Bucky didn’t move.
The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.
“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”
“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”
Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.
“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”
Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.
Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.
The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.
“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.
“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”
He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”
The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.
“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”
Another whack.
“Ow!”
“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”
Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.
He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.
With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”
He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”
Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”
Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.
Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.
But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.
“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”
He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.
“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”
Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.
You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.
“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”
Bucky hummed in approval.
He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.
He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.
Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.
You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”
His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.
“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”
You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.
“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”
“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”
One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.
Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.
The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.
The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.
“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”
He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.
You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.
You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.
“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”
Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.
His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.
“Oh—my!”
The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.
He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.
“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”
His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.
“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”
He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.
“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”
You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.
The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.
Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”
Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.
He loved you.
Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.
“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”
Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”
He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.
“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”
He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”
You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.
“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.
Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.
It was hot. It was too much.
He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like a clock.
Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.
“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”
The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.
Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.
You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.
Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.
“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”
Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.
“Morning,” he rasped.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”
He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”
And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.
But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.
The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.
Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.
“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”
“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.
He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”
The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.
“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”
Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.
Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.
“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.
“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”
Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.
All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.
“Bucky—”
Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.
He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.
“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”
The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.
“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.
“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”
Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.
As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.
He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.
“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”
Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.
Was this all your fault?
Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?
“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”
All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.
“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”
Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.
Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.
You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.
With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.
Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”
And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.
The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.
Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.
“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.
His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.
Bucky hated it.
The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.
“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”
Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.
“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”
Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.
“What was she to you?”
Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.
“Did you love her?”
Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.
“More than anything,” Bucky replied.
He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.
Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.
It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.
He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?
He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.
He’d find you.
It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”
The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.
“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”
For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.
Insane?
What kind of question was that?
“No.”
anyway how writing this fic found me
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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special: thank you bri for being my number one fan. she really do be thatonefangirl @iamthatonefangirl
tldr; imagine bucky’s got a girlfriend, and she’s perfect. sweet, cheerful, kind, thoughtful, pretty in a way that makes people pause when she walks by. she never lets him leave without a kiss goodbye. she’s there with a shoulder to lean on when he’s bone-tired. she always chases away the ghosts of his past when they come to visit. and she does it all without complaint or expectations. she’s the softness that’s been missing from bucky’s broken life.
after weeks of hiding out in the eastern bloc for some ambiguous mission valentina wanted done, bucky returns home to her with heavy footsteps and a heavier heart.
she knows what these missions do to him, so she does all she can to ease him out of it. she makes his favorite dinner. she closes the curtains against the noise and lights of the city. she puts on a record from his collection that fills the home with sweet crooning. when bucky walks through the door, it’s the paradise he’s been waiting for.
and later, when he’s sunk down into the bed, and his beautiful, loving girlfriend is slowly revealing the lacey lingerie she put on just for him, he knows that he’s living a good life.
if only he could get you out of his head.
you — you are the opposite of his perfect girlfriend, and you’re all bucky ever thinks about. you, with your piercing eyes, your tense silences, your perpetual frowns. you walk out of the room when the laughter’s too loud, you give tight-lipped one-word answers until you physically can’t, you scan for threats and exits and potential weapons wherever you go.
where his girlfriend is soft, you are hard. where his girlfriend shines bright, you go dark. you are jaded, cold, unreachable.
and yet bucky wants you.
the guilt consumes him every second he’s with his girlfriend, but hurting her would be even worse. he tries his hardest to suppress the intrusive thoughts, but you’re as stubborn in his head as you are in person.
when his girlfriend climbs up his body, stroking him slowly before sinking down on him, he watches as her pretty lips part in ecstasy, eyes fluttering closed, breathy moans like ringing bells filling the room. and then he thinks of you.
he wonders if you’d make the same face while struggling to take him. or if you’d frown like you always do, brow furrowed in concentration because a tough thing like you would never back down from a challenge, no matter how big he is and how tight you are. something in his brain tells him you wouldn’t make a noise, biting your lip and refusing to moan — but he’d try like hell to get you to.
as his girlfriend sets a steady pace, caressing his chest and promising how good it feels, he thinks about you on top of him. he thinks you’d claw at his skin. slam your hips into his. grab his jaw and hold it how you want. you’d look deep into his eyes and make sure he feels everything he’s making you feel, because you’re nothing if not retributive. you’d bite your lip to suppress the whimper when he takes a chance and thrusts up into you, feeling every tight crevice you allow him to sink into. your eyes would roll back, but you’d keep going, determined, relentless, committed to the mission of getting off on his cock.
bucky’s girlfriend places his hand over her breast, and he squeezes instinctively. she mewls but he barely hears it, hips rocking up to meet hers while he imagines you loose and pliant above him, moving every which way you decide. when you want to grind into him, you do. when you want to fuck him hard and fast, you do. when you want to stop for air but clench around him, you do. you do what you want and whenever you want anyway, why should fucking him be any different?
he’ll try holding you down, big palms eclipsing your waist, gripping as tight as he can because the thought of letting you go might be worse than a thousand falls from the train. he doesn’t care if you glare or hiss or pull at his hands, he’ll keep them there and watch the fire growing in your eyes as you pick up speed.
his girlfriend sighs as she leans down to kiss him. his lips move vaguely, without purpose, against hers, but she doesn’t seem to notice, her hips drawing a figure eight on top of him, rhythmic and sensual. he wants more, but he doesn’t say anything, afraid to spoil the purity of her love with a depraved ask borne from an imaginary tryst with another woman.
god he’s so fucked up.
just like you. your bloody past haunts you as much as his does to him. but instead of running from the darkness like he tries to, you embrace it. maybe you even welcome it. bucky’s sure it comes out in the way you fuck, and he wants to know what it’s like very, very badly.
even with your incessant need for control of the situation, he thinks you’d let him flip you over without argument. on your back, yanked to the edge of the bed, because he wants you as close as possible and unable to crawl away, he wants to see every detail of your face when he pushes into you over and over, faster, harder, deeper. he’ll fuck you until you can’t contain the noises anymore and cry out for him, breaking apart with his name on your lips and finally, finally showing him vulnerability. he wants to earn it by making you shatter. he wants you to trust that he’s the only person that can make you see god and feel entirely human at the same time. he wants you to look up at him, breathless with your legs wrapped around his waist, and beg for more. he wants you to—
“baby? where’d you go?” his girlfriend whispers, slowing to a stop on top of him. her beautiful face is lined with concern. she has no idea where his mind has been.
bucky’s cock twitches inside of her, the last images of you dissolving into thin air. he exhales shakily, fingers pressing into her skin while he remembers where he is, who he’s with, what he risks losing if he doesn’t try to be a better man like he promised he would be.
“i’m here,” he mumbles, pushing up to kiss her throat. she melts immediately, but there’s still worry in her voice.
“are you sure? are you hurt?”
his heart hurts, but that’s his own damn fault.
“no, just…just tired. i’m sorry, sweetheart. you’re perfect. this is perfect. you feel amazing.”
she purrs as his mouth makes a line down her chest and captures a nipple. she arches into him, fingers winding through his hair and tugging (but not hard enough). he sucks and nips and wills the feelings of emptiness away.
“love you,” he murmurs against her skin. he ignores the angry loud voice in the back of his head.
“love you,” she gasps, rocking into him again. he winds his arms around her and thrusts up in time with her breaths, slow and sweet. she comes with a soft whimper, fluttering around him delicately. bucky lets her catch her breath as she drapes herself over him, trying not to think about how you probably come with everything you have, raw and heavy and messy and powerful.
“so good,” she slurs, lips peppering his shoulder. then they find his ear. “are you close?”
bucky grunts, rocking faster but not harder, shallow thrusts that stimulate just enough without growing rougher. he’s panting when he comes with drawn out groan, brain fuzzy and glitching as he watches his girlfriend turn into you and then back to his girlfriend. he closes his eyes and kisses her before he says something stupid, feeling his fingers twitch on her skin as if they’re dying to press harder, to make it hurt, to make her feel what he’s feeling.
she doesn’t deserve that, but you might.
his girlfriend sighs dreamily as his body relaxes again, trembling through the come down and something heavier. “missed you.”
two words he doesn’t deserve to hear.
“i missed you, too, sweetheart.”
guess i can only make bucky shitty lately. hey siri am i okay?
also i promise i will get the taglist going for my next real fic, i was too lazy to do it for whatever this garbage is. masterlist here if you wanna read more!🤍
read part 2 here
Prompt: After receiving very exciting news about his summer internship, Bucky convinces you to spend one weekend with him at the family cabin, where a fragile attempt at normalcy crumbles into a mess of tangled hearts.
Pairing: Brother!Bucky Barnes x Older Sister!Reader
Word count: 11.4k
Warnings: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); incest; siblingcest (brother/sister); age gap (reader is 4 years older than Bucky, both are over 18+); inexperienced Bucky Barnes; pining; unresolved emotional tension; smut; mutual masturbation; dirty talk; pussy pronouns; heavy kissing/making out; aftercare; shower sex; fingering; p in v; unprotected sex (reader & bucky talk about it); praise kink (brief); sex is interrupted by feelings; hurt with not a lot of comfort (for the ending of the chapter only); Space CutieS! Bucky is a space nerd, reader is also a space nerd; no use of Y/N; not beta'd
Notes: well, where do i even start?? it has been a while since i posted a chapter for space cuties! real life was kicking my ass for quite a while, and i also made this chapter about twice the size of my previous chapters, which made me take much longer to get it finished. i feel like i might have rushed the ending a little bit, but overall, i am very proud of how this one turned out. i have so many ideas still blooming for these two and i cannot wait for you to see what's in store for bucky & his sis 💕💕
as always dividers by me. reminder to not read unless you are comfortable with the tagged themes !!
A random Thursday afternoon while Bucky is supposed to be studying for his astrophysics midterm is the moment the universe chooses to turn his world upside down. Sprawled across his bed under the glowing galaxy ceiling, laptop balanced on his stomach, he’s half mindedly scrolling through notes about epicycles and galaxy relaxation when the notification for a new email shows up on the corner of the screen.
Johnson Space Center.
Subject: NASA Pathways Internship Offer - Summer 2026
There’s a real chance that his heart stops beating for a full five seconds before it goes back to beating, albeit completely out of sync. His fingers are quick to slide across the keyboard, open the email and just as quickly he’s reading the first paragraph.
Accepted to the NASA Pathways Engineering internship. June through August. Houston. Housing provided. Fully funded. Chance to shadow the Orion program.
His dream, described right there in a long email with details he can’t read when the words begin to blur. The one you planted in him when he was six and you were ten, lying on a blanket in the backyard with that cheap telescope between you. One he’s chased through every late night study session, every rocket model launch in the driveway of your parents home, every school essay that mentioned “the big sister who showed me the stars”.
Bucky should be ecstatic. Maybe yelling, calling Mom and Dad, texting Steve, maybe doing one of those stupid victory dances he used to do when he finally solved a physics problem you’d been helping him with when he was younger.
Instead he just sits there, staring at the screen until words stop making sense, because all he can think about is the fact that Houston is thousands of miles away, and you won’t be there.
Since the planetarium, the two of you have been closer than ever, in a way that feels all too vulnerable but nonetheless unavoidable.
Late night texts started again, him sending a blurry photo of the moon from his bedroom at 2.a.m., captioned “made me think of you”, and you replying with a voice note whispering about the history of some craters’ names. Every time the messages stretched longer, silences between them shorter. You’d catch yourself smiling at your phone in the dark, heart thudding when his typing bubble appeared, knowing he was lying in this starry bedroom thinking about you the way you were thinking about him. Not in a friendly, sibling way; rather, in the way you think about your first school crush, about your first love that is engraved into your bones and that you remember until your deathbed.
Sometimes you’d go for walks after work, bundled up against the February cold, boots crunching over salted sidewalks while he told you about his latest orbital mechanics problem. Other times you’d have lunch together, whenever you had a break long enough to leave the city and visit him for some quick sandwiches at the local café. There were knees brushing under the tiny table, both of you pretending not to notice the way the contact always lingered a second too long.
What you haven’t done since the planetarium is share a bed. Not once, not even for a quick afternoon nap. Neither of you tried anything, neither of you promised to stop, either, but the memory lived in your blood, and his, like oxygen now. You feel it every time you hug him goodbye, his arms wrapping around you a fraction tighter than they should, chin resting on your head just long enough for you to feel his heartbeat through his shirt. At your parents’ house, you catch him staring every dinner across the table, blue eyes a little too dark before he blinks and looks away once he realizes he’s been caught. All the thoughts of his thigh pressed between yours, the way he whispered “my moon” against your mouth like a prayer and a confession all at once.
Once more, you are both trying to keep a wall up, even if you don’t verbalize it. Try to keep conversations safe, you laugh at his dumb jokes and ruffle his hair like the big sister you’re supposed to be. He calls you ‘sis’ in front of your parents, and keeps his hands in his pockets when you walk side by side. But every second more you spend together, the harder it is to ignore the obvious. That afternoon at the planetarium didn’t help fix anything; it just made the ache deeper and impossible to outrun.
Now you catch yourself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him in the middle of a crowded sidewalk just to see if the world would actually end. And he catches himself reaching for your hand before remembering he’s not allowed to.
The Friday afternoon after he’s received the news, Bucky’s standing in your doorway with the printed NASA email burning a hole in his pocket. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, or maybe from nerves, but either way, when you open the door, he looks at you with those same wide blue eyes that used to stare up at you in wonder when you pointed out constellations.
“Hey, can I come in for a second?”
You step aside to let him into your apartment, and the moment the door clicks shut, he doesn’t sit down. Instead he stands there in the middle of your living room, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
“I have a surprise,” he starts. “but you can’t ask any questions about it. Yet, anyway.”
You raise an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest. “That’s kind of a weird way to start a conversation, Buck.”
A nervous smile tugs at his lips. “So, I asked Mom and Dad if I could have their cabin for this weekend. They said yes. I’d like us to go there together, just the two of us. We can leave right now, I have the car outside, and I can wait while you pack.”
The words make you stand there, staring at him, while you process the information. The cabin in the woods.
It’s the same old family cabin your parents have had since you were little, a small, cedar-shingled place tucked deep among the pines, with a big stone fireplace and a wide loft bedroom that overlooks the nearby lake. Every summer and many winter weekends when you were kids, the four of you would pile into the car with snacks and board games and drive up there for a few days. You and Bucky used to race each other down the narrow path to the dock, build snow forts in the backyard, and roast marshmallows until your fingers were sticky.
But what you both used to love most were the nights. There was almost no light pollution that far from the city and the sky would open up like someone had spilled diamonds across black velvet. You’d drag Bucky outside after dark, wrapped in blankets and wearing oversized coats, and lie on the old wooden deck, holding your tiny hands, staring up at the sky.
Now Bucky wants to take you back there, just the two of you, for an entire weekend. Memories flash in your mind even without you wanting them too: his hands on your waist under the Christmas tree, the way he trembled beneath you and the sounds he made when he came while still trying to name stars.
“Bucky…” Your voice comes out quieter than you want. “I don’t think spending a whole weekend alone at the cabin is a good idea. We’ve… been trying. You know that.”
“I know we’ve been trying. We don’t have to ruin that, I just… this is important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”
You hesitate, biting the inside of your cheek. The responsible part of your brain is screaming that this is dangerous. Two days in a secluded cabin with no parents and no easy escape, just the cold, and the fireplace, and every forbidden feeling you’ve been trying to bury.
“Bucky, I really think we should think about this…”
“Please.” His voice cracks on the word, in a way that makes your chest ache. “Please, sis. This means a lot to me.”
You can see how much this matters to him, even if you don’t know why yet. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, as he waits for your response. You simply let out a long breath. The love you’ve always felt for him, the safe sibling kind, twists painfully with something you’re terrified to name.
Finally, “Fine,” you say, words coming out softer than you intended, as if showing him that your ‘no’ was never going to hold up anyway. “I’ll go, but only if I drive.”
Bucky blinks, surprise flickering across his features before a little relieved laugh escapes him.
“You don’t trust me on long drives?” he asks, familiar teasing tone creeping back in even though his eyes are still shiny with emotion.
“I’ve seen how you drive when you’re excited about something. Last time you almost hit a mailbox because you were telling me about some new exoplanet discovery. I’m not risking my life just because my little brother gets starry-eyed behind the wheel.
He huffs a laugh, tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. “Fair. You can drive, and I’ll even let you pick the music.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re already turning toward your bedroom to start packing. As you throw clothes and toiletries into a bag, your hands shake slightly. You tell yourself it’s just the cold clinging to the apartment, but deep down, you know the truth: you’re not sure how many more times you can be alone with Bucky before things break apart for good.
The drive up to the cabin is a few hours of careful conversation, how your new exhibit is getting good reviews, his midterm grades, Mom’s last attempt at knitting him a scarf that ended up being way too short. You keep the topics safe, the kind of things siblings are supposed to talk about, while songs play on the radio, ones you both know. Bucky laughs in the right moments, but his fingers keep tapping restlessly against his thigh, and every so often you catch him glancing at you a little too long when he thinks you’re focused on the road.
The farther you drive, the more the trees grow thick, road narrower, until familiar landmarks begin appearing. The old wooden bridge over the creek, the rusted mailbox at the turnoff, the final winding dirt path that leads to the cabin.
When the truck finally crunches to a stop in front of the small cedar-shingled building, it looks pretty much the same as it always has. The late afternoon light filters through the tall pines, casting long shadows across the clearing. Air is cold and crisp, sharp enough to bite at your cheeks the moment you open the door, but there’s no fresh snow on the ground today, just a thin layer of frost clinging to the grass and the edges of the wooden porch. The lake behind the cabin is dark and still under the gray sky, thin mist hovering above the water and making the whole place feel secluded, like the rest of the world is very far away.
A few dried leaves skitter across the porch as you step out, and the familiar scent of pine and damp earth fills the air. Your parents must have come up a few days ago to turn on the heat and stock the fridge, because warm golden light already glows from the windows.
Bucky is already grabbing his and your bags from the back of the truck and heading toward the cabin, and you follow him up the creaky steps, finding the old brass key under a nearby pot, in the same place it always was. When you unlock the door, it swings open and you step inside, only to be wrapped by the warmth of the living room like a blanket. The place is exactly as you remember it: big stone fireplace with some wood ready to be lit, worn plaid couch facing the wide windows that look over the forest.
With a thud, Bucky sets the bags down near the couch and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little unsure in the quiet space.
“Still feels the same, doesn’t it?” he says softly.
You nod, shrugging off your coat and hanging it on the familiar hook by the door. Your fingers linger on the wood for a second, but you don’t say anything.
The kitchen is stocked with the usual supplies, like canned goods, some fresh vegetables (whoever stocked the wood surely brought that too), hot chocolate packets, the old red kettle ready to be put on the stove. Same old kitchen supplies, plates, cups. Everything unchanged, frozen in time, the way only childhood places can be.
But you and Bucky aren’t kids anymore. That realization settles heavy in your chest, and you stand there in the living room, cold air still clinging to your clothes even in the warmer inside of the cabin. This place holds too many innocent memories, and now the walls feel dangerously intimate, the quiet feeling too loud.
Bucky crosses the room to the stone fireplace and crouches down in front of the hearth. The wood is stacked and ready, so he simply strikes a match, small flame flaring bright for a second before he touches it to the kindling. It catches quickly, orange light flickering across his face as the fire begins to grow, crackling softly and filling the room with the comforting scent of burning wood. He stays crouched there for a moment, watching the flames take hold, shoulders still a little tense, before he glances back at you over his shoulder.
“I can make us some hot chocolate,” he offers quietly, voice gentle how you’ve always been used to.
Then he stands, brushes his hands on his jeans and heads toward the kitchen. You hear the familiar clink of the old kettle being filled at the sink, the click of the stove turning on. While the water heats, he pulls two mismatched mugs from the cupboard. In the living room, the fire grows stronger and the warmth slowly spreading chases away the last of the outdoor chill. You sink down onto the edge of the worn plaid couch, watching Bucky move around the kitchen with his usual slightly nervous energy.
A few minutes later he returns, carrying both mugs with an almost shy smile that sets your heart aflutter.
“Here,” he says, handing you the one mug with a chipping rocket pattern. “I managed to find some marshmallows, too.”
Gentle fingers brush his as you take the mug from him, and he sits down on the other end of the couch, not too close, but not as far as he probably should. Firelight dances across his face, highlighting the faint flush lingering on his cheeks.
“I missed this place,” he admits. “Being here with you. It’s been a while since we’ve been up here, with college and your work and everything.”
You take a slow sip of the hot chocolate, sweetness spreading across your tongue but doing nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.
“So… do you wanna tell me now why we came all the way up here?” You start, unsure whether he’s ready to finally talk about it. But he is. He sets his mug down on the coffee table, elbows restng on his knees as he leans forward slightly. Then he reaches for his pocket, grabs the piece of paper before sliding it to you, his expression a mix of excitement and fear.
“I got the internship,” he says, almost whispering it. “At the NASA Space Center in Houston. Three months this summer, and it might turn into something permanent after graduation.”
Pride blooms in your chest, overwhelming, thinking about the little boy who used to fall asleep to your stories about Apollo missions, all grown up now, telling you about how he’s taking his first step toward his life’s dream.
“Houston,” you repeat, his same excitement now mirrored in your voice. “Bucky, that’s… that’s everything you’ve always wanted. I’m so happy for you.”
He nods, but his smile is small and a little pained. “Yeah, it is. But it’s also seventeen hundred miles away from you.”
The fire continues to crackle, Bucky’s eyes stay locked on yours.
“That’s why I wanted us to come up here. Just needed this weekend with you before things change.”
You don’t know what to say. So instead, you reach out, your hand finding his on the couch between you and lace your fingers together without thinking, touch both familiar and dangerous. And as you sit there with your fingers intertwined, the truth settles over you like a second layer of skin.
Things had changed forever on Christmas Eve.
That night, when the mistletoe hung above your heads and Bucky’s lips had brushed the corner of your mouth, something inside both of you had cracked open with no magical glue to put it back together in sight. And later, in his starry bedroom, you had slept together, taken your little brother inside you, felt him tremble and whine and fall apart beneath you, and in doing so you had shattered every family boundary that was ever meant to exist. Blood, trust, innocence, all of it fractured in one stolen night. Whatever fire you lit that night had grown into something living and hungry, something you both tried to ignore but couldn’t extinguish.
Maybe the distance will be good, you think.
Houston is seventeen hundred miles away. Thousands of miles of highways and state lines and empty sky between you. Maybe that’s exactly what you both needed, space to breathe and remember how to be just siblings again, to let this forbidden fire cool and fade into something manageable. Three months apart could maybe be enough to soothe the ache, quiet the phantom feeling of his body against yours, let the guilt transform into something quieter than this constant, throbbing need.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Even as the thought forms, it feels like a lie.
Because sitting here with his hand in yours, firelight painting his face in soft gold, you can already feel the pull tightening instead of loosening. How are you supposed to welcome the distance when the thought of him seventeen hundred miles away makes your chest feel hollow?
You don’t ask Bucky, or yourself, those questions for the rest of the evening. It passes in gentle quiet, both of you managing to behave stupidly well for two siblings who have messed everything up twice already, in the most unexpected of settings. After finishing the hot chocolate, Bucky suggests making dinner together, and you agree, both of you moving around the small kitchen like you’ve done a hundred times before in your parents' home. You chop vegetables for soup, Bucky heats up some canned chili and toasts thick slices of bread. Conversation while you work stays safe, focused on more details about the internship, projects he might work on, and you listen with genuine pride blooming in your chest.
After dinner, you settle on the couch again, shoulders brushing as you watch the flames of the fireplace dance. Bucky’s hand finds yours once more, fingers lacing together without either of you commenting on it, because the touch remains innocent, just hands, just occasional glances that linger for a second too long but have no continuation beside that. Everything is nice, is soft. You feel like a kid again, just with a bigger heart now and a mind that won’t rest.
Until it’s time to go to bed.
The loft bedroom is the only real sleeping space; the one with the big quilt-covered bed and the wide window overlooking the lake. Neither of you suggests taking the couch, because at this point, it’d be a nonsensical inconvenience. It’s unspoken, but mutual: you’ll share the bed. Just like when you were kids and thunderstorms scared him.
You change into pajamas separately, you first in the small bathroom and then Bucky while you make your way to the bedroom, in your sleeping shorts and an oversized shirt, already setting up the pillows and setting some clothes from your bag in a nearby armchair. When he comes back, he’s wearing gray sweatpants and old NASA t-shirt that’s a little too tight across his shoulders now, because he’s starting to grow it out. Pretending you don’t notice the outline of his groin through his sleeping bottoms takes quite some effort; pretending you see it but it doesn’t make you want to drop to your knees is just a herculean task.
The bedroom is quiet, lit only by a small lamp on the nightstand and the faint silver glow of the moonlight reflecting off the lake through the window. You both slide under the heavy quilt of the very inviting bed, that feels just as warm as it looked from the outside. For a few minutes you’re quiet, the only sound being the distant hoot of an owl outside and the soft creak of the old wooden frame as you both settle. Then Bucky shifts again, inches a little closer to you, and his voice sounds hesitant in the dark.
“… Can I cuddle you?” he asks quietly. “Like we used to.”
Your heart stutters, but you try to not make anything of it. Just some cuddling under the covers, nothing else. You’re still siblings, you still care for each other.
“Yeah. Come here.”
He moves closer immediately, and you lay on your side as he slides one arm under your pillow and wraps the other around your waist from behind, pulling you gently back against his chest. It’s strange to you how clearly you can feel it, the way his chest is broader and firmer against your back, how his arm drapes heavily over your waist, how his legs are longer as they tuck behind yours. Back on Christmas Eve you had already noticed he’d filled out from college, but lying here like this, tucked securely inside the cage of his body, the change feels even more pronounced. For the first time, you feel smaller than him, even though you’re the older sibling.
It feels sweet and innocent for long enough. Like maybe you could fall asleep like this with no other thoughts propagating through the air of this bedroom.
That is, until you feel it.
Unmistakable, pressed against the curve of your ass through the fabric of his sweatpants, and already half-hard. Your muscles tense and Bucky freezes the second he realizes it’s because you can feel him, his breath catching sharply in his throat.
“Shit,” he whispers, genuinely mortified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I’m really not trying anything, I swear, I just can’t fucking help it.” He starts to pull away from you, embarrassed and awkward, the shy version of him you’ve always known front and center again. His arm loosens around your waist like he’s ready to scramble back to his side of the bed and apologize profusely for the rest of the night.
“Wait… Bucky,” you whisper, already reaching back to catch his wrist before he manages to retreat completely. “It’s okay, just… don’t pull back from me.”
Bucky doesn’t reply, just stays in the same place for a moment, breathing uneven. Even with him quiet, you can practically feel the war raging inside him; shame, desire, the desperate need to be close clashing violently with everything that is wrong about what you’ve done together.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, words coming out in a trembling tone. “Even when I try. I promise I keep trying, but I… being here, in this bed, it’s making it worse. I—” His words cut off midway, like he knows he’s about to say something he can’t take back and is not willing to let it settle into the spine of tonight just yet.
But after another long pause, your back still pressed to his chest, Bucky’s hesitant voice comes again.
“… Do you think we can do something? Not sex. I know we shouldn’t do that again. But…” he whispers. “… maybe we could just touch ourselves while we watch each other? That’s not as bad, right?”
The suggestion hangs in the dark between you, shocking in its vulnerability. His arm tightens slightly around your waist again, maybe like he’s afraid you’ll pull away in disgust, and his forehead drops against the back of your shoulder, hiding his face even though you can’t see it anyway.
“I just need some relief,” he continues. “Being this close to you is driving me crazy. And I don’t wanna ruin the weekend by pushing for more, I know we can’t, I know we shouldn’t, and… and you can say no, it’s fine, I can just go to the bathroom for a bit or something, maybe a cold shower can help…”
“Bucky.” Saying his name like an interruption whenever he begins rambling has become a habit. You don’t hate it that it has become that. He follows through with a self-deprecating little laugh.
You swallow hard, heart hammering against your ribs. Logically, you know this is a terrible idea. There’s little difference between having him inside of you or masturbating while watching each other, at least as far as family boundaries go. You shouldn’t do either. But some part of you (apparently, the part that’s winning over your brain every time you’re near Bucky these days) has been aching for weeks and still remembers exactly how he sounded when he was inside you. And that part wants more.
“… Okay. We can do that.”
Bucky lets out a stunned exhale, obviously not expecting you to agree to this.
“Really? You’re sure?”
His arm loosens around your waist just enough that you can turn to face him. The moonlight coming through the window paints his face in soft hues, and you know there’s just enough light for you to see each other’s faces and the slight flush of his cheeks.
Both your hands reach for the quilt and slowly push it down to your waists. Bucky hesitates for a long moment, so do you, but he’s the first to move, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs free, already full hard and flushed red at the tip, leaking heavily over his slit. One shaky hand wraps around the base, gripping himself tightly like he’s trying to keep some semblance of control even when he’s desperately spiraling in front of you.
You follow his lead with a shudder, sliding your sleeping shorts and panties down your thighs and kicking them off under the covers. Cool air kisses your heated skin as you spread your legs, and you bend one knee and fold it outward, opening yourself up completely to his gaze. The position exposes your cunt obscenely, showing how slick has already gathered heavily between your folds, making them glisten softly.
That whole imagery hits Bucky like a shot straight to his dick. He lets out a choked whimper.
“Oh my god… I wish you could see yourself,” he whispers, and you swear you almost see his cock twitch in his hand. “So wet. She’s so pretty like that.”
His hand starts moving slowly, long strokes from the soft hair at the base to the tip, thumb swiping over the leaking head on every upward pass. His gaze is locked between your legs, completely transfixed by the sight of your spread pussy calling to him.
“You’re dripping,” he breathes, hips twitching involuntarily into his fist. “Is that… is that all because of me?”
You just nod, shaky breath as your fingers slide through your slick folds, circling your swollen clit slowly at first, then with more pressure, just at the right angle to let him see everything. Bucky’s strokes grow a little faster.
“Fuck, I keep imagining how warm and tight she’d feel around me right now,” he whines, closing his eyes for half a second before opening them again, unable to stop looking at you, your face, the way your fingers are moving. And just as he lays there, in front of you, panting through his arousal, his words register slowly in your mind. How he keeps calling your pussy her, giving her life in a way you hadn’t thought of before.
“Why…” you ask, voice shaky with arousal and amusement, “why do you keep saying ‘she’ like it’s its own entity?”
Bucky’s hand falters for half a second, a fresh wave of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. But he doesn’t stop stroking himself. If anything, his grip tightens as another bead of precum rolls down over his knuckles.
“Because… I think she might be,” he admits. “She’s got me bewitched. I’m a guy of science but the second I think about her, I’m gone. It’s like she has her own gravity, pulls me in. Makes me stupid.” His strokes grow a little faster, eyes still glued to the way your fingers move over your clit. And you thrive off that attention, too, of having his blue eyes glued to your body like you’ve put a spell on him. So you decide to give him more.
Keeping your knee folded outward, you slide two fingers down through your folds and slowly push them inside yourself. The wet sound feels loud in the quiet room, and Bucky’s breath hitches immediately.
“Fuck, that’s… you’re evil,” he almost laughs, hand stuttering on his cock for a moment before speeding up again. “She’s so greedy, look how she’s sucking those fingers in.”
You let out a soft moan as you curl your fingers, stroking that sensitive spot inside while your thumb continues circling your clit. The position keeps you completely open for him, letting him see every slow thrust of your fingers disappearing into your glistening cunt. And he does see. Watches with his breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, hand twisting at the head of his shaft on every upstroke. His strokes have grown messy and desperate, but he’s still holding something back, although not for long.
“I don’t wanna push it,” he whispers, voice strained. “but let me kiss you. Please? While we do this.”
You would have let him slide in raw inside of you right now if he asked you. So without hesitation you scoot closer and press your lips to his, tentative at first, before it quickly deepens as the pleasure builds between you. His mouth is warm and hungry, tongue sliding against yours with a quiet desperation that makes your fingers move faster inside yourself.
Bucky moans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips, his hand pumping his cock in urgent strokes. He pulls back just enough to speak against your mouth, every word almost swallowed by your lips.
“You taste so good,” he whimpers between kisses. “'I’m gonnna… fuck, I’m gonna cum…”
His free hand comes up to cup the side of your face, holding you to him while his hips start rocking into his fist to chase the feeling. And just like that, while his mouth finds yours and kisses you hard again, his body tenses suddenly. A broken moan spills into your mouth as his orgasm hits him, cock pulsing in his hand as thick ropes of cum shoot across his stomach and onto yours, sticky where your bodies are pressed together. He kisses you all through it, whimpering softly with every spurt, hips jerking unevenly as he rides out the pleasure.
Even after he finishes, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps his lips against yours, breathing hard, forehead resting gently against your own as the last tremors run through him. “I’m sorry… I made a mess,” he murmurs, aware of the sticky mess in both of your stomachs.
You don’t care. You kiss him again, fingers still buried inside yourself, moving faster now that you’ve felt him fall apart against you. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, pressure building faster than before, pushing you oh-so close to the edge.
“Come on, moon, let me see you cum,” he says against your lips, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “Good girl, just like that.”
Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, all too overwhelming. Your back arches off the bed as your walls clamp down hard around your fingers, a broken moan tearing from your throat, muffled against Bucky’s mouth. He doesn’t kiss you through it because he’s instead chasing your sounds, the whines leaving you desperately as you ride your own high.
Pleasure floods your body in hot waves. Thighs trembling, cunt fluttering and gushing around your fingers as you finger yourself through the peak. You ride the waves until they slowly start to fade, leaving you boneless and panting against Bucky, and finally your fingers slow to a stop, slick coating your hand and dripping down, making everything wetter and messier.
Bucky stays close, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he gently reaches for some tissues on the nightstand and in complete silence he cleans you first, reverent touches wiping away the sticky evidence of his release from your stomach and the slick between your legs. You do the same for him after, fingers slow and tender as you wipe the streaks of cum from his skin. When you’re both as clean as you’re going to get without a shower Bucky pulls the heavy quilt back up over your bodies and without a word opens his arms. You slide into them instantly, letting him wrap himself around you completely.
Your legs tangle together naturally. One of yours slips between his, the other drapes over his hip, pulling him flush against you. His arms wind around your back, strong and secure, while yours slide around his waist, fingers splaying across the warm skin of his lower back. Your chests press together, hearts beating against one another, faces so close that your noses brush.
Bucky leans in first. His lips find yours in the dark, a slow kiss, lazy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to lead anywhere else. Just soft presses of lips, gentle brushes of tongue, little sighs shared between you when you part for air before colliding again.
Your bodies shift in unison, pressing closer, hips settling against each other, legs tightening their hold. Every small movement feels synchronized, a gentle rock, a whisper of a word neither really try to figure out, slow glide of skin on skin under the quilt. His hand slides up your back, cradles the nape of your neck as he kisses you deeper. You answer by threading your fingers through his hair, holding him to you.
There are no words. Nothing you could say could quite make sense of this moment, anyway. The kisses grow slower, heavier, blurring into something almost dreamlike. Too emotionally raw, not quite what you’d see on a movie screen, but sensual nonetheless.
Eventually, exhaustion and warmth win. Bucky’s hold on you never loosens, but he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, presses one last soft kiss there before his breathing starts to even out. You, on the other hand, stay awake a little longer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, and simply pretending.
Pretending that Houston isn’t waiting for him, that he isn’t your little brother. That the two of you are just a normal couple who met in an ordinary way, fell in love in an ordinary way, who are allowed to fall asleep tangled in each other like this without feeling guilt creeping up through every crevice of your body.
With that aching fantasy wrapped around your heart, you finally let your eyes close.
Pale winter light filters through the wide window overlooking the lake. You wake up first, still tangled with Bucky, his arm heavy around your waist, one leg slotted between yours, face still buried in the crook of your neck as if neither of you moved an inch throughout the night, or if you did, you were pulled back into your original orbit.
For a moment you just lie there, listening to the distant call of birds outside. Then you lean in, press a kiss to his cheek, and he stirs awake, humming sleepily as he tightens his hold on you. When his eyes open properly to find yours, he only whispers a quiet ‘morning’ before catching your lips in a lingering kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then a few more lazy kisses, then a kiss to your cheek, another to your forehead, to the tip of your nose. You feel him a little bolder than usual, maybe emboldened by the way last night ended.
“Wanna shower?” he asks. “I think there’s only enough hot water for one proper shower. We should share. …Y’know, to save water and all.”
A paper-thin excuse, one you see right through, but you nod yes anyway.
You head to the small connected bathroom together, naked but making no attempt to hide yourself. Bucky turns on the shower, lets the water heat up while you grab clean towels from the nearby cabinet. When the steam starts to fill the room, he takes your hand and guides you under the spray first.
Warm water cascades over your bodies, and for a while you simply stand there, letting it wash away the remnants of last night. Until Bucky steps closer, his front pressing flush against your back. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against your skin. You feel him lean in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as the water runs down both of you. He doesn’t immediately do anything else, maybe instead waiting for your reaction, whether you’re still willing to let him push further this morning.
Your silent permission comes in the form of your body going pliant against his, leaning back against him and that encourages him to grow bolder.
One arm slides fully around your waist, pulling you tighter against him while his other hand trails down your stomach. His fingers glide through the water running over your skin until they reach between your legs, settling but not yet moving.
“Bucky, what are you doing?” Your voice barely comes out, breath already caught in your throat. Despite your question, you know perfectly well what he’s doing; what’s surprising you is his sudden confidence, the way he’s taking without stuttering through it, without letting his inexperience become a hinderance.
“Making you feel good, moon,” he whispers, two thick fingers sliding finally through your folds and pushing inside you in one confident motion.
You gasp, forehead lolling forward against the cool tile wall, as the immediate stretch burns through you, feeling perfect despite any conflicting feelings that remain just barely under the surface. His fingers curl slowly to stroke the sensitive spot inside you, head falling to your shoulder. Open mouth presses wet kisses to the skin, mixing with the warm water dripping from above you, quiet hums whispered against the muscle.
Curling on every inward stroke, his fingers thrust deeply but slowly, keeping a rhythm that makes your knees weak. Still, his arm is banded around your waist and keeping you from breaking apart, holding you upright as your legs begin to tremble. Behind you, and through the haze of your own pleasure, you still manage to feel Bucky’s cock fully hard, pressing thick and heavy against the curve of your ass. It throbs every time your walls clench around his fingers, and he grinds forward slowly, not exactly chasing release, but just rubbing himself against you in time with the rhythm of his hand, just enough movement to provide some relief.
His fingers never slow down, never falter, thrusting inside of you until you’re falling apart, until your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids and thighs trembling uncontrollably. Slick coats his hand and drips down your thighs, washed away instantly by the hot water, and his hand only stops when your body starts to slump, soothing thrusts through your aftershocks until it halts completely.
And then, with his usual gentleness, he slowly withdraws his fingers and brings them to rest on your stomach, holding you close as the water continues to rain down over both of you.
After the shower, both of you dress in comfortable layers; thick sweaters, jeans, wool socks, and take over the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Bucky cracks a few eggs into an old cast-iron skillet, you handle coffee, and by the time you’re both sitting by the small wooden table by the window, the conversation is nothing heavier than how the lake looks different every season and whether Mom’s knitting phase, which started in this very cabin, will ever produce anything truly wearable.
When breakfast is cleared, you step outside into the crisp Saturday air. The sky has cleared to a pale blue, sunlight slanting through the pines and turning the frost on the grass into tiny diamonds.
“Should check the woodpile,” Bucky says, already pulling on his jacket. “Fire’s gonna need feeding if we want to keep it cozy inside.”
No fighting that. You fall into step beside him, walking the path to the shed that is the same narrow dirt trail you used to race down as kids. Now you walk side by side at an easy pace, boots crunching over fallen needles and the occasional patch of frozen ground. Bucky points out a squirrel darting up a trunk with impressive speed, and you tease him about the time he tried to rescue a baby bird only to get dive-bombed by its mother. He laughs, cheeks pink from the cold, and you hold his wrist in your hand, make him stop in his tracks and almost kiss him right there, somehow wishing to make that flush darker. You end up deflecting, telling him he had a leaf in his hair before you continue down the path.
Both of you take turns loading up the old wheelbarrow with split logs, but Bucky insists on doing most of the heavy lifting, his breath coming out as a fog in the crisp air as he stacks the wood. You tease him about showing off, and he shoots you a lopsided grin over his shoulder, which combined with his flushed cheeks makes your belly twist a weird way.
“Gotta make sure my moon doesn’t strain anything,” he jokes, standing too close when it’s your turn and his hand brushing the small of your back as you bend to grab another log. The wheelbarrow fills quickly, and the two of you push it together back toward the cabin, shoulders sometimes bumping with your steps along the uneven path.
The rest of the morning slips into lazy domesticity, you making more coffee and Bucky digging through the old cabinet of board games tucked under the cabin stairs only to emerge victoriously holding a Monopoly box worn at the edges from years of family weekends. “Think you can handle getting crushed?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows as he sets it up on the coffee table in front of the fire.
You snort. “Bold words from someone who still owes me imaginary money from the last time we played this like, six years ago, Buck.”
The game starts innocently enough, you building up properties steadily while Bucky’s luck is comically bad. Keeps landing on your hotels over and over, groaning dramatically each time as stacks of colorful paper money leave his side of the board. By the time you’re deep into the afternoon, the fire crackling steadily beside you, Bucky is ridiculously broke. Most of his properties are mortgaged, and his little silver car is currently sitting in jail.
“This game is rigged,” he mutters, staring at his pitiful collection of singles.
You laugh, legs tucked under you on the couch for added warmth. The living room feels good enough with the heat from the fire, but you’ve had to interrupt the game of Monopoly midway through to put on some hilarious pink fuzzy socks because your feet always seem to be running ten degrees below your normal body temperature.
“Have you considered that maybe you just suck at this game?”
He glances at you, blue eyes narrowing in that mischievous way that always used to spell trouble when you were kids. Then, while you’re counting a massive pile of cash and he thinks you’re not paying enough attention to anything else, he leans forward, quick as a fox, and snatches a few $500 bills from the bank.
“Bucky!” You lunge for his hand, but he’s already laughing, shoving the stolen money under his thigh.
“What? Everyone knows banks are corrupt anyway, I’m just redistributing wealth.”
The game dissolves after that, you playfully wrestling him for the stolen money until he manages to overpower you simply by wrapping one hand around your waist and pulling you to him before pressing a kiss to your cheek that sends your emotional system into overdrive. Monopoly lays forgotten on the coffee table as the both of you eventually go back to the kitchen to prepare the world’s most complex dinner: a couple of cheese and ham sandwiches which you assemble messily before carrying them back to the couch.
“Look at us. Responsible adults, driving all the way up here, chopping wood, eating sandwiches for dinner. Mom and Dad would be so proud.”
Bucky chuckles around a bite of his sandwhich. “We’re like the most responsible people I have ever met.”
Time slows, dissipates, does something else entirely and by the time it’s completely dark out, both of you are stretched out on the wide plaid couch under a thick wool blanket, remnants of your earlier session of board games and sandwiches pushed aside on the coffee table. The soothing sounds of the crackling fire in front of you fade easily into the room, and Bucky’s arm draped around you, with his hand tracing idle circles on your skin, makes you feel as much as home as if you were back in your apartment.
Actually, maybe he feels more like home.
Conversation melted into warm silence a while back, and now you’re simply two people with tangled legs and hearts hoping neither of you is foolish enough to continue what you’ve tried to stop time and time again.
Coming to this cabin alone had been a mistake, Bucky knew it, you knew it, yet you did it anyway. So you shifting in his lap slightly just to make yourself more comfortable, him leaning his head down until your noses are brushing and you turning your head just enough that your lips find his once again, isn’t a surprise, it’s just inevitability.
Lips mold carefully, a natural tilt of heads, lips moving in perfect synchrony while your hands curl into the soft fabric of his sweater and his find your cheek, cradle the back of your neck. The blanket stays over you both, trapping shared heat and, if you’re lucky, trapping whatever feelings are bubbling under the surface and keeping them caged just between your bodies and this old couch. Another kiss, and he bites down on your bottom lip, pulling on it until you moan and only then does he release it with a grin; another kiss, and he ends it by brushing both his lips against your upper one, chasing it before pulling back slowly to look down at you.
One of his hands slips beneath the hem of your sweater, palm warm against the skin of your stomach, stroking upward until his thumb grazes the underside of your breast and makes you arch into the touch with the softest sigh. His eyes watch you closely as you move, and he leans down a fraction.
“Hi,” he whispers, and you can’t help the tiny smile on your lips.
“Hi,” you whisper back. An exchange so ridiculously sweet that both of you let out a soft breath of laughter into each other’s mouths before kissing again. His hand continues its journey under your clothes, finally cupping your breast fully and thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. Your body presses closer, one leg sliding higher and over his hip, which drags a whine out of him.
Bucky sits up just enough to help you pull your sweater up and over your head, the motion ruffling your hair just slightly; not a second after he’s on you, fingers reaching forward and smoothing out your hair, pushing a few strands behind your ears. “Always so beautiful, my moon,” he says, before reaching down and peppering soft kisses across the skin, lips traveling over your clavicles, then down the valley between your breasts, teeth every so softly grazing the skin, teasing but never going through with any touch that could be a little rougher. Eager, but not quite impatient, your hands reach for him next as he ducks down your body, bunching his sweater in your fists and dragging it off of him when he moves his head cooperatively. The motion exposes the hard planes of his chest, faint definition of muscle that he earned during college. When the sweater is off, he crawls up your body again and presses his bare torso flush against yours, skin on skin, heartbeats thudding together in a room too small for the size of what you’re sharing together.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants and panties then, and you lift your hips so he can work the fabric down your thighs, past your knees and off your ankles. Once they’re gone, his hands glide back up your legs, spreading them gently so he can settle fully between your thighs. You return the favor, sliding your palms down his stomach until you reach his pants. Bucky moves his hips, lets you push the fabric out of the way, down, until his cock is freed, already hard and flushed, leaking at the tip and brushing against your inner thigh as he kicks the pants the rest of the way off. Firelight paints the curve of his shoulders and one side of his face in gold, and you admire the sight while your naked bodies seal together under the blanket, all of you pressed to all of him, so close that you can even feel the short, coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your skin.
Another shift under his body, and this time, it’s to try to roll him over so you can climb on top. To your surprise, Bucky catches your waist with both hands and pins you back down into the couch cushions.
“Not tonight.” His voice is surprisingly steady when he says it, as if he’s been practicing how to be like this, for you. “I wanna make you feel good. This time just… lay there and do what you always do best. Just look pretty for me.”
You open your mouth to protest, the usual excuse of you being more experienced, the older sister, that you should be the one taking care of him, already on your tongue, but Bucky kisses you quiet before you can get any words out. You already knew Bucky made up for his lack of experience with his enthusiasm; it had been exactly like that the last two times you had been together. And this time it’s no different. His mouth kisses down your neck, sucks gently at the swell of your breast until you’re squirming beneath him, and one of his hands slips between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds to find you already wet and wanting. A thumb circles your clit with soft pressure and then two fingers push slowly inside you until you’re moaning his name and your back is arching off the couch in pleasure.
Only when you’re trembling and soaking his hand, when he feels maybe his fingers are no longer enough to stoke the fire inside you, does he pull back, his heavy cock nestling now between your bodies as he looks down between the two of you.
“I… I didn’t bring any condoms,” he begins to stammer, brows furrowed in concentration, as if thinking too hard about it will make a box of Magnums suddenly materialize next to you. “I wasn’t expecting… well, I mean, I was hoping… no, not hoping, not like that, but you know… I just, I wanted it, but I didn’t think we would actually do this again. So I didn’t bring any.”
You cup his flushed face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as you pull him down until your foreheads rest together.
“It’s okay. Do you think… do you think you can pull out? Before you finish?”
His expression shifts almost instantly, relief instead flickering through his face. He nods quickly, familiar awkward earnestness shining through.
“Fuck, yeah, yes…” he breathes, voice a little shaky. “I promise I’ll pull out. I’ve got you, moon.”
The hand that had still been resting between your bodies guides the blunt head of his cock to nudge against your entrance, and you feel him teasing, a few times, rubbing the tip slowly over your folds without pushing in. Your eyes meet his, eyes furrowed in a ‘really?’ look before he sheepishly grins, and finally begins pushing in, bare, until he sinks the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in your warmth.
Bucky drops his head to your neck, hips rolling slowly as he starts to move.
“You’re so warm,” he rasps. “Fuck, I didn’t… I imagined having you like this, without a condom, but I didn’t imagine it would feel this good.”
Rolling thrusts rock you gently into the couch cushions, the blanket that had been covering you previously beginning to slip down his waist. The first few movements are a little awkward, a bit unsure, as if he’s searching and trying to find his own rhythm. He finds it, you think, when he angles his hips in a certain way that makes his cock hit a spot inside you that makes you moan louder, while his pelvis grinds against your clit.
Then he holds it right there. Hands keeping you close, one braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to keep you spread open for him. All you can do is cling to his back and moan his name while he worships you under the golden light.
After a few strokes, Bucky sits up slightly, hooks his hands behind your knees and lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders. It catches you off guard, so much you almost want to tease him for it, or praise him for it, but either option is lost because the new angle makes him sink deeper and instead what comes out is a sharp gasp at the intense pleasure, your hands flying to grip his arms.
“Bucky, oh my god…” Moans, gasps, words that sound more like whines, your eyes closing the same time Bucky brings a thumb to your bottom lip and pries it away from the confines of your lips. And in that moment, his gaze drifts to the side and catches sight of your feet still covered in the fuzzy pink socks you’d put on earlier. The soft pink looks almost ridiculous against his bare shoulders and the very adult way your bodies are joined. A soft chuckle rumbles out of his chest, cutting sweetly through your and his heavy breathing.
“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the side of your ankle, right above the fuzzy pink cuff. Lips trail slowly up your calf, too soft and sweet even as his hips keep rolling steadily into you. “Keeping the socks on. Hope your pretty little toes are warm in there.”
You are vaguely aware of him teasing you, but the gentle kisses and the grinding thrusts are making your head spin, so your fingers dig into his biceps as pleasure coils tighter inside you. It doesn’t help that every few seconds he’s whispering something about you ‘looking so good like this’, praising the way you’re taking him so well. The new angle is devastating, every deep stroke pushing you closer to the edge. Feet covered in pink fuzzy socks bouncing slightly on his shoulders with every thrust is an absurdly sweet detail that somehow makes this feel more intimate, the same feeling you’d had the night before when you were in bed together. Like this could be a regular night in a normal couple’s life.
“Bucky, I’m so close,” you say, and you are, thighs trembling against his chest, his breathing ragged when he leans down and folds you further to press a messy kiss to your lips.
“I love you,” he gasps against your mouth, words tumbling out in the heat of the moment. “God, I love you… I’m so in love with you.”
There is a language cinema speaks when fate arrives at the door. Time thickens like honey. The frame pulls close, hungry for detail: a hand mid-reach, a mouth half-open, the exact moment understanding crosses a face.
Someone who holds their breath until it’s over, another one who can’t look away even when their fingers are coming to cover their eyes. Music swells, filling every corner, and then it’s gone. Silence drops like a held breath finally released because some moments are too large for sound.
And so all of it stretches, right here. World narrowing to a single point, the heat of. him moving inside of you as those words spill from like a star collapsing.
Your body reacts before you do, walls clenching around his cock in an involuntary response, because the last thing you should be praising is those words coming from his mouth. But your body likes them. Straight in your gut, fueling the fire in the pit of your stomach, you feel it: please, Bucky, say it again.
Still, panic floods your chest like ice water.
“Stop,” you choke out, voice breaking. “Bucky, get off me.”
He freezes instantly, buried deep inside you, his eyes widening in shock.
“What—”
“Get off,” you repeat, sharper this time, pushing at his chest as your heart hammers. “Please, Bucky, get off me.”
Bucky scrambles to move. but he pulls out immediately, moving back to kneel between your legs with a devastated look on his face. His cock is still hard and glistening with your arousal, and his chest is heaving.
“Shit, I’m so sorry—I wasn’t thinking, it just came out, I didn’t mean to… I mean, I did mean it, but I didn’t want to make you—”
“Please stop talking,” you whisper, sitting up quickly and pulling the blanket over your naked body like a shield, as if suddenly the thought of him seeing you naked is too much, too inappropriate. Bucky, as if understanding that distance you put on immediately, quickly grabs his boxers and puts them on before getting off the couch and pacing the small space next to you.
I’m so in love with you.
Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. “You can’t say that. You can’t… you can’t say that and say that you mean it.”
He’s absolutely wrecked, cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes shiny with embarrassment and the remnants of his arousal. “But I mean it. I’m sorry, I just do. I love you. I can’t not say it.”
Bucky stands there in the firelight, wearing nothing but his boxers hastily pulled on, and it would be a little distracting if you weren’t focused on trying to keep your heart from jumping out of your chest. “I’m so in love with you,” he repeats, quieter but no less certain.
You clutch the blanket tighter around your body, failing miserably at keeping your heart steady, so much you think it’ll bruise your ribs from how fast it’s beating.
“Bucky, stop. We can’t—”
“Why? Why can’t I say it? Because it’s true, I love you. You’re the only person who’s ever made the stars make sense. And I’d give up Houston tomorrow if you asked me to, if you told me to stay here with you. So don’t ask me not to say it.”
You swipe at your cheeks angrily, trying to brush away the stubborn tears that insist on falling. “That’s why you can’t say it, we can’t… we keep saying we’re trying but we’re not. Every time we’re together, alone, we make it worse. This whole weekend, we’re making it worse.” You wrap both arms around your knees and pull them up to your chest under the blanket. “We should stop. For good.”
Bucky swallows hard, frustratedly running a hand through his hair while his shoulders remain tense.
“I can take the couch tonight. You should sleep in the bed.” The offer is gentle, despite everything, but it’s also a quiet message: this conversation is over for now.
Part of you wants the distance, while another part hates the idea of him sleeping alone on this old couch after everything that just happened. You just look at him, not answering yet, just watching him; him, James, your Bucky, your bestfriend, your brother, who used to be a boy that chased the stars you pointed out to him, now here with his heart bleeding openly. As if realizing that you want to say something, that you want to give him an answer that can’t quite leave your lips yet, he gives you a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I didn’t wanna ruin the weekend. Just wanted one more good memory with you before I left for Houston.”
Night was long and restless.
As Bucky had offered, he took the couch downstairs while you ended up on the bed upstairs alone. Even though you had wanted to call him back upstairs, the words never made it past the lump in your throat. Sleep came in fragments, haunted by the echo of his confession. You’re still distraught; of course you are. The words I’m so in love with you keep replaying in your head, impossible to silence.
You realize, possibly too late, that you won’t know how to look at him anymore without feeling like the ground is shifting beneath your feet. That it is Sunday morning, and you have to pack to leave for the city, and that both of you have an hours-long journey ahead of you, alone in a car. By the time you get dressed and get downstairs, Bucky is already awake too, folding the blanket you both had been using the night before, which he had slept wrapped in. He glances up, nods as a greeting.
Then neither of you speaks.
Both you and Bucky move around the cabin like ghosts of yourselves, gathering clothes, folding blankets, packing the toiletries you’d brought for the weekend. Sounds are amplified in silence, the zipper of your bag suddenly too loud, a creak on the wooden floorboard you hadn’t noticed until now. A few times, you catch him looking at you, but he looks away quickly when your eyes meet.
Bucky finishes packing the last of the groceries your parents had left and carries both your bags to the door, then stands by the window for a moment, looking out at the forest surrounding you.
“I need some fresh air before we head back,” he says quietly, which you interpret as him letting you know that he needs some time alone before an hours-long drive with you by his side the entire time. “I’ll go for a short walk, won’t be long.”
He hesitates like he wants to say something more, but thinks better of it. Pulls on his jacket, slips his boots on and steps outside, closing the door behind him a little too harshly for his usual behavior.
While he’s gone, you finish tidying the last few things, wiping down the kitchen counters and making sure the fireplace is completely out, always moving mechanically and trying not to think too much about anything. And you manage, mostly, until Bucky comes back twenty minutes later, cheeks and nose flushed pink from the walk, hair slightly tousled and a small bundle in his arms that stops you mid-motion as you wipe down the counter.
A tiny, white as snow kitten, clearly a few months old by the look of it, nestled against his chest, peeking out from the folds of his jacket with curious blue eyes. Its fur is fluffy, a little messy in the way kittens always have their fur a little messy, a little pink nose and one tiny paw batting lazily at the zipper pull.
“Found him… her… I dunno. Hm, in the woods,” he says, voice a bit rough from the cold. “Huddled under some brush near the trail, shivering, no mom or siblings in sight. I couldn’t just leave it there.”
The kitten lets out a tiny, squeaky meow, as if backing up his story, and rubs its face against Bucky’s jacket. Something in your chest cracks open, which might be the exhaustion of the sleepless night setting in, or maybe the unbearable tenderness of seeing your little brother cradling something so small and fragile.
You set the cloth down slowly. “Bucky…”
“It’s supposed to get colder tonight. This baby won’t survive out here alone.” He steps closer, and for the first time since yesterday’s argument, you are looking into each other's eyes without finding another point in the cabin to look at. “We should take it back with us, I can keep it at the house until we figure something out. I’m sure Mom and Dad won’t mind.”
Until we figure something out. We, like it’s your shared problem now. Drawn by the kitten’s soft purring, you cross the room and reach out, one finger gently scratching under its chin. The kitten moves its head, tries to sniff your finger and then bumps its head against it demandingly.
“It likes you,” Bucky murmurs, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “Figures.”
For a moment, the tension eases, and you feel like just two siblings who found a lost cat in the woods by your parents’ cabin. Nothing else is complicated.
So you do the only rational thing: you agree with him. Grab an old blanket that you had already put away and use it to wrap the poor kitten in it while Bucky loads the truck with the last bags. When everything is ready, including a makeshift nest for the cat on the center console, you get on the driver’s side while Bucky finishes closing up the cabin.
By the time you both drive back to the city, truck rumbling down the winding dirt road away from the cabin, the kitten purring like a tiny engine, silence has settled again between the two of you. No other words are spoken on the way back home, except for the time you stop to get some food and a temporary litter box. His trip to Houston in the summer looms on the horizon, as does his confession that you can’t shake off your bones; but for now, you focus only on the ride home, and the tiny life that the universe handed to the two of you.
WARNINGS: dead dove do not eat, wrong on so many levels, dad bucky x daughter reader, 18+, incest (dad-daughter), smut, mdni, daddy kink (actual dad), tit play, food play (with lollipop), vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal penetration, breeding kink, pet names - babygirl, baby, princess, brat.
WORD COUNT: 2620
bucky’s already half-hard when he walks through the door. his cock twitches against his thigh like it’s got a goddamn beacon straight to you.
he hates that. he hates how his body betrays him, how every nerve lights up like christmas morning because it knows exactly where it is: home.
where his babygirl is waiting, probably sprawled out like a spoiled little kitten, legs open, mouth pouting because daddy’s late again.
the hallway smells like your strawberry shampoo and the sour-sweet tang of cherry lollipops and something warmer underneath—your cunt, already wet just from thinking about him.
he can taste it on the air. he hates that too. hates how good it feels.
he’s your father. your blood. he taught you to ride a bike, held your hair back when you puked peach schnapps in the rose bushes at sixteen. signed every permission slip, threatened every boy who looked at you too long.
and now he comes home praying you’re wearing something that barely covers that perfect little ass so he can pretend he’s not the worst kind of monster while he fucks you raw.
he drops his keys. they clatter loud enough that you look up from the couch and grin around the cherry lollipop bulging in your cheek.
“hi daddy,” the word drips off your tongue like you’ve been practicing it in the mirror just to watch him lose his fucking mind.
you’ve always known what it does to him. it’s a weapon and you’re a goddamn sniper.
he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it hit the floor like he’s too tired to care.
but really he started undoing his tie in the car, top buttons popping open because he was thinking about this exact moment—walking in and finding his daughter dressed like a walking wet dream in his old army t-shirt and those pink shorts that say juicy across the ass in glitter he paid for with his credit card like a complete degenerate.
you pull the lollipop out, tongue chasing the shine on your bottom lip like you’re auditioning for porn. “you’re late.”
“traffic,” he lies through his teeth.
truth is he sat in the parking lot at work for twenty minutes trying to think about baseball and taxes so he wouldn’t walk in with a tent in his slacks like a fucking teenager.
it didn’t work. it never fucking does.
when you stretch, the shirt rides up just enough to flash the soft curve under your tits.
no fucking bra. of course.
your nipples are hard little points poking through the thin cotton like they’re begging for his mouth.
his t-shirt. his name stenciled across the back like you’re his property.
he wants to bite your nipples until you sob, wants teeth marks so deep you feel him every time you breathe for a week.
“been waiting forever,” you pout, rolling the stick between sticky fingers. “got so bored i had to entertain myself.”
he knows exactly how you entertained yourself. knows you probably had your hand between your legs the second his car pulled out this morning. knows you sent him that video at lunch.
your fingers were buried knuckle-deep, voice breathy and broken, whispering daddy please come home i’m so empty without you. he knows he locked himself in the bathroom stall and jerked off so hard he saw stars, biting his lips so nobody heard him groan your name.
he stalks over, eyes locked on the candy, on the way your lips are swollen and cherry-red from sucking, on the tiny silver string of spit still connecting your mouth to the pop when you pull it away again just to torment him.
“gimme that.”
you tilt your head, like you're confused. you're probably not confused. you play this game very well than him. “there’s more in the kitchen, i saved the blue raspberry ones for you, promise.”
“don’t want blue.” he braces his hands on the back of the couch, caging you in, close enough that your bare knees brush the rough fabric of his work pants, close enough he can smell cherry and the hotter, wetter scent of you soaking through those ridiculous shorts.
“want the one that’s been in my little girl’s mouth all day. want the one that tastes like her spit.”
he sees the way your hips roll, just a tiny helpless grind against the couch cushion. you’re terrible at hiding how soaked you get for him. always have been. he can see the damp patch spreading on pink cotton already, dark and on display for his eyes.
“daddy,” you whisper, suddenly shy like you’re not the same brat who begged him to finger your ass last weekend until you cried. like you’re not the same girl who screams when he calls you his perfect little cumslut.
you pull it out, string of saliva stretching long and wet before it snaps. and hold it up between two trembling fingers like you’re scared to say no. you’re not scared. you’re dripping. he can smell your cunt begging.
he takes it and slides it past his lips without breaking eye contact. he sucks hard, groaning low because fuck, it tastes like cherry and the faint salt of your skin and something darker, something that’s just you.
his cock jerks so hard it hurts. he pulls it out, shiny with both of you now.
“jesus fucking christ. tastes like my babygirl’s mouth. tastes like sin.”
your cheeks heat up and your eyes are black with hunger. you shift, thighs rubbing together, trying to get friction without him noticing.
but he notices everything.
he drags the lollipop down your throat, painting a sticky trail over your collarbone, between your tits where the t-shirt slides down.
“this shirt’s fucking pointless,” he mutters. “why bother wearing clothes when it’s just us? when you know i’m gonna rip them off the second i walk in and fuck you stupid?”
“’cause you like unwrapping me,” your voice is small and breathy. “ youlike it when i pretend to be your good little girl.”
he grins. “yeah. i really fucking do.”
you lift your arms before he even asks, an eager little thing.
he peels the shirt up slowly, savoring every inch of skin. the soft curve of your waist, the way your ribs flutter when you breathe, the bounce of your tits when they finally spill free with your nipples tight.
he groans like he just wants to bite them until you cry prettily.
“look at these pretty fucking tits,” he rasps, cupping one, thumb flicking the nipple hard enough you yelp. “always so ready for daddy. always begging.”
you whimper, arching into his hand like a greedy kitten. “please—”
he drags the lollipop over your nipple in slow sticky circles, watches it pucker harder, glistening now.
your hips jerk again, more a helpless little grind against nothing.
“daddy—”
“shh, baby.” he leans down, sucks the candy off your skin in one hard pull, tongue swirling, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp and clutch his hair.
it tastes of cherry and salt and warm skin.
he could live off this. he could die happy with his mouth full of his little girl’s tits and her heartbeat hammering against his tongue.
he pulls back with a wet pop, and holds the lollipop to your lips shiny with spit and sugar and him.
“open that pretty mouth.”
you do instantly, tongue out flat like you were born to obey. he slides it in, watching your lips stretch, cheeks hollow as you suck.
you moan around it, with eyes fluttering shut.
“suck it like it’s daddy’s cock, sweetheart. get it nice and sloppy for me.”
you do. sloppy and eager and loud, spit shining on your chin, dripping onto your tits in sticky rivulets.
he watches for a second, transfixed, then drags his thumb through the mess and smears it over your bottom lip, pushes it into your mouth alongside the candy so you’re sucking both.
“good girl. fucking drown it for me.”
you nod, bobbing your head a little, gagging yourself on sugar like it’s him, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes because you’re that desperate.
he takes it back, and trails it down your stomach, circles your belly button until you squirm, then lower even.
hooking his fingers in those stupid shorts, he yanks it hard.
you lift your hips like a good girl, aand let him drag them off.
no panties. never any panties when you know he’s coming home.
your pussy’s already slick and swollen, clit peeking out hard like it’s begging for his tongue.
he groans. “jesus christ. look at this perfect little cunt. my own daughter’s daughter’s cunt dripping for her daddy like a desperate whore.”
heat rushes to your cheeks, and you try to close your legs out of habit.
he wedges his knees between them roughly, spreading you wide enough your thighs tremble.
“don’t hide from me. never hide this pretty pussy from your father. i own it. i made it. i get to look whenever the fuck i want.”
he drags the lollipop through your folds slowly, coating it in you, watching it come away creamy.
your hips buck hard, a broken sound ripping out of your throat.
“please—”
“please what, baby?”
“put it in me, daddy. want something inside—want it to be you—”
he smirks. “greedy little brat.”
he circles your clit with the sticky candy until you’re shaking and crying, then pushes it inside. just the tip.
your pussy flutters around it, trying to suck it in deeper like it’s starving.
“more,” you beg. “daddy please—need it deeper—”
he gives it to you, inch by inch until the whole thing’s buried in you except the last part of the stick, your cunt gripping it like it never wants to let go.
a whine rips off you, like the desperate whore you are.
“hold still, princess.”
you try. but your thighs shake.
he leans down, and licks a long stripe up your clit while it’s still inside you, flicking the stick with his tongue so it fucks you shallow.
you scream, back nowing off the couch, hands flying to his hair and yank.
“daddy—fuck—i’m gonna come—”
“not yet, baby. you come when daddy says.”
he pulls it out f you, shiny and dripping with your cum, and shoves it straight into your waiting mouth.
“taste your cunt, babygirl. taste how sweet my little girl is for her dad.”
you suck, moaning like it’s the best thing you’ve ever had.
there are tears spilling over because you want to come so bad it hurts.
he stands up, undoes his belt with one hand. the clink is loud in the quiet room.
he just shoves his pants and boxers down just enough. his cock slaps heavy against his stomach, flushed dark and leaking, veins throbbing angry. he’s so hard it hurts, precum pearling at the slit.
you pull the pop out with a gasp. “daddy—”
“turn around. ass up for daddy. show me that pretty hole.”
you scramble like your life depends on it. drop to your knees, chest over the arm of the couch.
your asshole winks at him, so damn tight, begging just as much as the rest of you.
he steps up behind you, drags the lollipop—still wet from both your mouths and your cunt—over your asshole in slow circles.
“daddy—”
“not yet, princess. gotta earn daddy’s cock in your ass. gotta beg prettier.”
he gives you the candy to hold onto, while he fists his cock.
lining up, he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust that punches the air out of both of you.
you both moan loud.
it is so tight. so wet. so fucking perfect it’s wrong. your pussy flutters around him like it’s trying to milk him already.
he bottoms out, balls pressed against your ass, and just holds there for a second, feeling you clench.
then he starts to move. he doesn’t go gentle. he grips your hips hard enough to bruise tomorrow and fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else ever.
the couch creaks with every thrust. your tits bounce hard, nipples dragging against the fabric. his balls slap your ass with every thrust.
“tell me,” he folds himself over you, chest to your sweaty back, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat loose but possessive. “who owns this pussy?”
“you—fuck—only you daddy—always you—”
“louder. wanna hear my little girl scream it so the neighbors know.”
“you! it’s yours—daddy’s pussy—daddy’s little cumdump—please—”
he bites your shoulder hard enough to mark for weeks, sucks a bruise into the skin.
“gonna come inside you. fill my babygirl up so good you’ll feel me for days. gonna plug you after so none of daddy’s cum leaks out that greedy hole.”
you sob, pushing back against him like you’re trying to take him deeper than possible. “yes yes please—breed me daddy—put a baby in me—make me swollen with it—”
the word breed snaps something feral in him. he reaches around, finds your clit puffy and slick, rubs brutal messy circles until you’re shaking apart.
“come for me. come all over your daddy’s cock like the perfect little slut you are.”
you do as told, pussy clenching so tight he sees stars, screaming daddy daddy daddy like a broken record, whole body seizing as you gush around him, soaking his balls and the couch and the rug.
he follows right after, buried to the hilt, spilling deep with a broken animal groan. pulse after pulse of thick cum floods you until it’s leaking out around his cock in creamy white.
his cock still twitches inside you, plugging every drop, while you both pant like you've run miles.
after a minute he pulls out slowly, watches his cum drip in thick white streaks down your thighs and groans at the sight.
he thumbs it back inside you just to watch you whimper with overstimulation.
he smacks your ass, a soft tap. “don’t move, baby.”
leaning over to you, he touches your hand, and you realise he's asking for the lollipop he'd thrust into your hand.
he drags it through the mess between your legs, coating it fresh, then taps your lips.
“open.”
you turn your head, with your tongue out. he slides it in.
“taste us, sweetheart. taste how good we are together.”
you moan and sucking eagerly, eyes completely fucked-out.
he watches for a minute, then hauls you up, spins you, sits on the couch and pulls you into his lap.
you straddle him, cum still leaking out of you in slow pulses onto his thighs and his cock that’s already filling again.
“gonna order thai,” he mutters against your tits, sucking a nipple into his mouth hard enough you yelp. “and you’re gonna sit right here on daddy’s cock the whole time. just keeping me warm and full of my cum.”
you laugh, and grinddown just to be a brat. “yes daddy. but what if the delivery guy’s cute?”
he smacks your ass again, harder now. “then i’ll fuck your ass dry while he’s at the door so he hears who you belong to.”
you whimper, but you still. mostly. just tiny little rolls of your hips that make him throb inside you.
he grabs his phone with one hand, the other sliding between your legs to play with the creamy mess he made, pushing it back inside every time it leaks.
Summary: When the notorious Brooklyn Ripper strikes again, you’re more determined than ever to finally catch him by any means necessary. Even if it means teaming up with your vigilante neighbor Bucky, who's wanted by the very institution you work for.
WC: 31.5k
Contains: crime show level of violence, themes, and action (think of criminal minds/law & order svu as examples) / murder mystery with a serial killer on the loose / friends to lovers / horror elements such as suspense / female reader / mutual pining / Bucky is your hot neighbor / mentions of homicide + case details / descriptions of fatal injuries, blood (nothing in extreme graphic detail) / stalking (not from Bucky) / carnival fun and frights / a bit of a slow burn / a third party has a crush on you, but it's not reciprocated / lots of cameos in the world building / fluff + angst / Alpine shenanigans / hurt + comfort / happy ending
a/n: It seems autumn comes around and suddenly I remember I'm a writer. 😅 This is my piece for the stan-o-ween collaboration! This fic was an idea two years in the making and I spent almost the entire month on it, so I am so excited that it's finally done and yours to read! 🥰 Thank you to all my lovely mutuals who encouraged me along the way while writing this 💖 and to my biggest cheerleader @lomlbuckybarnes 🥹💖 who without her, I'd probably chicken out about posting anything ever again. 🫶🏻 Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡
bucky masterlist || fic playlist || trick or treat event
“Here,” Special Agent Carol Danvers places a freshly brewed cup of coffee on your desk, its earthy aroma wafting through the air to settle within you with a promise of alleviation. “And before you say anything, don’t. Just drink it. You look like you need it,” She says as a matter of fact, leaving no room for argument. She leans against your desk, crossing her arms with her eyes trained on you like you're her next big case she has to investigate. You take a deep breath, whether to prepare for her lecture or because you need it, who knows? You can feel the radiating warmth of the mug on the back of your hand, tempting you to bask in its caffeinated contents.
For the fourth time today, no less.
“I really shouldn’t. I’ve had enough caffeine today to last me the whole week,” you say, and yet your hands betray you, wrapping around the ceramic FBI mug like it holds all the answers to what’s been ailing you for months.
Carol looks at you with bemused pity, “When’s the last time you had proper sleep?”
“Last night.”
“Liar.”
“I swear.”
“Really?” Carol’s eyes drift to your hands, analyzing the way you stir your coffee—with a pen.
You blink, taking a second to realize what you're doing, taken aback by the sight of your black pen in your coffee. It seems exhaustion had seeped its way so deep into your bones, you were no longer aware of your own actions.
“Okay… so maybe I haven’t been getting the best sleep lately,” you admit despite yourself, removing the pen from your coffee and throwing it away. Carol scoffs, "No kidding."
“I bet you haven't eaten anything either, have you?" Special Agent John Walker inserts himself into the conversation, placing a small bakery bag on your desk before he goes to sit in his—across from yours to the left. He gives you the same look Carol is giving you now, expressions filled with an equal amount of worry and sympathy. It makes you wonder if they show this much care to your other colleagues and friends.
“You two spoil me too much," you state, appreciatively grabbing the bakery bag and opening it to find a golden chocolate chip muffin inside. It's still warm, meaning John must have gotten it right before he came back to the bureau from being out in the field. First coffee and now this, were you that predictable or were your friends that perceptive?
"I promise I’m fine. You both have nothing to worry about. I'm just a bit overwhelmed with the case,” you explain, hoping to placate their worry, but the weariness in your voice does little to quell the concern both blondes feel for you.
And it's written all over their faces.
"I can help with the case if you need any," John offers, a sly smile on Carol's face as she exchanges a brief look with you. You hold back from rolling your eyes at her. For some time now, she has been convinced that John has feelings for you, but you always interpreted his kindness as just being a good friend. It's not like you can take his flirtations seriously when he's flirted with every single female agent in the bureau.
"Thanks John, but you and Lamar are busy enough with the Hydra investigation as it is," you reply, before adding, "Plus if Laura found out I had anyone else helping me with the case she'd kill me. Nat told me yesterday Clint's been moody ever since he found out his wife messages me more than him," your last statement pulls a laugh out of both blondes. "That does sound like Barton—both of them," John chimes in with amusement, easing the a bit of the tension from your shoulders.
Truth be told, it's not like you wouldn't have appreciated the help. A tiny part of you feels bad for turning John down, but unbeknownst to the entire bureau, you already have all the help you need.
Help they can never find out who you're getting it from.
"It's better Walker here doesn't help anyway. Hopkins would miss his work husband too much to let him work on the Brooklyn Ripper case with you," she teases John with a cheeky grin, making him roll his eyes at her.
"Lamar is not my work husband."
"No? Then why is Hopkins bringing you homemade breakfast and lunch every day? Not to mention, he's the one always driving you two around like you're his pretty little passenger princess."
"First of all, those meals are made by his wife and they're delicious. And second of all, what the hell is a passenger princess?"
You sigh internally—here they go again.
You tune out their bickering, used to the way they get under each other's skin and quarrel like siblings. Sometimes you wonder if they had been in another life.
Your mind goes back to the case at hand, The Brooklyn Ripper case. It's files strewn across your desk like pieces of a puzzle you have yet to solve. This case lies between your typical serial killer investigation and a potential connection to Hydra. A criminal organization tied to a litany of crimes including blackmailing influential figures, money laundering, exploitation, mysterious killings, and more. All with the end goal of moving their organization to the top and spreading their influence beyond New York.
Even if it means entertaining a serial killer in their ranks.
The Brooklyn Ripper has taken the life of seven women so far. The first was killed in September of last year, with NYPD detectives handling the investigation. They were in charge of the first four murders, but when the fourth woman was found to have been working for Hydra, they dropped the case and handed it over to the FBI. Anyone working in law enforcement knows how dangerous it is to cross Hydra. Not many would step up to go against them, unlike your boss Nick Fury, the director of the FBI. He has no issue making Hydra his enemy.
You've worked in the New York branch of the FBI for a few years in the counterterrorism and counterintelligence unit, before being transferred over to the criminal services unit eight months ago. You didn't mind the transfer due to budget cuts since you felt like you needed a change of routine anyway. And as fate would have it, out of all the cases that could have been assigned to you, you got The Brooklyn Ripper case along with Special Agent Laura Barton as your partner. Since you've been on the case, three more women have been killed, with all three women having connections to Hydra.
Laura left for maternity leave two months ago, and ever since then you have been investigating the case alone due to too many cases on priority and not enough staff to handle them. Out of seven women, one of them was murdered under your watch alone, and that's a fact that makes you lie awake at night.
"I still think the killer is the White Wolf," at the mention of that specific alias falling from Carol's lips you come back to the present. Your head snapping in her direction, eyes widening ever so slightly having been caught off guard by the name. She tilts her head at you, shaking it with fake disappointment, "You weren't even paying attention to me were you? You really should go home."
The reassuring smile you give her is not convincing at all, "No, no, I was listening. I just got lost in my thoughts for second, why did you bring up the White Wolf?"
"Because, he's obviously your killer."
"He might be one of the possible suspects, but I think others make more sense than him," you reply, composing yourself from your earlier slip up, "He's only ever taken credit for the deaths of higher officials with deep ties to Hydra. Rumlow still makes more sense than the White Wolf here. We don't even know who the guy is or if his background matches what we're looking for," you point out.
Your colleagues have no idea who the White Wolf is, but you do.
You had dinner with him last week.
"I hate to say it, but Danvers might be right," John cuts in, agreeing with Carol for the first time in his life. "He's the only possible suspect who's gone after Hydra apart from the FBI. The last few women have all worked for Hydra, it makes sense he'd go after them."
Carol can't believe what she's hearing, "Walker is making sense—the world is ending."
"You never give up, do you?"
"But he's never gone after women or children, why would he switch up now?" You ask, cutting into their exchange to play along in the conversation. You don't want them to think you're playing defense for the White Wolf.
John shrugs, "Guys like that, they snap," he snaps his fingers for emphasis, "Maybe something happened in his personal life and it set him off. Made him think he had to go further with his vigilante justice and started going after whoever he could get his hands on at Hydra," he theorizes, but everything he says is further from the truth of what the White Wolf stands for—of who Bucky really is.
"Maybe, but as a theory it wouldn't explain the motives for the first three women who were never found to be connected to Hydra at all. In the end, none of the suspects make complete sense," you say, sighing in solemn displeasure.
"Look, your main suspect is still Brock Rumlow—Hydra's guard dog. Lamar and I, we're working hard on the Hydra case, but that doesn't mean we can't find the time to help you out with something. Our cases are most likely connected, so we could always help enough to get some of the weight off your shoulders," John offers again, a soft genuineness to his voice that most don't experience often from him. You give him a small appreciative smile, "Thanks, John. I'll keep that in mind."
He returns the smile before looking at the notification that pops up on his phone. "Crap, I'm gonna be late," he gets up from his chair, putting the files on his desk into one pile, "Sorry for ending the conversation here ladies, I gotta go. You two have a good night." And with that, John packs up the last of his stuff and he's gone.
"Jealous?"
You frown at the question, completely lost as to why Carol would ask you that and why she's smirking at you. "Jealous? Of what?" The pure confusion on your face has Carol letting out a breathless laugh, "You really weren't paying attention, huh? John's going out on a date tonight."
You snort, "Oh? When is he not?"
"So you are jealous…"
You roll your eyes at her attempt to tease you, "Carol. No. John is my friend and he's nice and all, but you know I don't date divorced men—it's too messy."
She shrugs, taking a few steps forward to take a seat on his desk. Oh, if only John could see her now. "Yeah, but you know I'm right when I say he likes you." You look at her like she's said possibly the dumbest thing you've ever heard, "Carol, please be serious. John has flirted with every single female agent in the bureau. Well, except for you, but only because you scare him."
Carol snickers in delight, "That's true. And it's not like he hasn't gone after some of our friends. I still cringe every time I think about how he fumbled that dinner date with Ava," you both grimace at the reminder, "But god, its kind of pathetic how many rebound dates he's gone on that have gone nowhere. He needs to be stopped for the sake of all women in New York," she can't help but take a jab at him even when he's not around.
"Okay, that's enough about John. How's the Punisher case going?" She thankfully takes your cue to move the conversation along, and begins updating you on her investigation. You do your best to keep up as you organize the files in front of you, but truthfully, it's all going in one ear and out the other.
"You know I can tell when you're not paying attention to me, right? I just act like I don't," she calls you out with mirth, you have the decency to be sheepish, "Sorry…"
She shakes her head softly, speaking to you in a tone only a big sister would use, "Don't be, just go home. Take a day off if you can. The case will still be here tomorrow."
"So will the killer."
She can't deny that, "He will, but that's just how things are in this line of work. You take one down and another one pops up tomorrow. There's not much we can do about it—that's just the way the world is." What Carol says may be true, but you don't want to dwell on such harsh realities. Not when it'll make you spiral more into a darker hole than the case already has you in.
Maybe it is time for you to call it a day.
"Are you heading home too?" You ask her as you start to gather your belongings. She nods, the relief she feels at you finally deciding to go home evident in the way her demeanor changes. "I am, but I'm gonna head over to tech first and see if Stark can figure out what's going on with my access ID. This thing only works half the time and I'm sick of it. I think I need to get it replaced."
You grab your messenger bag in one hand and the small bakery bag in the other, "If you're seeing Stark then let's hope he thinks a new ID is in the budget," you jest, causing her to groan. "God, don't say that. Stark and his stupid budget will be the death of me." You laugh, wishing her luck talking to Stark before you're off as well.
Autumn brings in the beginning of change. Trees shed their leaves, going from forest greens to vibrant shades of auburn, blanketing the ground and blowing in the wind like they're searching for their final resting place. The chill in the air invites you to wear your coziest sweaters and visit your local shops to try anything with cinnamon, maple, or pumpkin spice to really welcome the season in.
Tonight, however, the breeze you feel when you step out of your car is icy and sinister in a way that makes you do a triple take of your surroundings. It has you guarding your bag close to your body and locking your car twice. A season that used to bring you a serene comfort is now cold and unforgiving like the end of life.
The wisps of the wind curl around your body, clinging to you as you step into your apartment building. You give a small yet polite greeting to the property manager's father, Yori. A sweet old man who sits at the front desk all day playing crossword puzzles or watching baseball games on a small television behind the desk. A cheerful smile spreads across his face as he returns the greeting. Thankfully, he's engrossed in a Yankees game or he would have pulled you in for a conversation already.
The sound of a crunching leaf that's stuck on the sole of your shoe follows you into the elevator and to the third floor. The clinking of your keys joins it, echoing down the hallway as you walk to your apartment. You're just about to insert your key when the door to the apartment next to yours opens, a meow you can only describe as a hello follows it.
It's your neighbors, Bucky and Alpine.
"Hey you two," you greet them warmly, appreciating the sight of your very handsome and very muscular neighbor holding his cat in his arms like she were something precious and delicate. The sight of him in his navy Henley is enough to turn your night around for the better.
"Hey," Bucky starts, but then Alpine interrupts him by hopping out of his arms and prancing her way to you. She rubs her soft fur against your legs, before pawing at them—her way of saying she wants you to hold her.
You laugh softly, placing your messenger bag on the floor against your door and crouching down to pick her up. You stand with her cradled in your arms as careful as Bucky did in his. Alpine immediately nuzzles into them, letting out a content purr.
Bucky looks at the two of you in a way that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. "She missed you. Haven't seen much of you lately," he points out, voicing only half a truth. What he really wants to say is he missed you, but he'll let that truth hide in the affection of his expression.
You give Alpine a gentle head scratch, your smile turning softer, "I missed her too—and her dad," you add, not being able to hide it like Bucky can. The affection in his eyes only grows fonder at your words.
"Sorry I haven't visited lately. This case has a hold on me and I'm not sure it's going to let go of me any time soon," you say honestly, holding Alpine just a little tighter. Bucky notices, stepping closer to get a good look at you. There's no hiding the tiredness that seems to stick to every part of you like it's a second skin. "I thought so. You dedicate yourself to your job more than others, and it's admirable. But you have to take time to take care of yourself, doll," He reminds you and you find yourself exhaling a little harder, "You're not the first person to tell me something like that today. I try, but it doesn't feel right focusing on anything else when he can strike at any point again."
Bucky searches your eyes as if they hold the answer to how he can get through your stubbornness, "There's a difference between working hard and overworking yourself."
You have nothing to say to that.
Bucky leans down, grabbing your bag and nodding toward his door. "Let me make you dinner. Something tells me you haven't had a proper meal in days." As if on cue, your stomach lets out a grumble loud enough to reach your ears. Bucky bites his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, sparing you further embarrassment by walking back to his apartment and holding the door open for you. You follow him inside with ease, having been at his place enough times to consider it a second home.
"I'll have you know I had a muffin today, and like four cups of coffee," you mumble out that last part, feeling small at the thought of Bucky being able to read you so closely—like there was nothing you could ever hide from him. He lets out a sound between a huff and a chuckle, "Exactly my point. None of that is a proper meal," he places your bag on the couch in the living room, "You should get some rest while I finish making dinner." You open your mouth with a question on your mind, but he narrows his eyes like he knows exactly what you're about to ask, "No talking of the case right now. Not until after dinner."
"But I want to know—" he cuts you off by shaking his head, "I know what you're going to ask, and no—I haven't found any new leads in any of the Hydra communications and their databases haven't been updated. There's nothing new since last month's murder. Now sit," he insists gently, and this time you listen. He makes his way to the kitchen, and you plop down onto the couch, settling comfortably against the cushions while Alpine makes herself comfortable on top of you. There's a part of you that wants to stay awake and pay more attention to Alpine, but as soon as your body sinks into the couch, you doze off, letting the world around you disappear.
Bucky looks through what he has in his cupboards and refrigerator, deciding on making a simple Alfredo pasta. He calls out your name, wanting to know if that's something you'd want to eat, but when he hears no response, he strolls over to check on you. He sees you fast asleep with Alpine in your arms and he can't help the warmth that grows within his chest at seeing you snuggled up in his home like this. He reaches over to the armchair and grabs a throw blanket—the red and black plaid one you gifted him. He covers you with it, gently tucking both you and Alpine in.
There's a lightness to his step when he goes back to the kitchen. He takes his time making dinner, all with a lingering smile on his face. If anyone had told him before he met you he would be granted these moments of peace—of normality from his somewhat unconventional life—he wouldn't have believed them. It seems like it was just yesterday when he was still in the clutches of Hydra, doing their dirty work as the Winter Soldier to save his family from a fate far worse than death.
And all for what? In the end he escaped, but at the cost of his former life. Disappearing from Hydra's traces and distancing himself from his family and friends for their safety. Years of never staying in one place for more than a month, living alone across the country on the run—all to come back to New York to seek revenge on the organization that took everything from him.
He never made a place a home. And then over a year and a half ago he moved here, thinking it would be a temporary place to set some of his plans into motion, but staying here ultimately led him to Alpine and you.
Alpine, a scrawny little kitten he found in an alley, under the pouring rain in a unforgiving city. Left to fend for herself—she reminded him of himself in a way.
You, his next door neighbor with a heart of gold and a smile that never fails to make him weak in the knees. You're everything good in this world he wishes he felt he deserved.
There's nothing he wouldn't do to keep this new life—this fresh start—safe and sound.
When dinner is ready, Bucky reluctantly walks over to you, crouching down to softy nudge your shoulder. As much as he wants to let you sleep, he knows you need to eat something before you go to bed for the night. After a few nudges, your eyes slowly blink awake, but as the scent of dinner drifts your way you perk up, causing Bucky to chuckle fondly at the sight. Alpine yawns from where she lays across your torso, standing on her paws and stretching as she awakens from her beauty sleep.
"Come on, doll. Didn't wanna wake you, but dinner's ready."
You yawn as you get up from the couch, giving your body a good stretch before you follow Bucky to the kitchen table where there's already two delicious bowls of pasta waiting. Bucky pulls out the chair for you and you utter a dozy thank you before digging into the plate in front of you.
You hum in satisfaction at the taste, "Have I ever told you, you could make it as a personal chef?" Bucky takes a seat beside you, practically preening at the way you compliment his cooking. "No, but it wouldn't work out anyway for me. I don't like cooking for other people."
You frown, taking another bite of pasta, "But you cook for me." He grins, a twinkle in his eye like he knows something you don't, "You're not just people to me, doll. You should know that by now." His words have your heart fluttering in your chest in a way only Bucky ever seems to make it. You shove another bite of food into your mouth, anything to preoccupy yourself from thinking too deep and asking him what he means by that.
You don't need to have that answered right now.
Bucky can tell you're holding back, but he doesn't pry—just smiles to himself and continues eating beside you. Your curious nature will get the better of you soon enough, and Bucky is a patient man. He can wait until you're ready to discuss this.
Whatever this is.
There's a comforting silence that falls between you, only interrupted once by the little tune of Alpine's automatic feeder signaling her food is ready. The silence continues until it stretches to the point you feel like breaking it.
"We talked about you at the bureau today," you mention, catching Bucky's attention.
"Oh?" He mutters out between bites, his tone in that one syllable indicating he's wary of where this conversation is going. You know he said not to talk about the case, but this surely doesn't count, right?
"Yeah, my coworkers think that you—the White Wolf—are the Brooklyn Ripper," you say, words laced with an undertone of mirth at such a inconceivable thought. Bucky on the other hand reacts differently to how you thought he would. He finishes his bite, his jaw tensing like it's hard to swallow.
"Do you?" he asks, the air between you shifting into something heavy. You adamantly shake your head, upset that he even felt he had to ask, "Of course not. I'm pretty sure I've been your alibi for almost every victim, Bucky," you let out what can only be described as an awkward attempt to laugh while trying to lighten the mood, but he's looking at you like what you say next could break him.
"But if you hadn't been… Would you believe that I was the killer? That I was capable of that?" He holds his breath waiting for your answer. The weight of what he's asking settles itself deep in your heart. He's asking you if you would ever believe him to be a cold-blooded killer. Someone who kills for the sake of it and not with a morally just reason behind it. Bucky's past is no secret to you. He's been open and honest about everything from the moment you gained his trust. You would never take that for granted by believing him to be someone as cruel and ruthless like the Brooklyn Ripper.
You lock gazes with Bucky, needing him to clearly see the truth in your heart, "No. I would never think that of you, Bucky. I swear." The conviction in your voice eases the fear in Bucky's heart, feeling like he can breath again. He finds solace in the color of your eyes, and after a moment, the air shifts back to something comfortable—familiar.
"Why was I even brought up in the first place?" He wonders, and you wish you would've paid attention earlier to give him an exact answer, "I'm not sure. My mind was elsewhere when Carol and John were talking. It wasn't until they mentioned you that I started to listen. I think they were throwing around ideas for suspects since Rumlow isn't talking."
"Still? Let me guess, Pierce keeps covering his ass?"
"More like sending us on a witch hunt every time we want to ask a question or collect a piece of evidence. He impedes every step of the case with legal jargon."
He grunts, having firsthand knowledge of how Alexander Pierce operates, "Just say the word and I'll delete all the files on his computer—for fun."
"You wouldn't."
"If you asked me to I would."
The temptation to make Pierce's life a bit harder is difficult to brush off, "I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I'm also not going to tell you what not to do." The mischief that makes its way to his face is impossible to miss.
You're halfway through the pasta in your bowl when you've had enough of the conversations involving you, "Anyway, enough about my work, anything new in yours?"
"Not really. Same old boring I.T. stuff," he waves it off like it's not even worth mentioning.
"How's Sam?"
"Still a pain in my ass."
You playfully bump his shoulder with yours, "Stop it, he's not that bad," his face deadpans at your defense of his coworker, "Sam's nice. He gave me the recipe to his grandma's pecan pie when he came over for my birthday dinner."
"Yeah, cause he's a kiss ass," he grouses, nose scrunched up in annoyance. You giggle, watching as Alpine jumps onto Bucky's lap, her head butting his abdomen in an attempt to ease her dad's grumpiness.
The bubble of serenity surrounding you bursts at the sharp and sudden sound of your ringtone. Your stomach lurches with a sense of dread, losing all its appetite. You know there's only one person that can be calling this late.
Bucky utters your name like a silent plea for you to ignore the call and go back to how you were, but you're not listening. You're already up from your seat when he says it, walking over to your bag, and picking up the phone.
"The Brooklyn Ripper struck again."
And just like that, your night takes a turn for the worst.
Bucky feels helpless sitting at the kitchen table, watching as your face falls to something grave as Fury relates to you the details of everything he knows about the most recent victim. There's not much he knows, so he's sending you the location of the crime scene for you to investigate.
The call is over before you know it. You start packing your stuff, needing to head out to the scene of the crime as soon as possible.
"I have to go. There's been another murder."
"Let me go with," Bucky knows you'll turn him down, but he offers anyway. The wooden chair scrapes against the kitchen floor when he stands up, striding over to where you're standing. He knows there's nothing he can say to make the situation better, but at least he can try to do something—be helpful.
You shake your head, looking over at him with eyes that say I wish you could, "It's not a good idea, Bucky. The White Wolf is still on the suspect list and as long as Hydra is connected in some way, you'd only be putting yourself at risk for exposure." Against his better judgment, he pushes the topic, "I don't care if Hydra finds out that I'm in the city or if the FBI figures out who I am. I only care that you're safe."
You swallow hard, the depth of what he's saying not getting lost on you. You need him to understand the sentiment is mutual, "Bucky, I would never forgive myself if you were found out because of me. I care about your safety too and I'm not letting you fall back into the clutches of Hydra for my sake," you stand firm on your decision, "Let's just stick to what we usually do. I go out into the field and you stay here listening in on the Hydra communications and checking the databases for all the information on the victim," you instruct, leaving no room for argument. He had no choice but to listen.
"I don't like this," he says like it's painful to watch you go. "I know, and I'm sorry, but that's just the way things have to go," you remind him solemnly, not able to look him in the eye while heading towards the door. Two bowls of unfinished dinner going cold at the kitchen table.
Alpine meows beside Bucky almost as if to say goodbye or stay, you weren't sure. You couldn't meet her eyes either.
"See you later, Buck."
"See you."
The door clicks shut behind you.
It take you about twenty minutes to arrive at the crime scene. You mask your face with indifference as you walk past the vultures who call themselves the media. It's like at the first spill of blood they can scent it in the air—scrambling to get a headline instead of seeing it for what it is.
Someone has lost their life today in a brutal way. The least the media could do is have the decency to offer the family privacy and the chance to find out the devastating news from the proper channels and not through a social media post.
You ignore their existence, eyes darting to the buildings surrounding the crime scene to try and locate any cameras. The Brooklyn Ripper is smart enough to avoid them, usually placing the bodies in blind spots if there are any. He always kills the victim in one location and then drops it in another, meticulously staging it so the only clues you find are in the victim's autopsy.
If there are any camera's around, Bucky is probably looking through them right now. You sent him the location Fury gave you as soon as you got into your car. He's probably sulking as he watches from afar instead of at your side. You feel a strange sense of comfort wash over you at the thought of Bucky watching your back through the cameras. It helps knowing there's someone looking out for you with a case this severe on your hands. You hope Bucky understands you look out for him too—in your own way.
You pass by the buzz of local news station reporters, and a small crowd of people forming at the sight of law enforcement. You flash your badge to the NYPD officer keeping the reporters at bay, and he lets you pass the yellow crime scene tape. Like all the other crime scenes, nothing seems to be special about this one for the killer to have picked it. It's your average looking alley, tucked ominously between scattered operating businesses on the almost vacant street. It's late enough that most businesses are closed and the streetlights offer but a sliver of light to enter. There's a metallic bleach like scent that hits you almost at the same time that the foul odor of the garbage from the bins does. It's potent enough to be aware of it, but not enough to bother you. You've smelled worse in this line of work.
You carefully make your way over to the black tarp covering the victim's body. The chief medical examiner, Dr.Helen Cho, is discussing something with one of the members of the crime scene unit when you approach. There's about a handful of the unit here collecting all the evidence they can find.
You know if the presence of Dr.Cho was warranted, then there's no doubt who the culprit of this murder is.
"Dr.Cho, did she have the markings?" you inquire, cutting straight to the point. Dr.Cho nods grimly, beckoning you to come and see for yourself. "An off duty officer found her. He was in a drunken stupor when he stumbled his way out of the bar from a few doors down and ended up here. He claims to have sobered up when he saw the body." She hands you a pair of evidence gloves. You slip them on, bracing yourself for what you're going to find.
"He called the FBI tip line when he saw her neck," Dr.Cho crouches down to carefully lift the tarp from the victim's face. You follow suit, crouching down beside her to get a better look. At first glance you notice the way she's laying in a sleeping beauty pose, no blood on her clothes or hair. She looks like she was heading somewhere nice, having no idea of the end that was awaiting her. But most damning of all is the wound on her neck, fitting the Brooklyn Ripper's M.O..
There was an end to end gash along the front of her neck that would indicate it was sliced open. However, when you look closer you can see the swelling and faintest marks of bruising underneath the skin of the wound. A slight deformity that Dr.Cho is sure to conclude happened prior to the slicing. A slice that was clean and precise, with little blood around it. It wasn't done in the heat of the moment or with abruptness. It was done because he needed to do it, not because he wanted to. Without a shadow of a doubt when the victim is transported for an autopsy, Dr.Cho will find she died of a broken neck.
The slicing was done as a cover up.
"I'm confident enough to say the Brooklyn Ripper did this," you conclude solemnly, scanning the alley as Dr.Cho covers the victim again. "Let me guess, there's no evidence the victim was murdered here, is there?" Dr.Cho shakes her head, lips pursing at the lack of evidence. "There are no blood splatters, footprints, or any other indicators that anyone else had been here besides her. The only organic matter we have apart from the trash in the bins is the vomit from the officer who found her body. Other than that, everything else is staged as usual. The victim was laid on the ground in a sleeping beauty pose with her belongings tucked at her side. Her purse seems to have everything in it, but the phone is missing, same as the other victims."
After Dr.Cho recaps the evidence, you ask for the purse. Once you have it you search it and find a few packs of gum, lip gloss, a pocket mirror, some miscellaneous receipts and bits of trash, and what you were looking for—her wallet. You take it out, reading over her ID for the basic information.
Beth Johnson, twenty eight, born on October 10th—her birthday had been last Friday.
You swallow the lump in your throat with a regret you're in no place to have.
Inside the wallet you find a few dollar bills, a debit card and a couple credit cards, but what stands out to you most are two things tucked away behind her ID.
The first item, a polaroid picture of the victim hugging a child in her arms. They share the same smile and fluff of blonde hair. The words Toby's fourth birthday, are written on it in blue marker.
The second item, Alexander Pierce's business card.
You waste no time calling Fury after that, informing him of all the details you knew so far. This was now the second woman to die under your watch, and the eighth woman the Brooklyn Ripper has taken overall. You weren't going to drag your feet in this investigation.
Fury was livid. He hated feeling like someone got the upper hand on him and this war with Hydra was driving him up the wall. He made it clear he wanted you back at the bureau as soon as possible. He was going to call in John and Lamar for an emergency conference and he would be seriously considering formally connecting both the Hydra and Brooklyn Ripper cases once and for all. There's too much overlapping evidence for him to not start connecting them.
You let Fury know you'd be there as soon as you were done at the crime scene before hanging up the call. You take a picture of the victim's ID and the polaroid in case it comes in handy later. You then hand all the victim's belongings to the crime scene unit to be put away in evidence bags.
You step away from the crime scene, letting the crime scene unit finish their job without you hovering. You converse with a couple of the NYPD officers to help them locate the next of kin to deliver them the tragic news. It wasn't until it was absolutely certain that you weren't needed that you walk back to your car, pass the police tape and away from the reporters yelling at you for a chance at an interview.
Your hand grips the handle of the driver's side door tightly, your heart and mind an entangled mess of emotions, blurring the lines between personal and professional. It was never this complicated when you worked in counterterrorism. It was second nature to detach yourself in that unit, but in this one? You can't avoid it.
Before you step into your car, it starts to drizzle. You look up at the night sky and manage to spot a traffic camera on a streetlight.
The sight of it brings you comfort.
"You seem to conveniently neglect the decision my client has made to remain silent over these preposterous accusations."
"I recognize the decision, but given that it's a stupid ass decision—I've elected to ignore it."
Nick Fury and Alexander Pierce have been going at it for over half an hour, not letting Brock Rumlow get a word in—not that Pierce ever does anyway. He sits in the metal folding chair opposite you in the interrogation room, eyes glued to the table. His shoulders droop like he's about to fall asleep and his face is resting in a look that can only be described as pure boredom.
You've been studying him the entire time you've been in here, your role as the good cop meant you couldn't push and get on their bad side like Fury was doing now. But there's only so much rapport building you can take until you eventually break. Having to refrain from spilling all the questions and accusations you keep behind tightly sealed lips can only hold for so long.
There's a knock at the door that breaks Fury from his rant. He strides over to the door, and Rumlow takes this brief moment without him to make eye contact with you. It's only for a split second, but the challenge you saw there was unmissable.
He's daring you to make a move—to show your hand. He's been in plenty of interrogation rooms with you to know you're both tired of this game.
You want to get to the truth.
Special Agent Lamar Hopkins is on the other side of the door, discussing something with Fury and handing him a folder with what you assume is evidence from the case against Hydra. Pierce whispers something in Rumlow's ear while Fury shuts the door. He makes his way back to your side, opens the evidence folder, and plasters a multitude of pictures on the table for everyone to see.
It's pictures of Rumlow and the victim, all taken from seemingly harmless and innocent interactions. Rumlow helping her into a car, passing by her at a nightclub, leading her into an office, dropping her off at home, and many more. There's nothing necessarily incriminating in them, but the twitch in Rumlow's jaw is a blatant tell this struck a nerve with him.
"We can go in circles all damn day if you want, but I'm more interested in what the hell you were doing being seen with the victim so many damn times. And these pictures, they're just from this month," Fury drops another two dozen pictures on the table, "these are from the last four months."
Pierce scoffs, swiping his hand in the air in dismissal of the evidence, "This is ridiculous. My client can be seen with all employees at some point on any given day, this doesn't prove anything. This is a reach and you know it." Fury slams his hand on the desk, "Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it seems to me like she's another woman who was last seen with your client that ends up dead." The brash accusation cuts through the tension like a knife, and you can tell it's testing Pierce's patience on another level.
But more than anything, it severs your willingness to continue the good cop bad cop play.
"Brock, if you didn't do this, then I need you to help us here. Look at her," you take out your phone, having had enough of this endless back and forth. All eyes are on you as you slide the picture of the victim and her son in front of Rumlow. He looks down at it, but you get no reaction from him at the photo.
"Beth, she had a son, Toby. I'm sure you already knew that, maybe even knew him. Last Friday, she and her family celebrated her twenty eighth birthday, and now she's gone. In a few hours, Toby will wake up and ask his grandparents where his mother is, and they won't know what to say to him. It'll be awhile before he understands his mom is gone and never coming back. She won't be there for his future birthdays, she won't be taking him trick or treating on Halloween, having dinner with him at Thanksgiving or Christmas. When the new year comes in, he'll have to welcome it without her," Rumlow bites the inside of his cheek—this is good, you got him to react. "I don't care about what the FBI wants. I just care about him," you point to little Toby in the picture, "I care about giving him answers and catching the bastard who took his mom away from him." There's a conviction to your voice that clearly drives the message home.
For once, Rumlow beats Pierce to speak.
"You ain't got to worry about the kid. She was one of us, we take care of our own—including him," Rumlow's voice is rough with disuse, but at the very least you finally got him talking. You plead with your eyes, leaning in as a calculated sign of trust, "But he still deserves answers. I know there's something you could tell me that'll help me here." Rumlow looks at you with something that's close to pity, "Sorry, honey, don't know anything that could help. And as for finding the guy, I'm sure you're more than capable of it." He grins smugly, like he's doing you a favor with the half compliment. Irritation make its way up your body, hands eager to take action, but you can't. Instead, you give Rumlow a look like you're disappointed in him, but your eyes tell the full story. And his, it's like they're taunting you with the words cut the bullshit. It's clear you don't trust each other. Everything either of you do or say is done with ulterior motives.
Neither of you will get the full truth from each other any time soon.
"Alright, are we done here?" Pierce spits out in indignation, but Fury mocks him with an ardent laugh. "Not even close. You might as well start getting comfortable in here. Excuse us for a moment." With those parting words, Fury escorts you out of the interrogation room. Outside, John and Lamar stand on the other side of the two way mirror, having been listening in the whole time.
There's only a brief acknowledgment between you with an exchange of glances before Fury starts speaking. "I want you three to go to the main conference room and start operating as if we're connecting the Brooklyn Ripper case and the Hydra one. Agent Hill has already supplied it with with the evidence files from both cases. There's a few protocols I have to follow before I can officially connect them, but when I'm done I want you two," he points to John and Lamar, "to take a round interrogating Rumlow. You have a deeper rapport with those two, so I'll be counting on you both to get something useful out of them. In the meantime, exchange notes to prepare for the interrogation, and you," Fury turns to you, "as soon as you're done filling Hopkins and Walker in on your case—go home. You've done a great job tonight, but I'll need you rested and ready tomorrow for what comes next." You know better than to argue with him, so you bite your tongue and reply with a clear, "Yes, sir."
He turns and walks off, leaving you three to head to the conference room.
"What a way to end our Monday, right?" Lamar breaks the silence between you awkwardly. You let out an uncomfortable sound you try to pass for a broken laugh, "Yeah, you could say that…" You know he means well by the question, but it doesn't sit right in the space between you, falling flat.
"This didn't ruin any plans did it?" John cuts in curiously, directing his question at you, disrupting the discomfort in the air. You shake your head, a pang in your chest when you think about Bucky watching you leave. "Just dinner," you say it with a somberness you hadn't intended, so you quickly add, "but I'm sure you're more disappointed about your date being cut short. And I bet Mrs.Hopkins isn't any happier about Lamar getting called back to work." Your last statement brings out a small chuckle out of both men, and the sheepish expression on Lamar's face is confirmation enough that you're right.
"My date wasn't really going well, so I don't mind being called in. I don't think she'll be calling back for another, so I appreciate work keeping me busy," John admits, voice laced with self deprecation as you enter the main conference room. The table in the middle already stacked with files from both cases, just like Fury had said. You take a seat next to John when Lamar mutters something about a delivery and walks back out. You feel sympathy for your friend, the dating scene is hard enough, you can't imagine what it must be like navigating it as a divorced father.
Before you can second guess yourself, you place a comforting hand on his shoulder, he meets your eyes at the gesture, "Hey, don't let it get to you. I don't think many of us have a good track record with dating. I mean I think it comes with the job. I'm sure the right woman for you is right around the corner." Your words seem to strike a chord with him, the corner of his lip tugging, "Thanks. I'm sure she is."
He doesn't look away from you when he says that.
Before you can fully wrap your head around any deeper meanings, Lamar walks in with a pizza box in his hands. The strong scent of pepperoni pizza distracts you, your hand falling from John's shoulder like it never belonged there in the first place. Lamar is none the wiser, putting the pizza box in the center of the table and sitting across from both of you.
"I thought we'd need it for the long night ahead of us—coffee's already brewing in the break room," Lamar adds and you both utter a thank you. You try to brush off whatever just happened, even though a strange air lingers in the space between you. Even. Carol's voice echoes in the back of your head with a boisterous I told you so.
She's going to have a field day with this when you tell her.
There's an orange piece of paper that suddenly slips off the pizza box when Lamar opens it. You reach for it out of reflex, the big bold letters in black contrasting with the pumpkin orange background catching your eye.
FOR TWO WEEKS ONLY—THE CARNIVAL OF TERROR IS BACK IN THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS.
"My oldest loved going last year. I'm taking the whole family again this year," Lamar comments when he notices you reading the flyer. The nostalgia hits you hard, "How nice. I remember when my dad used to take me to these things when I was little. Those memories stick with you forever." You have to pull yourself back from drowning in a sea of memories you'll get lost in. From the past, from memories you used to hold close to your heart, to happier moments you used to give yourself the grace to experience.
To the person you used to be before this case ever landed in your hands.
You shake those thoughts away, hands gravitating to grab your phone. You're not sure what for at first, not until you open your text messages and click on your conversation with Bucky. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, typing up a quick text letting him know you'll be staying at the bureau for a bit. You're not sure what time you'll be getting out of here and you'd hate to have him waiting around for you. His response comes not even a minute later.
Okay, doll. Let me know if you need anything.
Will do. Goodnight, Bucky. Give Alpine a goodnight kiss from me. <3
What about mine? :(
You can't hold back the smile that forms after reading that text.
Have Alpine give it to you for me x
Fine. But yours would have been better. Goodnight.
"Is that your boyfriend?"
Lamar's question makes your head break away from your phone, mouth slightly parted as you blink at him. "What?" A boyish grin appears on his face, eyes crinkling like he's discovered a secret, "Your boyfriend. That's who you're texting, right? No one smiles at their phone like that unless it's someone special on the other end." You find yourself unsure of how to respond because while Bucky may not be your boyfriend, it feels wrong to deny he isn't someone special to you.
Lamar takes your silence as a yes.
John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, harshly clearing his throat, "I think that's enough small talk, we should focus on the case," his words slash through the silence, causing you to nod in agreement. You need to focus on what you're supposed to be doing—updating these two on everything you know about the Brooklyn Ripper case, so they can go back to interrogate Brock Rumlow.
It's gonna be a long night.
The next morning when you wake up, the sun is at its highest point in the sky. You manage to find the energy to slip out of bed and into the shower. The water cascades down your body in an attempt to wake you, but it does little to help. You continue your morning routine, nevertheless, putting on a hoodie and pajama bottoms before you make your way to the kitchen. Much to the dismay of the rumble in your stomach, your fridge is empty of everything—even leftovers. You also can't remember the last time you went grocery shopping.
Just as you've resigned yourself to brew a batch of instant coffee for breakfast, there's a knock on your door that stops you. On the other side is Bucky with containers of food in his hands.
"Good morning," you greet him with a lazy smile, trying not to make it obvious you're staring at the way his muscles strain against his workout shirt. He chuckles, eyes raking over your hoodie with a twinkle in them, "Good afternoon, doll. I brought over some leftover pasta from yesterday. Thought you'd be hungry and have no food in your fridge."
You step aside to welcome him in, one word in particular catching your attention, "Afternoon? Wait, how did you know I was awake?"
"Thin walls," he shrugs like that explains everything, "Didn't hear anything all morning, so I figured you slept in." He looks at your hoodie again, "Is that my hoodie?"
You still, looking down at the dark gray hoodie on your body. You know it's not yours, but you're in no mood to give it back, "No." You don't sound convincing, and the gleam in his eyes tells you he's thoroughly enjoying this. You cross your arms, dropping the subject all together, "There's no way I slept in, I don't do that."
You glance behind Bucky at the clock on the wall. It's already noon.
You overslept.
He gently taps your nose to get your attention before you start worrying about what you missed, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Oversleeping is not the end of the world. Just let your boss know what's going on while I get lunch ready, okay?" He heads over to your kitchen like he belongs in that space, the lingering comfort of his gentle tone stays with you as you walk to your room to grab your phone. You notice you have a couple missed calls from Carol, so you send her a quick text before sending Fury an apology and letting him know you'll be at the bureau later. Almost immediately he tells you there's no need, John and Lamar have already done the interview with Beth's parents and are currently following leads from it. So instead he orders you to continue with the routine protocol you follow after the victim's family has been interviewed.
Meaning, it's time for the stakeout.
You head back to the kitchen, a bowl of pasta already waiting for you. You sit on a stool at the kitchen island and Bucky joins you on the stool beside you. "Care to fill me in on last night?" He asks and you do, filling him in on the investigation, the victim, the interrogation with Rumlow and Pierce, and your conference with John and Lamar—excluding the part where you might've lead them to believe Bucky is your boyfriend.
You didn't feel that was necessary to include.
"So I guess I'll have to start co-investigating the Brooklyn Ripper case with the Hydra one," you reiterate, looking down at the bowl of pasta like it held answers to the gut feeling you couldn't shake off.
"You don't seem happy about that," Bucky points out, and you sigh, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. "It's not that I'm not happy about it. Something just doesn't feel right," you can't find the exact words to describe what about it feels wrong. You feel like you're missing a big piece of the puzzle—maybe one of the most crucial pieces—and not being able to pinpoint it is eating away at you.
"I think I know what you mean. Last night, I went through all of Hydra's communications, but the only time the case was mentioned was when they took in Brock for questioning," Bucky mentions while you move the pasta in your bowl absentmindedly before you reply. "I don't doubt he's done some terrible things. I can see it in his eyes—the look of someone who could care less who lives or dies as long as he gets paid enough to do it. But I don't think he did this. If it is someone at Hydra doing this—it's not him."
Bucky nods in agreement, "Brock's been an asshole since the day I met him, but Hydra wouldn't make their golden boy do this. They'd have someone else do it. Like one of the other Winter Soldiers they recruited when I left." The reminder tastes like acid on his tongue, his jaw clenches, eyes glossing over with the ghosts of his past. Your hand reaches out to gently hold his wrist, the metal cold to your touch and yet it brings him the kind of warmth only you seem to provide him.
"Maybe," you give his wrist a light squeeze, he turns his metal hand over to hold yours, like he needs it to anchor him, "but I have a feeling no matter who the suspect is, the answer lies with the first three women the Brooklyn Ripper killed. The ones without any connections to Hydra."
"The ones the NYPD screwed up embarrassingly?"
"Yeah, those. It was like they had never worked a homicide before. By the time me and Laura were put on the case none of the families wanted to talk, so Fury instructed us to prioritize the most recent victims instead. But even those victims don't make complete sense. They all worked for Hydra, sure, but in different sections for different people—like they were chosen at random. An assistant, an exotic dancer, a housekeeper, a working girl, and the most recent, a club waitress. Asking anyone at Hydra is a dead end, the families won't talk to us, and we always end up with very little to go on. It just feels like were on a wild goose chase while that bastard chooses his next victim," this time Bucky gives your hand a steady squeeze when your frustration gets the better of you.
"Hey, we're gonna get this guy. He might be smart at covering up his tracks, but he's bound to slip up—they always do. And when he does, we'll catch it and get him. Don't forget we're a team, doll. The killer doesn't know you have a Hydra expert on your side, and that is your upper hand," his little pep talk does wonders to reignite that spark of hope in you.
"Let's hope he slips up sooner rather than later," you add before looking at your phone. It's almost time.
"Thanks for lunch, Bucky. I don't mean to cut this short, but I gotta get going."
"Are you heading to the bureau?"
You shake your head, "No, I'm heading out to do a stakeout. Gotta get some pictures for evidence, some protocol Fury wants me to follow. It's usually John and Lamar that go, but they're busy following some leads so Fury's sent me instead." Bucky nods, getting up from the stool, "I'm coming with." You open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head firmly, "Nothing you say will make me back down from this one. I couldn't be there yesterday, but there's no reason I can't be in the car with you this time."
He's right, there really is no issue with him coming with you this time, and truthfully you feel safer knowing he'd be there.
"Fine. But this is my case, so you follow my lead, alright?"
A cheeky grin grows on his stupidly handsome face, "Yes, ma'am."
"I can't believe you brought Alpine along," you laugh incredulously as Alpine gets out of her carrier and makes herself comfortable on a blanket Bucky fluffed out in the backseat for her. He scratches the back of his neck, before he explains, "She's got separation anxiety." Your eyes dart to Alpine, then to him, and then back to her, holding back a burst of giggles, "She's got separation anxiety?"
"Yeah, she can't stand being away from me for too long."
"Sure, Bucky."
"I swear, doll."
"I'm sure you do."
Bucky's deadpan expression does little to nothing to stop you from laughing. Even Alpine is looking at her dad like don't put this on me.
You and Bucky have been sitting in your car for about fifteen minutes. You're stationed in a parking lot of a small general store a few houses down and across from where Beth Johnson's residence is. It's a quaint brownstone, a little beat up on the outside, but homey nonetheless. The victim lived there with her parents and her four year old son Tobias, or Toby as she called him. If Hydra follows the same pattern, then like the last four victims, Alexander Pierce would come around offering financial restitution for the families. The money in exchange for their silence.
John and Lamar already had the initial interview with the victim's parents, so all there was left to do is wait. A camera laying patiently in your lap for the moment Pierce makes his appearance.
"You're doing it again," Bucky's voice breaks you from your thoughts. You turn to him, even when he attempts to cover his face with a baseball cap and hoodie, his eyes give away just how handsome he is beneath it all. It's unfair.
"What am I doing?"
"Staring holes into something like it'll give you answers if you look at it hard enough," his perceptiveness never fails to make you feel small. As if he could unravel all your secrets and vulnerabilities like it were nothing. You attempt to assure him with a smile that everything's okay, but it doesn't reach your eyes. He looks at you like he wants to help you, but he doesn't know how.
"It's just, this all feels like a waste of time. Sitting here for who knows how long to snap a couple of pictures when we could be doing something else instead. Maybe even find a proper lead for once, one that'll lead us to the actual killer," you hate feeling like a sitting duck. Like you have to wait for the evidence to come to you instead of going and getting it yourself.
"You don't agree with Fury sending you here," he says it as a statement, not a question.
"I don't. We already know what's going to happen. Getting a few pictures won't make Pierce or Rumlow talk. It won't even get the family to cooperate. So what's the point?" You fidget with the settings on the camera mindlessly.
"If the killer is a part of Hydra then it's important to get proof of every shady deal they've made to protect him."
"And if he isn't?"
He mulls it over, "Then it's even more important. That could mean he's been manipulating the evidence in his favor and making it seem like Hydra's behind it."
That's a possibility you hadn't really considered because who could possibly be stupid enough to cross Hydra like that?
You think back to the list of possible suspects excluding Bucky: Frank Castle, Logan Howlett, Wade Wilson, and Brock Rumlow. You recall the details you know of them, but none of them seem to be the kind to place the blame on someone else. Some of them take credit for their kills proudly while others are only on the list because they fit the military profile the Brooklyn Ripper's alleged to have. Plus, Bucky's already done extensive background checks into every single one of these men. If there was something that could've pointed you in their direction, Bucky would've found it already.
"If he is covering his tracks by putting the blame on Hydra, I wonder why they haven't caught him? He's a liability whether he's part of them or not."
Bucky takes your question into consideration, "It's hard to believe they wouldn't know who the guy is by now. If he wasn't one of them they'd have no problem getting rid of him. But if he is one of them, then they either know who it is and he's too high up in the ranks to cut him loose or they have no idea who the killer among them is," Bucky theorizes and you add, "It could be why they're giving the victim's family hush money disguised as charity. It keeps them quiet long enough for them to try and figure out who it is before the FBI does."
You feel like you're going in circles with the same set of clues, turning them over and over again as if eventually they'll give you a different result. You fall forward, gently resting your head on the steering wheel, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You just need a moment to collect your thoughts. The first few days on a new murder investigation can always be the hardest, so you just need to pick yourself up and move forward.
Bucky places his hand on your back, drawing soothing circles in the space between your shoulders. Your body gravitates towards his touch, leaning into it. "You have shown more effort and dedication on this case than anyone previously assigned to it did. I know you're not used to dealing with victims and families on a personally. You feel every loss on a human level, and that's your strength. It means you're not giving up til the end and you should be proud of yourself for that. I know I am."
Sometimes you remind Bucky of his younger self. The one who had to come to terms that evil exists in this world as the blood on his hands grew. The one who had to make a deal with the devil in exchange for his family's salvation.
He had to pull himself out of a very dark place years ago. He'd make sure you'd never fall into it like he did.
You lift your head from the steering wheel, turning it to lay the side of your face against it. You don't know what to say, but you manage to whisper out a small thank you. You didn't know how badly you needed to hear those words until you heard them. It's hard to not feel out of your element when you're not used to this. You rarely had one on one interactions with victims or families when you worked in counterterrorism. Working in national security was miles away from what you've experienced in this case in the last seven months.
His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb softly caressing it. "Always," he whispers the promise in an oath to you, and the sincerity in his eyes causes you to let out a soft gasp. It's like if you search his eyes hard enough for something you've been searching for all your life, you'll find it.
Alpine suddenly jumps onto the center console, startling you both. You both pull away as if you've been caught doing something wrong, while Alpine stares at something ahead meowing at it. When you follow her line of sight you're surprised to see a black Rolls-Royce pulling up to the victim's residence. You quickly reach for the camera and start taking pictures. "Remind me to bring her along to the next stakeout," you say in awe that Alpine caught that. A few clicks of the camera later and sure enough, Alexander Pierce steps out of the car along with a couple bodyguards.
"Good girl," Bucky praises Alpine as she jumps onto his lap waiting for a proper thank you. He chuckles under his breath, muttering something about how spoiled she is before giving her the attention she wants. He steals a glance at you while you take pictures of the license plate, finding beauty in no matter what you do.
Alpine meows in his lap, as if questioning her dad why he hasn't made a proper move yet. He pets her fur in thought, wishing he could give her an answer as to why.
The days go by in a blur of paperwork and evidence files until the weekend is but a shift way. You've spent the last couple of days studying the Hydra case, familiarizing yourself with it now that Fury has merged your case with it. As expected, after Pierce visited Beth's parents they stopped cooperating with the FBI, claiming they had no further information to share that could help the case.
Having a team to work with had its pros and cons. On one hand, it was nice to bounce ideas off of John or Lamar, and to have someone to go to when you were stuck on a piece of evidence. However, having to report and update them whenever you wanted to do something and needing a majority vote to go through with it—well, let's just say you had a good idea how the rest of the investigations were going to go and you didn't like it.
You were currently in the bureau's record room, returning some of the files you pulled out of evidence in place of taking others. John and Lamar were somewhere in New York investigating a lead in the Hydra case. You felt like you were between a rock and a hard place—not wanting to step on anyone's toes, but also not really seeing yourself fitting in with that duo.
Both of them did things by the book, followed all the rules with no exceptions. They never pushed the boundaries or took risks to get to the truth. It's why they were one of Fury's favorite pairs. He never had to do any extra paperwork or pull any favors to save their asses.
But you? You were secretly working with a vigilante. One wanted by the very institution you work for. If John or Lamar were to find out, you have no doubt in your mind they would turn you in.
You take out your access ID and place it up against the card reader to access the files. You're sorting through them, exchanging some of the ones you had when something on the screen catches your eye.
There's a name that stands out in the history list of who last accessed files for the Brooklyn Ripper and Hydra cases. There beside your name, John and Lamar's is Carol's. You frown at the sight. Why would she need to have accessed them? You don't remember the Punisher case having anything to do with either of those cases.
You make a mental note to ask her about it later.
Back at you desk, you sit in it for another hour looking through files until you can't take the lack of action anymore. There's one lead you have been thinking of pursuing, but you know if you brought it up to John, Lamar, or Fury—they'd all shoot the idea down.
It's a good thing none of them are in the building right now, right?
Beth Johnson used to work as a waitress in Hydra's nightclub The Red Skull. It's owned by the head of the organization, Johann Schmidt, and he uses it as a hub for a lot of Hydra's operations. A logical step to take with that information is to question the people who work there for anything they might know of the victim that could help uncover her killer. The problem? The couple of times John and Lamar have been able to make it past security to question people inside, have only ended with guns drawn the moment they figure out they work for the FBI.
But you, there's only a couple of people that could recognize you, you're not really on Hydra's radar. They don't even know you're part of the Hydra case now. Armed with all the knowledge you've acquired from these files and Bucky's stories, you could go undercover. Find one of the weak links, maybe a friend of Beth's and prod at them until they crack and tell you something you could use.
This is risky, but exactly the kind of action you were hoping to take. No one could find out you were going, not even Bucky. If he found out you were going into the lion's den he'd have a heart attack or insist on going with you, and you'd never agree to that. You're not letting Hydra take him from you as selfish as that sounds.
You were on your own for this one—what's new?
You couldn't go home and change into something more appropriate for a club because if Bucky saw you walking out in a skimpy outfit and heels he'd most certainly question where the hell you were going. You might have to pull a favor with your friend Ava Starr, the head of the undercover and sensitive operations unit at the FBI.
Before you can back out of the plan, you head to her office. She greets you when she sees you, but narrows her eyes at you when she sees your suspicious demeanor.
"Hey, remember when you almost fumbled the Skrulls operation until I stepped in and saved your ass?" You bring up a memory from last year from an undercover operation you did in the counterterrorism division alongside Ava and others. She had made the wrong call and almost put the entire team in jeopardy, but an improvised plan from you saved the day and her job.
"Yeah… Thanks for the reminder," the sarcasm drips from her lips as they pull into a thin line. You close her office door so only she can hear what you say next, "I'm here to cash in that favor."
"Do I want to know for what?"
"It's best you don't."
She gives you a hard look. As your friend, she wants to pry and find out exactly what she's helping you do, but on the other hand, she believes in you and knows if you're telling her she shouldn't know then she won't question it.
"Alright, come on then. Tell me what you need."
By the late afternoon you're inside The Red Skull. Ava had done an amazing job with the makeover, giving you a sparkly black mini dress to wear with skin colored tights underneath. The dress itself was pretty, but stubborn on clinging so tightly to your body that every curve of it is on display. She caked your face in makeup, something subtle yet fitting for a night at the club. You hadn't recognized yourself when you looked in the mirror, but that was a good thing. The more unrecognizable you were, the better.
The only things you weren't used to were the false lashes on your eyes and the size of the heels on your feet. You can't remember the last time you got all dolled up like this, much less the last time you wore shoes that weren't your work ones. You felt like a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time.
To lower the chances of getting caught, you left your FBI badge in your car, keeping the items in your purse simple except for the gun that rests inside for your safety. You weren't sure you were going to make it past security at first. However, you managed to sneak in by flirting with some college guy who was there with a large group of people. You walked with them in line, avoiding being carded by sneaking in as part of their group. You ended up having to follow them to some booth in the back by the dance floor, but you were able to excuse yourself after a few minutes to go to the bathroom.
As soon as you step away you examine your surroundings. Scanning through the sea of people to locate all the entrances and exits, where the main office is, and where all the employee rooms are. The boom of the bass from the speakers shakes the room, the lights and music bounce off the walls, making you feel the liveliness of the party on every inch of your skin. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and substances much worse permeate the air into a toxic cloud you have to be careful not to inhale in too deeply.
You had a handful of people in mind you wanted to approach before you came in. The club itself is too dark to make out a lot of the faces from afar, but you know for certain there's someone working the bar you might be able to get answers from. One of the bartenders, Pietro Maximoff, has a sister Wanda Maximoff who also works as a waitress in this club, just like Beth did. Wanda and the victim could have been friends, and you know her brother must be feeling extra protective after what happened to Beth.
It was all you had to go with to try and get some answers.
You saunter over to the bar, sitting on one of the seats across from Pietro when you locate him. His eyes land on you and he flashes you a charming smile that you return with ease, "What can I get for you, gorgeous?" You play up the charm with a flirty giggle, "Just a whiskey on the rocks, please." His eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise, "And here I thought a pretty girl like you would order one of those fruity drinks, something as sweet as you." He lays it on thick, probably hoping for a good tip. You look at him through your lashes, "What can I say? I'm full of surprises." He hums in approval, grabbing one of the bottles behind him to prepare your drink. Things seem to be going smoothly so far, even if your undercover skills and flirting tactics are a bit rusty.
"So what brings you here tonight? Waiting on someone?" He asks you while handing you your drink. You pretend to take a sip of it, shaking your head, "I'm not waiting on anyone. I'm looking for something." Your vagueness intrigues him. "Something or someone?" There's temptation dripping from his lips, the blue of his eyes stormy in a way that tries to pull you into them until they're the only thing you can look at.
Too bad you're not into blondes.
"Something," you repeat, giving him a sly smirk while reaching into your purse, "Something maybe you can give me." You've piqued his curiosity with that, and he watches your every move as you brush past the cool metal of the gun in your purse to take out your phone. You have to hope this doesn't backfire or things could get ugly real fast.
You unlock your phone, opening up your gallery to a picture, and turning it over so he gets a clear view of it.
A picture of Beth with her son Toby, the one from the polaroid.
His expression falls, an iciness to it that crawls up your spine when he sneers, "You're a fucking cop?" You keep your cool, shrugging nonchalantly, "I prefer to give you plausible deniability on that."
He scoffs, leaning forward on the bar table separating you. He's so close the iciness in his stare contrasts the heat of the anger that radiates off him, "So you are. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't get you kicked out of here—or worse?"
"Because I'm here for her," you grab your phone to put the picture back in his view, "I came for answers, and I know you can give me some." He avoids looking at the picture, it's like he can't stomach the thought of her being gone.
He clicks his tongue, "Stop acting like you care about Beth. You don't care about her, you don't care about any of them. You just want to get your job over with, maybe even get promoted."
"Olivia, Alice, Karli, Sharon, Ruby, Ophelia, Aida, and Beth," you list out the names of every single victim, catching him off guard. "I remember all of them. Each one of those women aren't an assignment to me, or some statistic I'll write in a report at the end of the year. Those women were like me. They were mothers, daughters, sisters, friends—they were people. And I have to go to bed every night knowing I've failed them." Your voice breaks at the end, opening an album on your phone to show him the images you've kept of every single victim. All pictures of happier snapshots of their life, reminding you who you're working so tirelessly for.
He takes a step back, staring at your phone like the pictures would haunt him if he stares at them for too long. "I need to get justice for these women. I want to give their families answers as to why this happened. I want the bastard to pay and face the consequences of what he's done."
You land on Beth's picture again and he looks away like it's too painful to see. "I can't help you, I—" you cut him off, "Wanda's your sister right? She works here as a waitress just like Beth did. They were probably friends, weren't they? What if she's next?"
He looks almost offended you would say that, "Don't say that. I'd never let that happen."
"I know you wouldn't. But I'm sure if you ask any one of the family members of these women they'd tell you the same. People always think something could never happen to them until it does. Wanda has you looking out for her, but this killer is smart and covers his tracks well. Your employers don't seem to give a damn about protecting the women working for them, so Wanda could very well become his next target."
"No, she wouldn't. I'd never let her get involved in that."
"Get involved in what?" Your question makes him realize what he said and he curses under his breath. "Please, just give me something I can investigate further. Do it for them, not for me." You show him the picture of Beth one last time before shutting your phone off, the bar was starting to get a bit crowded and you didn't want the wrong people finding out what you're discussing.
He takes a deep breath, searching your eyes for your true intentions. There's a genuineness there that makes him feel like he can trust you. He subtly scans the bar, taking your drink and pouring it out before getting you another one to blend in. He leans in close, resting himself on his arm on the bar table like he were having an intimate conversation with you.
"Hydra runs two escort services. The one you probably already know about is run by a madam named Agatha Harkness. It's mainly used for making easy money off of cheating husbands and other degenerates," he says this with distaste on his tongue, "Then there's the other one. Hydra keeps this one under wraps, the only evidence of it existing is if the women have any. It's used to blackmail important figures, government officials, world leaders—you name it." You're grateful the necklace Ava gave you is recording constant audio because he's giving you lots of crucial information.
"The madam that runs it is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She has her own escort service, but she integrates it with the Hydra one. There's only a small group of women from Hydra that work for her. She usually approaches girls that are in need of money, preys on them, and gives them loans in exchange for sleeping and dating whoever Hydra wants to get dirt on and under their control next. A few months ago we were hard on money and Valentina approached Wanda about joining, but I refused to let her," you can hear how protective he is of his sister in the way he speaks about her, "I picked up extra shifts at the bar instead. The only reason I know about this service is because my sister told me."
"There should still be some sort of digital footprint of all of this though, no?" You ask yourself more than him. If there was one, Bucky would've found it already. Pietro shrugs, "All I know is that it's super secret and no one openly talks about it. I picked a fight with my boss about it when Wanda was approached and he told me to drop it for both our sakes." You try to absorb all the information he's given you. It's a bit to take in at once, especially when there's multiple questions you want to ask you know he doesn't have the answer to.
He pulls away to get back to work when you go silent, "You're one of the good ones, I can tell. Cops usually look the other way when things happen to people like us."
Before you can respond, he glances at something behind you and curses under his breath, "You need to go—they know you're here." You pretend to take a swig of your drink, turning your head to see from the corner of your eye two big burly men whispering to each other while looking at you.
You reach into your purse to grab a couple of bills, with your business card tucked between them. You hand them to him, "Thank you for your help. I promise I won't stop until I get the guy. You and your sister stay safe, okay?" He takes the money and notices your card, slipping it into his pocket along with the bills. "We will. Now go, get out of here. There's an employees only exit down the hall from the bar. Take it."
You thank him for the tip, getting out of your seat as smoothly as possible to avoid further suspicion. You make it seem like you're heading towards the bathrooms, but using the line outside of them to slip between the people and cover yourself from being noticed taking the exit Pietro had suggested. You don't know if you're being followed, but you're not looking back to find out.
You're able to make it down the hall and to the exit, stepping out into the autumn rainy night. You find yourself in the alley at the back of the nightclub. You would have to walk about a block in the rain to your car. Luckily, it's only a light pour, so your view isn't obstructed.
You're about to head in the direction of where you parked when out of nowhere, someone grabs your arm. You swing your arm and hit them with your purse, the stranger calling out your name with a familiarity that causes you to still. You look over and hiding below a blue baseball cap is a pair of cerulean eyes you know all too well.
It's Bucky.
"Bucky? How are you here? How did you find me?" You're relieved to see him, even if a part of you doesn't believe he's right in front of you. "Did you seriously think you were going to fend off a possible attack with a little black purse?" He looks at you like he can't believe your first defensive move was a purse hit. Especially after everything he taught you.
"You caught me off guard. You're lucky I went with the purse and not my gun," you retort, watching the way Bucky's body is tense like he's prepared for anything. He lets go of your arm, shrugging off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders. "You're lucky the bouncers didn't search your purse before letting you in."
Seems like you were both favored by luck tonight.
"Let's get out of here, my car's a few blocks away," he says, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you in the opposite direction of where your car is parked.
"My car's closer, let's just take mine," you tell him, trying to keep up with his pace. He notices and slows down a step, "There's a lot we need to talk about, but there's still a possibility we might be followed, so just trust me and follow my lead, okay?" You nod, continuing your walk down the narrow street, one hand in his and the other holding his jacket close to your body. It smells like his cologne, a woodsy scent with a hint of leather.
You make it down the street just fine, but when you round the corner you can tell something's wrong by the way Bucky tightens his hold on your hand. He lets go of your hand in favor of wrapping your arm around his for a closer hold.
"Don't look behind us, but we're being followed. Just stick close, and try to keep up as best as you can," he whispers the instruction before picking up the pace. You balance your weight on your heels to keep up. You don't look back, but you can hear the slight thump of footsteps a few feet behind you.
Your heels click against the asphalt in time with the rhythm of your heartbeat. You lean into Bucky's side to steady yourself, the moisture on the ground from the rain making it harder for you to get stable footing. You don't question Bucky for every turn he makes, every street he crosses, or any shortcuts he takes. You're not exactly in the nicest part of the city, and you trust him to know his way around enough to get you back to safety.
The footsteps behind you never falter no matter how swift Bucky is at changing directions. The rain starts to pour down harder, lowering visibility and causing you to stumble. Bucky steadies you, taking off his baseball cap to place it on your head. You can see better now, and notice that you're headed toward a park.
The ground beneath you softens, and the trees make a decent shelter from the rain. Bucky turns his head to scan the area behind you and his shoulders relax. You're not being followed anymore.
Lightning strikes the sky before the world seems to shake from the thunder. Bucky leads you to a small wooden gazebo to catch your breath. Letting you go in first while he scans the park one last time. A breathy laugh escapes you, whether from the nerves or the adrenaline of being followed—you're not sure.
"You find this funny?" Bucky joins you under the shelter, water droplets falling from his hair after being smothered by rain. You frown, crossing your arms, "No, of course not. I get the severity of what just happened, the laugh just slipped out."
"What the hell were you even thinking back there? Do you understand what would've happened to you if I had arrived a second too late?" Bucky's voice shakes with a desperate anger, his eyes swimming with a despair that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. It's still trying to catch up from the run, and the look Bucky is giving you isn't helping.
"But nothing happened, Bucky. I'm okay," you assure him gently, like he's a frightened animal you're trying not to scare off. Bucky shakes his head, his eyes shining from the rain or with tears, you're not sure, but it's devastating either way.
"You're okay because I was there. If I hadn't been…" His voice trails off like it hurts to finish that sentence. He runs his hand through his hair with a frustrated huff, "God, the worst part is I know exactly what would've happened to you. And I would have had to live with that for the rest of my life."
You bridge the space between you, taking his hands into yours, "But nothing happened, Bucky. If something were to happen to me you can't put the blame on yourself like I'm your responsibility."
Your name leaves his lips with a longing that causes your heart to skip a beat, "You know that's not what this is about," he lets go of one of your hands to motion between you, "We can dance around this all you want until you're ready, but don't pretend like you don't know what you mean to me. I can't lose this. I can't lose you."
You feel an overwhelming surge of emotions you've held back for so long fight its way to the surface. You hate seeing how upset he is at the thought of losing you, but you get it. You'd be lost without him. And it would be the end of him if he lost the one person he opened up to after years of isolation and managed to make a part of him he thought was broken whole again—you.
You go to embrace him, needing to feel close to him and hoping to convey with your hold what you want to say, even if you're not ready to say it. He reciprocates your hug immediately, holding you just as tightly—like you'd disappear if he let go.
The rain patters against the roof of the gazebo creating a calming atmosphere around you. It's like you two are the only ones who exist in the world right now. You've never felt safer than here in his arms, so you savor it for as long as you can.
Until the thunder rattles the gazebo, reminding you of where you are.
"Is this a bad time to mention I got a good lead?"
He laughs in disbelief, "Of course you fucking did." You laugh with him, catching his eye and seeing a twinkle in them. "Is this a bad time to ask you who told you that outfit was a good idea without checking the weather?" You roll your eyes and playfully smack his back, "Shut it."
You're about to pull away, but his hold stays. "Give me a minute, doll. Just stay with me for another minute." The plea in his voice is gentle, like he'd let go if you really asked him to, but you won't. Clearly, you both need this pocket of peace to last a little longer. So you stand there in your shelter from the rain and hold each other like it's your only lifeline in this world.
Bucky and Alpine came to your place that night for an impromptu sleepover. You both showered in your own apartments before reconvening at yours. There was a lot you needed to discuss, which you did over chow mein and pot stickers from your favorite Chinese restaurant across from your apartment, Uncle Lou's. You told Bucky what happened from the moment you decided to go undercover, to why you did it, what Pietro revealed to you, and everything else leading up to when he met you outside the nightclub. He still wasn't happy about it, but what's done is done.
Bucky on the other hand explained he had heard your full government name in one of Hydra's communications, apparently one of the patrons recognized you although the name of the patron wasn't disclosed. That's how he knew you were there. He has your name flagged in the system for safety reasons, and it's a good thing he did because as soon as your name was mentioned an alarm went off on his phone. He was able to access the security cameras at The Red Skull, and when he confirmed you were in fact there, he rushed over as quickly as possible.
He knows how Hydra operates, so he had a tow truck arranged to get your car from the nightclub's parking lot and tow it back to the bureau out of an abundance of caution. There was no guarantee that you could drive your car safely back home without being followed. He parked his car at the park where the gazebo was, somewhere out of the way enough where he could shake off anyone that attempted to follow you.
Bucky had thought of everything.
He wasn't surprised to hear about the secret escort service, although it wasn't around when he was there. He didn't recognize Valentina's name, but he had a vague recollection of Agatha's. You play the audio recording from your necklace on your laptop, so he can get a better idea of everything that was said. To say he didn't appreciate having to hear you flirt with another man is an understatement.
The rest of the night was spent researching and bouncing off theories to each other. You ended up falling asleep on the couch, your feet resting on his lap. He dozed off right after, with Alpine curled up in the space between you.
The weekend is spent collecting as much evidence as you can, so that following Tuesday you can face Fury and hopefully keep his anger at bay as you tell him about your unofficial undercover mission. You hope the discovery will be enough to not be reprimanded too harshly.
But Fury truly lives up to his name.
Things don't start off as smoothly as you hoped when you tell him what you did, sitting in the chair on the other side of his desk, laptop in your lap at the ready with a presentation of evidence displayed on the screen. You've lost count how many times he's cursed in the last five minutes. Going off about if he's just a painting on the wall and does no one understand what the title of director means?
The worst part is how he looks at you like a disappointed father would, making you feel like a scolded child. He exhales heavily, sitting down in his chair, "You recognize what you did was stupid and reckless."
"Yes, sir, but I—"
"And that you could've very easily gotten killed and jeopardized not only your case, but the Hydra one as well."
"Yes, sir."
"You also recognize that while it was extremely reckless it resulted in obtaining the biggest lead we've had on the Brooklyn Ripper case since we've had it."
You can breathe again, "I do, sir."
He nods, approving that you understand, "Alright. While you did manage to get a good lead, this can never happen again. From here on out, everything you do with this case goes through me, got it?"
"Yes, sir." you reply, but he doesn't see the way you cross your fingers in your lap.
"Good. Now, show me what you found." It seems in the pursuit of taking Hydra down, Fury doesn't care what methods are used.
You start from the beginning. How you came to the conclusion of checking out the nightclub, and how you infiltrated it—omitting the part where Ava helped you look the part. You tell him what Pietro told you, letting him hear some of the audio clips for himself. You don't mention being followed afterwards, instead sticking to a story that you left as soon as Pietro gave you the warning and took a taxi home while your car was towed here out of precaution. Fury praises you for the quick thinking and you have to stop yourself from giving Bucky the credit he deserves.
You then go in on the finer details. You dive deeper into Valentina and her off the record escort service she runs with Hydra. You mention how Valentina has been arrested twice for promoting prostitution, but was released with a warning both times. Word on the street—what Bucky discovered—is she's got plenty of blackmail on enough cops in the NYPD to keep her out of jail. She has no official ties with Hydra, but she does get paid to take a few girls from them, teach them the works, and offer them to higher paying clientele. If your speculation is true, then every woman killed connected to Hydra was part of this underground escort service. Whether Valentina knows it or not, the girl's Valentina is taking in from Hydra become the Brooklyn Ripper's preferred victims.
Fury takes in all the information you give him, "We need to bring Valentina in, but without giving away what we know. I'll get a detail on her to locate her whereabouts. As soon as she slips up, she'll be arrested. We'll have to have her brought to a trusted police station, and instead of one of the local detectives interrogating her, it'll be one of us. We can play it off like we're making sure she's safe from Hydra."
Fury's plan seems like the logical play. Getting a one on one chat with Valentina could prove to be crucial to uncovering the identity of the Brooklyn Ripper. She probably even knows who it is without knowing it's him, and having her in custody would help in getting warrants to access her personal property. You would be able to get a hand on all the numbers and channels she uses for her communications that Bucky could then investigate deeper. There's also a possibility she might still have messages or other evidence on her devices that could connect her to the victims.
"You said one of the patrons recognized you?" Fury breaks your thought process with a question.
You nod, "It must have been. At the time I was in the nightclub, Pierce and Rumlow were located to be in different parts of the city, so they couldn't have recognized me. I'm not working the Hydra case close enough for anyone else there to have recognized me. I didn't have my badge on me, so whoever saw me knew me from somewhere."
He taps on his desk like he's mulling something over, "You have to be more careful then. If this escort service is being used to blackmail high profile people, anyone you've been in contact with at the any of the city's charity galas or events throughout the years could be a client of Valentina's. We'll have to be more discreet from here on out."
There's an uneasiness that settles its way into your heart when you think of all the people you know and how any one of them could've been so cold to rat you out like that. Especially knowing what Hydra would have done to you.
After another brief exchange, Fury dismisses you as he has a virtual meeting to attend. You walk back to your desk, letting out a breath of relief. John is sitting in his when you approach, giving you an are you okay look, "Everything okay? That sounded intense for a minute there."
You sit down at your desk, a heat spreading on your face when you realize your coworkers most likely heard Fury reprimanding you. "Yeah, I kind of went over his authority, so the yelling was warranted…" John's expression is one of surprise, not thinking of you as someone who would break the rules.
If only he knew about your vigilante partner.
You quickly summarize the events to John. You'd tell him a more detailed version of it later when you both reconvene with Lamar, but for now a more condensed version is all you can give with the energy you have left after being yelled at. John's demeanor shifts immediately, "That was extremely dangerous, you could've gotten really hurt." He scolds you, his disappointment matching Fury's, but somehow coming from John it doesn't feel as serious.
"I went in knowing the risks, but I'm here now aren't I? It's all good," you try to brush it off, not wanting to hear another lecture. His eyes narrow, "No, it's not. The few times Lamar and I have gone up to The Red Skull while chasing a lead—we've never come out without having to get into a fight with security and have their guns drawn on us. It's a miracle you came out unscathed."
"Not a miracle, I just got lucky."
"Lucky or not, some of us really care about you," he follows his statement with the mention of your name, "And we—me, honestly I don't know what I would have done if you got hurt." The heavy weight of the sentiment beneath the surface of those words sits in your chest uncomfortably. Carol's words echo in your mind, but beyond that, there's a wave of nausea that hits you. You always considered John a good colleague and friend, and you'd be lying if you said you'd ever thought of him in any other way.
This is the man who showed you the ropes when you first got transferred here. He's the kind of guy that would get up mid conversation to hold the door open for someone on the other side of the room and the kind of partner that would take a bullet for you—he's done it twice for Lamar. He does have his quirks. Saying things that come off wrong, on bad days being impatiently temperamental, and walking around with the confidence of a man who thinks he's owed attention. Sometimes he's not the best guy, but he's always been a good friend.
You feel like you've been put between a rock and a hard place. Made even worse by what he says next.
"There's actually something I'd like to talk about with you—maybe over dinner or coffee?" There's a hope in his voice that's hard to miss, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole then and there. You've never been put in this position before. How do you stay truthful to how you feel, but not make things awkward or lose a friend?
"John I—I don't… Could we hold this conversation off until I'm done with this case?" You try to buy yourself some time. Hopefully enough to figure out the best way to turn him down.
"You're allowed to live your life outside of here."
"I know, but it wouldn't sit well with me."
John give you a tight smile, like he already knows this is going nowhere, "Okay, I get it. Don't worry about it, okay? Have a good rest of your day." He gets up from his desk and walks off, out the doors and out of sight.
There's a pit at the bottom of your stomach when you watch him walk away. You find yourself getting up from your desk as well. Looking across the room and feeling relief when you notice Carol is at hers. It's almost like she can sense your distress the way her eyes look up from her computer and lock with yours. You beckon her to follow you into the break room and she doesn't hesitate to get up and scurry along to meet you there. And when you tell her what happened with John, her I told you so is as smug as it is jovial.
"Jesus Christ, I cannot believe he finally asked you out and you turned him down like that," she says almost in awe, like she's sorry she missed the interaction.
"Carol, I thought it was clear I don't date divorced men."
"But John's also your friend."
"Yes, my divorced friend."
She tilts her head like she's recalling something, the curiosity in her eyes evident, "Did you say no because of that or because of this secret man you have everyone talking about?"
You do a double take. Surely, you misheard her. "Excuse me, what? I have a secret man that everyone's talking about? What do you mean by everyone?"
She snickers, enjoying how flustered you're getting, "Well, rumor has it you have a boyfriend—a secret lover." Her tone is playful, so you don't know if you can take her serious or not.
"Carol this isn't funny."
"Oh, it's not. I'm the closest friend you have and you didn't tell me that you're seeing someone? I should be offended."
You roll your eyes at her dramatics, "There was nothing to tell you because I don't have a secret boyfriend." You then add with a hint of panic in your voice, "Is this like a big rumor in the bureau?" She shakes her head, "No, I was just teasing you. Lamar told me you were texting someone special." You let out something between a groan and a sigh.
"God, you're the worst."
"Oh, you love me."
You chat with her for another few minutes, but the conversation mainly consists of her teasing you and taking jabs at John. When the laughter quiets, a memory comes back to you.
"By the way, have you tried accessing any of the Hydra or Brooklyn Ripper files recently?" You ask her, recalling her name in the access history. She thinks it over before shaking her head, "I don't think so. My card only works like half the time I try to access any of the Punisher files. Why?"
"It's nothing, it's just your name popped up under the history of those who last accessed the files," you mention and she scoffs sarcastically, "Great, so now my card is glitching out the system. If only Stark weren't such an ass about the budget." You hum in agreement, at ease now that that's cleared up.
"That was a good attempt at changing the subject, but you're not getting away from telling me all about this guy," she looks at you expectantly, like you better not even dream of hiding anything from her.
"There is no guy, he's just my neighbor." Your very handsome neighbor who you're in love with and who you're almost certain returns your feelings. Who's waiting on you patiently for something that can become the greatest thing to ever happen to you, but you're not ready to accept you deserve.
That all seems too complicated to explain, so you'll go with neighbor for now.
"Shut up, there is a guy and I want to hear all about it," Carol is determined to get all the details out of you, but your gossip session is cut short when Special Agent Maria Hill walks into the break room. Seeing as she's Fury's right hand woman you and Carol end your chatter there, heading out of the break room and back to work.
However, the look that Carol gives you lets you know this conversation is far from over.
When you go home that night, there's a tension in the air that's palpable enough to feel it in your fingertips. The kind of unrest that makes you want to reach for your gun and be prepared for anything that might happen next. The wind seems to whisper warnings of what's to come and it travels up your spine, making you shiver.
You find yourself picking up your pace, wanting to enter your apartment with the haste of someone who's being chased. In a moment of deja vu, Bucky opens the door to his apartment when he hears you about to enter yours. Alpine isn't in his arms this time, and there's a grim look on his face that makes your body grow cold.
"Come with me. I need to show you something," the urgency in his voice has you entering his apartment without question. Once you're inside he leads you to his living room, and suggests you take a seat before he talks. Alpine jumps on the coffee table, pacing it like even she can feel there's something wrong.
"There's no easy way of revealing this, so I'll just show you," He hands you a manila envelope, it's outwardly unassuming at a first glance. You take it from him, noticing the way there's nothing written on the outside of it. "Yori ended up getting our mail mixed up again. I found that envelope in my mail pile. There was no name written on it, so Yori probably assumed it was mine. When I went down to ask him who delivered it he couldn't remember, and coincidentally the security cameras were down when it got delivered," Bucky explains as you open the folder, reach inside, and find a multitude of pictures inside.
Pictures of you.
At the grocery store, walking into and out of work, at the coffee shop you love by the bureau, getting food from a delivery driver outside of your building, pictures of your window where you can be seen reading and cooking—all candid pictures of you dating back months ago. Even Bucky can be seen in some of them with you, but they're all mainly of just you.
Someone had been watching your every move for months.
And that someone would most likely be the Brooklyn Ripper.
The blood drains from your face, your stomach churning the more you stare at the photos. You've had moments where you felt like you were being watched, but you brushed it off thinking this case had you unjustifiably paranoid. At first glance, you thought the pictures were taken by someone working for Hydra, but after analyzing the changes in your hair, your clothes, and the environment around you—these pictures go back to over half a year ago. Almost to around the time you were assigned to this case.
"Did you ever notice you were being watched or followed?" Bucky sits next to you on couch, his stance protective, like if he could somehow protect you from this dark reality he'd do it in a heartbeat.
You shake your head, "No, but I should have. I'm trained for stuff like this, I shouldn't have missed all of this. I'm so off my game, I can't believe I let this happen." Your grip on the pictures tightens, and Bucky has to pry them out of your hands. "Don't blame yourself, doll. This guy is a professional fucking creep and he knows how to do this without being caught. I'm trained to notice stuff like this too and I didn't catch it either."
"This picture here," you grab the one that has you and Bucky walking down your home street, "the dress I'm wearing in it is the one I wore to your birthday dinner. That was seven months ago, around the time I was assigned the Brooklyn Ripper case. If he's been watching me this whole time, then why hasn't he done anything?"
Bucky grits his teeth, "Because this is some kind of sick twisted game to him. He kept an eye on you even though he was sure you'd never catch him—but that was before. If he had the guts to send you these pictures now and show his hand like this, that means you're getting close to finding him. This is his way of scaring you off." You like the idea of the killer getting nervous you're onto him, even if it meant having to face being stalked.
"You said the cameras were down when the envelope was delivered?" You repeat, and Bucky grunts in annoyance, "They were compromised. Someone managed to cut the wires at the exact moment the mail is usually delivered. It wasn't a hard fix so I fixed them up for Yori. I even went over and hijacked the cameras from Uncle Lou's restaurant across the street to keep on eye on the windows."
Your lips part, "Bucky, you did not."
He doesn't look one bit ashamed, "I did too. I don't take your safety lightly, doll. Which is why you're staying here tonight."
"I own a gun, Bucky. I'm sure he knows not to get too close," you say to lighten the tension, but in all honesty, you're not against staying here with him tonight.
"Don't make me beg, doll," he regrets those words when he sees your smile widen, giving you a look like it's not the right time to mess with him. Although, he'd prefer to see a smile on your face than anything else, so if you wanted to tease him right now, he won't complain. Even Alpine comes over and jumps on your lap to give you the prettiest eyes that ask you to stay.
Yeah, you weren't saying no to either of them tonight.
You were still shaken up from the pictures when Bucky accompanied you to your apartment to get a few things for the night. You had lost your appetite, so after showering at his place and changing into a comfy pajama set, you were ready to call it a night. Bucky had brewed you an herbal tea before bed to calm your nerves, one he said his mother made him when he was anxious. You discussed how the talk with Fury went over tea, and what the FBI was planning to do with Valentina. Bucky agreed it was a smart move, and mentioned he'd be able to get access into her private files as soon as the FBI obtained her devices.
The weight on your shoulders feels lighter after the tea and the talk with Bucky. A new sense of hope you haven't felt in a long time settles in your chest. Bucky notices you start to blink slower and your yawning gets more frequent, so he tells you to go to bed. You don't resist, sleep is calling your name like a lullaby.
You make your way to the living room, prepared to set up the couch when Bucky stops you. “You're sleeping in my room. I’m taking the couch.” Your eyebrows raise, eyes darting between him and yourself. Out of the two of you, you'd surely be more comfortable on the couch than him. “Bucky, the couch is perfectly fine for me.”
He points to Alpine, "She’s sleeping with you tonight and she always gets the bed so,” he shrugs like that explains everything. As if on cue, Alpine makes her way over to you and paws at your feet until you pick her up.
“She’s also—she’s good for nightmares,” Bucky utters quietly and you freeze in your spot. How did he know? You've never told a soul about them, not even Bucky who you trust the most. It was a sore subject for you that stung like an open wound. You rarely had nightmares before, but they became more frequent after seeing the first victim you worked on for the Brooklyn Ripper case back in May. What you've seen since then stays with you even in your sleep.
"I get them too, sometimes. I can tell," he whispers, reading your mind all too well and sharing another piece of himself he finds he doesn't fear giving to you. You appreciate him sharing this with you, this shared vulnerability that establishes a gentle solidarity between you on the subject. “Thank you, Bucky," you reply softly, holding Alpine a little closer to your chest, like hugging her could fix a part of you that you don't acknowledge as broken. You follow up with a small goodnight which he returns. Parting from each other reluctantly, with neither of you voicing the one word that could bring you back together.
You enter his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so Alpine can go in and out easily. You lay her on the bed gently, the moonlight coming in through the blinds casts a soft light in the room as you settle in the bed. His sheets smell of lavender detergent and something uniquely him. The scent wrapping around you like it were the blanket itself.
You close your eyes, in the darkness, the last thing you feel before falling asleep is Alpine cuddling into your side. You always seem to get a better nights sleep when Bucky is around, so hopefully tonight is no different.
Bucky was right about one thing, Alpine is good for nightmares. Minutes into falling asleep you fall into a deep slumber. One that seems will not be interrupted by any bad dreams tonight.
Alpine is, however, not good for things that go bump in the night.
It was around three in the morning when you first heard it. A loud crash in the room on the other side of the wall of Bucky's bedroom. The noise startles you awake. You sit up in bed, your heart hammering in your chest. You wonder if you hallucinated the sound, simply paranoid after the stalking revelation. Poor Alpine had jumped on the other side of the bed when you woke up so abruptly. You're about to reach out for her to comfort her when you hear something else.
A heavy continuous thump on the other side of the wall that might be footsteps, and then a rustling you can't tell what it is. The goosebumps that cover your skin happen at the realization that the room on the other side of this wall is your bedroom.
The Brooklyn Ripper is in your bedroom.
On any other day you might have believed what you heard to be a random break in. But after those pictures you received, there's no doubt in your mind who's in your apartment right now.
If you can hear him, then that means he can hear you. You're careful when getting out of bed, every step you take is as light as possible as you exit the bedroom. You open the door just enough where you can slip through. Your gun is in the duffel bag you left at the foot of Bucky's couch earlier in the night. You have to get to it, this is the closest you ever have been to catching the killer.
Through the warm glow from the lamp Bucky left on in the living room, you see him sprawled across the couch, snoring lightly in his sleep. He's shirtless, muscular chest on display with only his dog tags decorating it. The blanket messily strewn over himself barley covers the way his gray sweatpants are riding lower in his sleep.
Focus, there's a killer in your room.
As you step closer to the couch, the floor board creaks beneath you and his eyes shoot open. They take a second to adjust in the darkness before they land on you, squinting at you quizzically.
“I think the killer is in my room,” you whisper loud enough for Bucky to hear, his expression hardening. You reach for your bag, grabbing your gun and pulling it out while Bucky gets up from his couch. He's quick on his feet, grabbing his own gun from a safety box in the broom closet in his hallway. He prefers to act first, ask questions later.
You join him in the hallway, "I thought I was hearing things at first, but then there were more noises on the other side of wall," you whisper, grabbing Bucky's arm and leading him into his bedroom. You're both careful to not make the floor creak the closer you get to the wall. Alpine is gone from the room, and it's dead silent inside. Your ears strain to pick up any sound on the other side and after a few breaths of silence you hear it, the rustling is back.
Bucky wasn't kidding when he claimed the walls were thin.
You both leave his room with minimal sound. Back in the hallway you whisper, "We have to get in there, Bucky. This could be our chance to catch him." He firmly nods, "Alright, but only if we stick together. We don't know what we'll find when we get in there or what kind of weapons this guy has."
You agree, shuffling over to your duffel bag to grab your keys, taking off the one for your apartment off the ring, to avoid the extra noise. Careful with every step you take, you make it out into the hallway. You hope none of your neighbors are awake to step out and see you and Bucky with your guns drawn, you don't know how you would explain your way out of it without alarming anyone.
Bucky is right behind you when you put your ear up to your door. You listen in for a few seconds, but when you're met with silence you put the key in the lock and open the door. The lights are off just like you left them. The moonlight filtering in through the windows gives you enough light to make out your surroundings. Bucky closes the door behind you quietly, stepping forward first, his military training coming in handy making his steps featherlight.
You're one step behind him, covering his back. Your hands are outstretched with your gun at the ready, eyes darting around your home for any sign of danger. Your one bedroom apartment is small enough that there's not much space you have to clear before heading over to your bedroom.
You're both up against the door, staring at each other while you wait for a sign that the killer is still there. The silence stretches for what seems like forever, until you can't take it anymore and nod at Bucky to know you're ready to head inside. He counts to three on his fingers before you both barge in to the room.
"FBI! Show yourself!" You identify yourself, flipping the switch on your tactical light on your gun to see your surroundings better. Your window is wide open, the small plotted plants you had on your windowsill knocked over and broken on the floor. Your entire room is covered in bright orange flyers—there must be about a hundred of them, crinkling again the ground with every step taken.
Regrettably, you receive no response. Whoever broke in is now gone.
You curse under your breath while checking your closet, but the killer is not in there. You step towards your window, swearing you had it locked shut before you left for work in the morning. You don't see anyone out on the street, but he could be hiding somewhere in the shadows.
He could even be watching you right now.
You shut your window, locking it a few times before you're certain it stays. You close the curtains and turn around to look at the haphazardly thrown flyers covering every inch of your bed and floor. Bucky has one is his hand, scowling at it like he can't figure out what it means.
You pick one up at your feet. It looks exactly the same as the one on the pizza box from last week. The only difference is that this one has a bright red circle on the date, October 25th. You shine the light from your gun on the flyers, they all have that date circled.
Why would the killer go through all that effort to do this?
Bucky grabs a handful of the flyers catching your attention. He puts a finger to his lips as a warning to keep quiet, before tapping on his ear and you put two and two together. The killer had been in your room long enough to plant these flyers and maybe something else. He could've planted something in here to listen in or keep watch.
The chill that runs through you has nothing to do with icy floor beneath your bare feet.
After another quick check you leave your apartment and head next door to his. He turns on the big light to get a better look at the flyer while you put away your gun.
"First thing in the morning I'll check your entire apartment to make sure that creep didn't plant any bugs or cameras," he promises, assuring you the killer won't get to have anymore access to you. You nod along, but all you can think about is what would have happened if you hadn't stayed at Bucky's place tonight.
"Do you know why he would leave dozens of these in your room? What is it for?" He asks, holding up the flyer. You blink at it, "I don't. It's a flyer for the autumn carnival they host in Queens." That only causes more confusion to appear on Bucky's face, "Have you mentioned wanting to go to someone?" You shake your head, "No, not that I can think of. The only time I've ever seen that flyer was when I was talking to John and Lamar the night the last victim was killed."
"You had this conversation at work?"
"Yes."
Bucky glances at the coffee table where your phone lies. He strides over to it and powers it off. "This guy has been watching you for months. He might have tapped your phone and your devices at work. I'll check your phone in the morning too and see if its been compromised." You're feeling sicker by the minute.
"He's starting to escalate, sending the pictures and then breaking into my room. He must have figured out I wasn't there tonight and that's why he left all those flyers instead," you conclude based on everything so far. Bucky's hand balls into a fist when he thinks of what could've happened if he hadn't offered for you to stay here tonight. It's not a thought he wants to dwell on when you're standing here with him, safe.
"You're close to getting him," he motions to the flyer in your hands, "he circled the twenty fifth. I have a feeling he'll be there that day, and he wants you to be there too." You came to the same conclusion. The Brooklyn Ripper wouldn't exert all this effort for nothing. It was clear he was inviting you on some sick twisted kind of date, one to end things once and for all.
For you or him.
"If that's what he wants then that's what he'll get. I'm sick of this guy and I'm ready to put an end to this." Nothing would stop you from being there on Saturday.
"You'll want to send in back up to monitor the entire perimeter. Maybe even an undercover operation on a larger scale," Bucky suggests, but you shoot that idea down instantly, "No. The FBI can't find out about this."
"Why?"
You gnaw on the inside of your lip, "There's been something nagging at me from the moment I saw those photos. Especially the one from the day of your birthday dinner," you walk over to the TV stand, the photos from the envelope are neatly stacked in one pile on top of it. You look through them, finding the one you're looking for and then handing it to Bucky.
"This picture is from March. The only people who knew I was assigned to this case were part of the FBI. The public knew the FBI took over the case, but only the agents at the bureau knew me and Laura had been assigned to it." Bucky takes the picture from your hand and goes down the same line of thought you have, "Then the killer might be working for the FBI. That would explain why he's so well at covering up evidence, and why he always seems to be five steps ahead of everything."
"I'll have to do this off the record without FBI involvement. At this point, I have to assume anyone at the bureau could be a suspect—even Fury," thinking about one of your colleagues being the killer makes your heart sink all the way to the bottom of your stomach. The way you could have passed them through the halls or had small talk with them in the break room, all meanwhile they were planning their next kill. Any innocent inquiry of your day or about the case could have been their way of taunting you. It was a hard pill to swallow.
"Then, I'll be going with you. You'll need the backup," he states, crossing his arms like he's ready to hear you protest, but you give him none. Instead, you give him a condition, "Only if you promise me you'll run if at any point your identity could be compromised." Catching the Brooklyn Ripper was important, but not worth jeopardizing Bucky's entire life over.
He takes a step closer to you, if he reached out he could touch you, "Not if it's between choosing saving my ass or yours. I'm choosing you every time."
"James."
"No," he echos your name like you did his, "If I get caught then let me face the consequences of my own decisions. I'm choosing to help you. I'm choosing to be there. It's my choice." His stance on this is unwavering and your voice comes out quieter than you wanted to when you reply, "I'm asking you to promise because I care about your safety too. I won't let this monster take away something else from me or anyone else. He's taken enough."
His eyes soften, and he takes another step to shorten the space between you. Yours instinctively rest on his chest, while his right hand raises to cup your face, "I know, doll, but that's something I can't promise, I'm sorry." You sigh, your head falling to his chest, the heat of his skin warming your own.
"Sometimes you can be really stubborn and it's frustrating."
He chuckles, "I can be stubborn? Have you met yourself?" Your reply is a pinch to his hip causing him to laugh again, "Someone's grouchy when they're tired. Go back to bed, doll. We can continue this conversation tomorrow."
"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight," you're about to dismiss yourself, finding yourself annoyed at him, but he stops you by gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you into him so you're close enough for him to plant a soft kiss on your head.
"Goodnight."
You're able to sleep just fine the rest of the night.
The next morning, Bucky checks every corner of your apartment, and fortunately finds the Brooklyn Ripper didn't plant anything anywhere. He cleans the mess the killer left behind, changing the lock on your bedroom window, and making a mental note to buy you new pots to replace the shattered ones. In the meantime, he salvaged what he could and gave the plants temporary homes in plastic cups.
Bucky had also scanned your phone and found it wasn't tapped, furthering the theory that the killer is one of your colleagues. You checked in on Laura while Bucky was busy in your apartment, feeling guilty you had forgotten about her this past week. As discreetly as you could, you tried to pry and figure out if she had received anything interesting in the mail too. You were relieved to find out it seemed the Brooklyn Ripper had only been after you this whole time.
Now you were busy preparing pancake batter for breakfast. Bucky came back by the time you were starting on your first pancake.
Bucky had to take a second when he saw you in his kitchen, morning sunlight highlighting your features to make you shine like an angel. You looked peaceful, happy for once like the weight of the world wasn't on your shoulders.
He'd do anything to keep you like that.
When you notice him, your face lights up making his heart stutter in his chest. You call him over and you fall into easy conversation as he steps in to make some scrambled eggs beside you. The case eventually gets brought up. and Bucky asks you if there's anyone at the FBI you suspect.
"I can't really think of anyone. But there is this one weird guy in the tech department, Quentin Beck," your nose scrunches in disgust when you think of the guy, "He's known to be sleazy, always trying to get women drunk at office events to get them to sleep with him, and now that you mention it, my friend Carol, her access ID stopped working half the time, and the system recorded her ID accessing some files she hadn't."
Bucky stirs the eggs in the pan, "The magnetic stripe on the card could've been messed with. Someone like him would know how to duplicate her card." The idea of the killer being one of your coworkers solidifies itself more and more, getting harder to stomach every time. Bucky can see the shift in your demeanor, so he decides to change the subject.
"You know what this reminds me of?" he says softly, reaching in to the cupboards to grab another pan to start on the bacon.
"Hm?"
"To the day we first met."
You look down at the bubbling pancake and laugh, "That's right. When Alpine snuck into my apartment through the window and scared the living hell out of me. She caused me to burn a perfectly good pancake.
He scoffs, "She did not. She's innocent."
As if knowing she's being talked about, Alpine meows in the distance like she agrees with Bucky. You shake your head at both of them, "She is not! She even caused the fire alarm to go off. You were so grumpy when I told you what she had done."
"That's because you woke me up almost knocking my door down the way you we're banging on it," he justifies his attitude back then, remembering with a smirk, how flustered you were that day when he opened his door in only his boxers. In his defense, he really had just woken up.
"Now you're just exaggerating."
"I'm pretty sure there's still a dent on the door from that day."
You both laugh at his teasing. The memory of that day now fresh in your minds like it happened yesterday. When the laughter dies down to a comfortable silence, you can't seem to look away from each other. A fondness in both your expressions that makes time stand still. He leans into your space and your heart skips a beat. Your eyes fall to his lips for a split second and he notices. The corner of his lips tug into something coy—something magnetic—and when his arm reaches around you, you think you know what's about to happen next.
He uses his wooden spoon to turn the half burnt pancake in the pan.
"Try not to burn these pancakes too, doll," he winks at you, grinning cheekily like he knows exactly what he's doing. You gawk at him as he takes a piece of cooked bacon and eats it, continuing as normal. Even when his expression gave away just how much he was enjoying this.
Bucky will kiss you eventually. This isn't the frist time he's held back from doing so, but he knows the first kiss between you has to come from you. You haven't been as forward as he has with affection, and he doesn't want to push you into anything you're not ready for. So, he'll patiently wait for your move, and when you make it—he'll stop holding back and show you the kind of passion they write about in books.
The rest of the morning into the following days are filled with small moments of normalcy stuffed between extensive hours of planning, prepping, and collecting all the evidence of the case into one new theory. The one involving one of your colleagues being the killer. You end up having to lie to Fury and call into work sick with the flu to give you extra time to prepare for Saturday.
Fury is upset about this as he wanted you to be in there with him to question Valentina, but he wishes you a quick recovery. When they manage to get her on Friday over a parking ticket violation, John and Lamar are the ones to question her. And to no ones surprise, she lawyers up as soon as she's in police custody.
Her counsel? Alexander Pierce.
Fury is not happy about that at all.
The envelop filed pictures, and apartment break in proved to be a better lead than Valentina could have provided anyway, so you aren't mourning the loss of that lead.
In addition, there's one thing that Bucky discovered before Saturday comes that will prove to be crucial for Saturday's showdown.
He reviewed the security footage from Uncle Lou's restaurant from the night of the break in. The suspect was covered in a black outfit from head to toe—gloves and all—so Bucky wasn't able to get a good look at him. However, what he did catch was the suspect getting injured on his way down. As he raced down the fire escape, the drop down ladder got stuck, causing him to have to jump down to get away. The distance itself wasn't high enough to cause a serious injury, but it was high enough that he had to be careful with his landing.
Fortunately for you, he wasn't. It's clear from the security footage he doesn't make the landing right, and slips on his way down putting the most pressure on his right knee and shoulder to break his fall. When he gets up to leave, he clutches his shoulder and there's a limp when he attempts to run. The injuries are severe enough that they won't be healed by Saturday.
This discovery might have just saved your lives.
You hope the next time you go to an autumn carnival is under better circumstances than today. The sun is well past the horizon, with the full moon taking it's place in the sky. There's colorful fairy lights strung to illuminate every path, although the multicolored lights from the rides are enough to light up the entire carnival with its festive glow. Children's laughter blends in with attendee's screams of thrill that invite you to come in and see what the fun is all about.
You and Bucky are dressed in your average fall attire to blend in. To everyone else you look like a couple on a date. However, on the inside of your leather jacket you had your gun and badge neatly tucked into a pocket. As for Bucky's leather jacket, who knows what's hiding in it. Even after all this time, you don't know the White Wolf's preferred method of weaponry.
Your first plan of action is to roam the grounds, scan the place, and get familiar with it. Just enough to locate and block out the different sections: food, games, and rides.
Starting at the entrance, you are greeted by rows of booths with carnival games and smaller rides that taper out to the bigger ones on the outskirts of the carnival. In the middle is a large red and white striped tent with magician and clown shows playing at every hour. And at the very far end is a large family area filled with picnic tables to sit at by a large wall of food trucks and stations with endless amount of choices for food to pick from. All in all, the festival was large, but nicely organized in a way that you and Bucky could make a mental map of it the first time walking around.
Sometimes you thought you caught a glimpse of someone you recognized from work, falsely placing the association on a random stranger if you didn't look close enough. To say you were on edge is an understatement. Meanwhile, Bucky seems to be more composed than you. Even stopping to buy some cotton candy from one of the vendors. He offers to buy you one, but you decline, so Bucky resolves to sharing.
He looks like a kid with the boyish grin he's wearing as he takes a bite of the pink sugary fluff. "You sure are enjoying yourself," you tease him with mirth. He hums pleasantly at the taste, not hiding his delight.
"I'm blending in."
"Right."
"You should try it," he tears away another bit of fluff before offering some to you. You can't remember the last time you had cotton candy, so decide to take a page out of Bucky's book and enjoy yourself for a bit. You pull at the sticky treat, getting a nice little ball of fluff to try. The sugar strands melt in your mouth as soon as it hits your tongue.
"Good right?"
"It's pure sugar, Bucky. Of course its good," you giggle, and Bucky's grin only widens with your response. You're on the second round of walking through the carnival grounds, sharing the fluffy treat when Bucky spots you looking at some of the prizes offered in the carnival games.
"You want one?" He points to the prizes.
"A prize? No, they're like impossible to get. All those games are rigged." You don't think it's worth the money while Bucky looks at you like you've challenged him, "Nothing's impossible when you've got the right skills. Tell me which one you want and I'll get it." You don't take him seriously until he stops walking and waits for you to choose one.
So you stop and look around, there's your generic animal plush prizes, the franchise licensed ones, the ones that cater to kids, and the autumnal themed ones. You skim through them, only one of them catching your eye.
"The bat," you point to it, a plush prize for one of those balloon dart games.
He looks to where you're pointing, "The bat? The one with the grumpy face? You sure?"
"Yeah, it's cute, looks like you," at your comparison, Bucky's face falls and you can't help but laugh. He looks even more like the bat now.
"See, you've got the same expression and everything."
Bucky grumbles something under his breath about how there's no way you just described him being as cute as a bat. He honestly doesn't know if he should be offended or flattered.
You both head over to the game stall. He hands you the almost fully eaten cotton candy treat while he tells the game operator he'd like to play and points to the bat as the prize he wants to win. The operator explains to win the bat, Bucky has to at least pop two balloons in a row. While you do have faith that Bucky is excellent with his aim, you have no faith that this game is set up fairly.
And yet, you should never underestimate a man on a mission. Bucky is handed two darts and throws them back to back, popping two balloons in a row leaving the operator stunned. He gives the bat to Bucky and Bucky hands it to you proudly.
You hold it like it's something precious, the polyester smooth to the touch. No one's ever won you anything before. "I can't believe how fast you won that. Even the operator was shocked," you comment, squishing the bats face over how cute it is. He shrugs like it was nothing, adoring the joy it's brought to you, "Would never want to disappoint you, sweetheart."
Your heart does a little flutter at the term of endearment. As a thank you, you plant a quick, but sweet kiss on his cheek. "Thanks, Buck." You don't miss the way his ears tinge pink, and he smiles at you like you're the only reason for his happiness, "Anytime, doll."
You take his hand, leading him down the rows of carnival games to keep looking around. Every step you take is a little lighter, almost forgetting why you were here in the first place.
By the time you make it back to the family area, Bucky excuses himself to take head to the bathroom quickly. You agree to wait for him by the funnel cake stand while you scan the area for something to eat. When Bucky is out of your sight, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand.
Someone's watching you.
You examine the droves of people around you, no one seems familiar to you, but you know you're not being paranoid, someone is definitely watching you. And they waited for you to be alone to make themselves known. It's not until your eyes dart back to the entrance of the family area that you spot him. Your first instinct is to smile at him, and you're about to wave him over, but something stops you.
He's not smiling back.
His expression is unreadable, but his eyes rake over your body like he's trying to get one last good look at you.
And most chilling of all? When he turns to leave there's a limp to his step that confirms your worst fears.
It's John Walker. He's the Brooklyn Ripper.
In your state of shock, you lose him in the crowd.
Your feet move before you can reconsider your actions. It shouldn't make sense—John being a cold blood killer—it shouldn't, and yet it does. As you push through the crowd of people to catch up to him, all that races through your mind are the pieces of evidence connecting themselves to each other with red threads.
Carol's card, Hydra's connections, his dates that always seems to go bad, the many times he insisted helping you with the case, the frequent check ins to make sure you were doing okay really being excuses to see what you knew about the case, and the way he got upset when you found out about Valentina. Logically, it makes sense, but your heart is lagging behind on reconciling the reality that a friend of yours—someone you would have trusted with your life—was the killer you were searching for all along.
Your head whips around frantically as you try to locate John. Some of the people around you look at you strangely, you must look like such a sight right now.
Should you call Fury? Carol? Should you warn them? Calling in backup means surrounding this place with law enforcement and putting Bucky at risk. That might have to be on the back burner until there was no other choice. To accuse John of being the Brooklyn Ripper requires solid proof, and right now you have none. And it's not like you won much merit with Fury after disappointing him so many times.
Plus, you still don't have a lot of answers like his motive, why the first three victims were different, or what caused him to break. John was in the military before being recruited to the FBI, so he does fits some of the profile, but the rest? The rest are pieces of a puzzle you don't even know if they fit.
By the time you get out of the crowd you worry you've lost him, but the rambunctious shriek of clown laughter catches your attention. You manage to catch John heading inside a funhouse while the teenager who runs it yells at him. John has already made his way in by the time you make it to the clown head entrance.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you can't cut the line and you can't go in there right now." The teenager who is most likely not getting paid enough to deal with as many problems as he has tonight, stops you from going in. You reach into your jacket, taking out your badge and it flashing to him. He looks like a fish out of water.
You glance at the name on his tag, "Peter, is there anyone else in that funhouse besides the man that just walked in?" He shakes his head adamantly, "No ma'am. I'm not supposed to let anyone in while it's not fully operational. One of the generators went out, so no ones allowed inside until maintence is done fixing it." You're relieved to hear it'll only be John waiting for you inside.
"Okay, listen here, kid," he straightens up at your words, "The man that just went in there? He's a possible suspect, so I'll be going in to arrest him. How long does this funhouse take to get through?" Peter has an answer right away, "Twenty to thirty minutes depending on how fast you go."
You nod, making a mental note of that while reaching into one of your pockets and taking out your business card. "If I don't come out in twenty, you call this number," you point to the number below yours, the FBI tip line, "You give them my name and you tell them I need backup urgently. And absolutely under no circumstance do you let anyone go into this place, do you hear me?" He takes your card with a shaky hand, "Yes, ma'am."
"Oh and kid," you give him the grumpy bat Bucky won for you, "hold onto this for me. You guard this bat with everything you got or so help me I'll lock you up myself." Peter's eyes go wide in fear, "Yes ma'am—of course, ma'am." He hugs the bat so tightly to his body it's like he's trying to make it a part of him.
You face the funhouse, looking up at the enormous clown head, it's mouth an open wide entrance. Never having been inside a funhouse before, you have no idea what awaits you.
You step inside, pulling out your gun in perfect position as you walk forward. The clown's mouth leads to a neon spinning tunnel. The glow and the dark green swirls contrast with the blues and purples. They spin round and round, encircling you with the intention of making you dizzy as you walk across a metal platform. Peter mentioned there was only one generator out, so you had to hope which ever ones were fine powered enough things inside to help you get through the funhouse and catch John.
You have no idea how far in he is already, so you push onward. Switching on the tactical light on your gun to light your surroundings better. You're halfway through the metal platform when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know who it is, you know it's Bucky, but you don't have the time for a call. John could be watching you right now. So instead, you quickly take out your phone—ignoring the five texts Bucky sent you prior to calling you—and you send him your live location. He'll be able to find you in no time.
The tunnel isn't hard to get through, and it takes about a minute to complete. The end of it is the start of a mirror maze that seems to have been impacted by the power source. It shuffles through solids colors sporadically—some lasting longer than others. And unlike the tunnel, there's carnival music being played, but it's faint, like someone forgot to turn up the volume.
Your light glares distractingly against the mirrors, so you turn it off before heading in. The strip of lights on the ground are red, your figure reflecting on a myriad of prisms. In the distance there's something that's akin to a chorus of laughter, but you're not sure.
You keep your arms outstretched, using the barrel of your gun to tap on the space in front of you as you navigate the maze. You swipe your legs strategically to feel for what path to take. And it's in the midst of the lights changing from red to purple that you hear someone call out your name.
You whirl in the direction of the sound and three reflections of John stare back at you. You point your gun on them, but you can't tell which one is the real one. He disappears before you can find out.
"John!" You yell out, picking up your pace and accidentally bumping into a wall, "Tell me it's not true. Tell me you're not who I think you are!" You're demanding answers. Not from the killer, but from the man you thought was your friend.
The lights switch to blue.
"You know who I am. You've known me long enough to know." His voice sounds like it's somewhere to your left. You can't rely on your sight in here, so you'll have to rely on getting him to talk to follow his voice.
You bump into another wall, but you brush it off quickly. "I thought I did! A part of me still doesn't think it's true, but tell me John, how did you injure your foot?"
There's a loud metallic clink that echoes to your right—or was it your left?
"You're asking me, but you sound like you already know how," he sounds closer, the lights flashing to green, then yellow, then back to red in a matter of seconds. It's jarring.
"Do I?" Do you?
"You do," there's a sinister undertone to his words that you can't mistake for anything else. John is showing you his true colors and it's hitting you like a slap to the face.
You grow frustrated, whether it's at yourself for not seeing what was right in front of you or at him for betraying your trust, you can't tell. It's probably both.
"But why? How could you do that? Those women didn't deserve it!"
"They did! Those bitches got what they deserved and so will you!" The malice in his shout startles you as much as the crash following it does. It's easy to locate the source, one of the mirror panels was shattered with bits of glass all over the floor. In his anger, he must have punched it, there's a blood smear on the area of impact. That's good. The more he injures himself, the easier it'll be to take him down. You're not military trained like he is, so you'll take any advantage you can get.
The exit to the mirror maze is up ahead, the laughter getting louder the closer you get to it. Past the mirror maze is a room that looks straight out of a clown horror movie. There are big sacks of what looks like cotton candy, swinging back and forth forcibly like it's purpose were to knock you into the wall. They're sticky to the touch, and hung randomly from the ceiling like they were a maze of their own.
If that wasn't enough, there was a constant strobe light illuminating the room in harsh flashes while carnival music blasted in your ears with hounding waves of clown laughter. The room was designed to be disorienting and overstimulating, and you were feeling that and more right now.
You move throughout the room as best as you can, trying to doge every swinging obstacle, but still managing to get hit a few times. You can't tell if John is still in the room with you, so there's an extra edge of fear to every movement you see in the corner of your eyes.
Toward the end, the big puffs of cotton candy stubbornly stick to your body like they're trying to drag you back into the room. The music and laughter seem to be getting louder and the flashes of light more bold and frequent—it's throwing you every which way—you're losing your sense of direction.
When you step into the next room, you are welcomed by darkness. Your eyes are having a hard time adjusting after being battered by lights, the ghosts of them lingering behind your eyelids with every blink. The laughter and music are now faint and blocked out by the partition separating the rooms. It's so silent, the ringing in your ears is the loudest thing in here.
You switch the tactical light on your gun back on, the spotlight reveals a sight that has you grateful you didn't step further into the room.
The entire floor is a ball pit.
From up above you can't tell how deep it goes, but it's at least twenty to forty feet long—about your average pool size—or at least that's what your scattered mind comes up with. It's like a giant rainbow sea, one big enough to hide a man like John inside, and you have a gut feeling that while you were navigating the previous room, he hid somewhere in here—ready to catch you off guard.
You crouch down, slowly making your way inside the ball pit—feet first—knowing you had no choice but to go through it. Whatever twisted game John was playing with you, he was clearly enjoying. He couldn't outrun you and he has too many injuries to take you down as easily as he's used to with his previous victims. He needed to give himself the element of surprise to get the upper hand on you.
The light on your gun reflects off the obnoxious yellow colored walls surrounding the ball pit. You submerge yourself all the way in, the plastic balls surprisingly icy to the touch and coming up all the way to just below your chest.
As if the light wasn't enough for him to know your exact location, you couldn't take a step in the pit without making noise. There was no way you could navigate your way through this quietly. So you needed to do something to make him reveal his location, to make him slip and take away the advantage he has right now.
You swipe at the colorful balls at the surface, they bounce off each other like waves and land somewhere a couple feet ahead of you. You scan the pit with your light, eyes focusing hard on the slightest movement, but you get nothing.
You're going to have to do something riskier like provoke him. John was never good at taking criticism, and if you go at him hard then maybe that would be enough to rattle him and reveal himself.
You take a step forward, firmly gripping your gun, "You know, I didn't believe it at first, but the more I think about it the more it makes sense. You don't have many friends at the bureau, and even the ones you do don't like you. Carol always thought you were pathetic loser for never getting past the first date with someone. She was right."
Another step in the pit, another moment of silence.
"Is that why you killed them? Because they didn't give you enough attention?" you spit out the question, another harsh swipe of the plastic toys.
Nothing.
"You couldn't keep a date, so you had to make it everyone's problem? Not man enough to keep a woman by your side, are you?" you taunt him, but it's clearly not enough. You have to hit him somewhere it really hurts.
A few more steps in, you're getting nearer to the halfway point, "And to think you have a son," you scoff, "What is he going to think, John? What will he say when he's old enough to know about all of this and realizes his dad wasn't the hero he claimed to be—just some dead beat fucking loser?"
You think you hear a heavy exhale, but it was too quick and quiet, you honestly could have imagined it. Or maybe it was your own breathing that seems to get heavier by the minute.
Another scan with your flashlight, another step, "With such a poor excuse of a father and man that you are—no wonder Olivia divorced you."
That right there hit a nerve. Everything after you said that happened fast, like if you had blinked in that moment you would have missed it.
There was a slight rustle, a shift in the ball pit to the right of you. You whip your gun in that direction, the light barley catching his eyes from where he was hidden underneath. That slight glint in them visible from where you stood, was the last thing you saw before you felt your feet being swiped from under you.
You're being pulled down into the pit, hands scrambling to get a steady grip on something to pull you up from drowning. In the midst of being pulled you drop your gun, its location visible to you only by the light on it. You don't have time to panic, you push your way through the pit, swiping furiously to get to your gun. Then you feel John's hand grab your ankle and pull you harshly to drag you towards him. You kick back, but he's able to get you close enough to hook an arm around your waist. You kick and elbow him blindly, your lack of visibility affecting you in this moment.
You know his M.O., he'll be aiming for your neck.
You can't let him get that final grip or it's all over.
If there's one thing you're not about to do, is go down easily. You thrash harshly in his hold, ignoring any strain it causes on your body, only focusing on how it detriments him. You recall the locations of his injuries, and try your best to aim your attacks there, but you miss more than you'd like in the dark.
"You think you know everything don't you?" he grunts, scrambling to get a good grip with his injured hand, "A goody two shoes pretentious know it all, who's really just a good for nothing agent that couldn't tell her killer was sitting right next to her every day," his cold ridicule unfurls an insecurity in you like taking off the bandage on an unhealed wound. "I didn't even have to try that hard to gain your trust. Practically offering it to me on a silver platter just because I was fucking nice to you. You want pathetic? Honey, I'm looking at it," he snarls into your ear, shaking you, and it's enough to get you to lash out at him, your anger fueled. You grab a few balls from the pit, twisting in his hold to shove them in his face. They're plastic, so they won't do much damage, but it's enough to disorient him for a moment.
You use that moment to land a proper punch to his face. Unfortunately, it wasn't with your dominant hand, so it's not as powerful and you'll definitely be feeling it later, but it does the job. He barks out a curse, head thrown back and grip loosening slightly. You don't let him catch his breath, almost instantly after, taking as much force as you can muster to side kick him in his injured knee.
The pain knocks the wind out of him and he cries out, no longer being able to properly hold you. You push him forcibly, scrambling to locate your gun and lunging at it when you do. But he only takes a fraction of what you thought to recover, nails scraping at your shoe while you try to kick him off, throwing waves of the balls around you at him like it were water. He uses his good foot and shoulder to propel himself forward practically pouncing on you. You swipe at his face, but he gets a good grip on your hair, good enough to pull you up with him.
You cry out at the pain and in a matter of seconds, his right arm wraps around your neck, his elbow under your chin. His other hand cradles the back of your head, your entire life in his hands. Your hands shoot up to grab him arm and tug at his jacket, but he gives your neck a light squeeze as a warning for you to behave. You go still.
"You have been a pain in my ass since you started to go off script with this case," he grits in your ear, causing you to shiver. "You weren't supposed to do that, darling. You were always a good girl, followed the rules, did everything by the book before you got transferred—what changed?"
You're shaking, both out of ire and fear and he can feel it, his left hand petting your hair in his sick attempt to calm you , "It was never supposed to go down like this. As long as you were kept in the dark you were safe. When Fury connected the cases I thought I could finally pin this on one of those Hydra bastards once and for all now that I would know your every move."
He pulls in his elbow, tightening the grip on your neck for a second to cut off your blood flow. He lets go, laughing sardonically—he's toying with you—relishing the power he holds.
"You know, that Hydra case was supposed to be my big chance at a promotion. The kind that would get my wife to stop bitching about our finances. I worked my ass off for my wife and kid. I stayed back for longer shifts, putting in more hours in the field than any other agent. I did all the shit no one else wanted to, and for what? No matter what I did, it was never good enough." The hollowness in his voice speaks of years of this hatred building up in his heart.
"John, this isn't—" he doesn't let you finish, the hand that was cradling the back of your head now being slapped over your mouth. "You got your chance to talk honey, it's my turn."
He shakes his head, "You're all the same. Never appreciating me, never letting me get a word in," he goes off like a mad man, like he's lost it—letting out what's always been within. "Not my wife, handing me divorce papers on my fucking birthday. Not Valentina's pretentious girls who always charge extra for mediocre shit. Not Fury who calls me in at any goddamn hour because I'm so reliable, but can't even give me a pay raise. And not you, sabotaging my plan to connect the cases so that Hydra went down for it all and I'd finally get the promotion I'm owed. But that's okay, I'll use your death to bury the truth. When I tell Fury one of Hydra's lackeys killed you, and I witnessed it all bravely trying to save you, I'll get the recognition I deserve, " He says that last part with a heated hatred for you. For ruining the one and only chance he had to fulfill his purpose. And yet, being the one thing that can save it.
He's seething, you can practically feel the heat of his anger roll off of him in droves into you. His grip around your neck tightens and you let out a strangled gasp. You think this is it, he's finally going to do it. But he either backs out or something else happens, because he doesn't get to hold you long before you're falling forward into the pit.
The balls break your fall somewhat, and you're stumbling to get a grip on what's going on. You register John crying out, a bit of groans, and the sound the plastic clashing from flying everywhere from an obvious struggle. You don't know what's going, but the light coming from your gun gives you something to focus on. You crawl your way to it, feeling relieved to finally have it back in your hands. With shaky footing, you stand up, gun pointed to the struggle, and you could start crying at the sight of your savior.
It's Bucky. The bottom half of his face is covered by a black tactical mask, but you know those eyes anywhere. Neither of them are getting many hits in, but they're also not going completely unscathed either. Bucky seems to be wrangling John in like he's some wild animal losing control, while John scrambles to get rid of whoever is in his way. He might be injured, but he's still putting up a fight.
Their struggle is a blur and you can't get a clear hit to John without getting Bucky caught in it too. Your mind races on what your next move should be when suddenly, something shiny reflects in John's left hand. It's a knife, most likely the one he's used on every single victim and your heart sinks at the sight of it. You know he intends to use it on Bucky, so you have to act fast before it's too late. Thinking on your feet, you shoot a round at the wall that causes them both to stop at the sound. You take that opening to shoot John in his injured shoulder. He wails out a curse before falling backward into the pit. You ease knowing he won't be able to get out of here on his own.
The gunshots still ring in your ears, but you don't care, you're already trudging over to Bucky when John is out of sight. He does the same, rushing over to you like his life depends on it. You practically throw yourself on him in an embrace, and Bucky holds you so tightly you doubt he'll ever let go again.
"I told you not to do this again, doll. You had me thinking the worst," his voice is muffled by the mask, but you can hear the anguish in it. You start tearing up, your entire being finally catching up to what just went down. "I know, I'm sorry. He just appeared out of nowhere and I felt like if I didn't act right away I'd lose him."
The lights in the room turn back on, and you have to blink a few times to adjust to the difference. You both inspect each other at the same time in the light, desperate to find out if the other is okay. Bucky pretty much looks unscathed, but his eyes harden when he notices the redness and swelling on your hand from when you punched John.
"So that piece of shit, he's been the Brooklyn Ripper this whole time?" He says it like he's sorry he missed it. Like if he knew he would've gotten rid of John a long time ago for you.
He knew he never liked the guy for a reason.
"Yeah, he was, and I…I mean it's—it's all over," your energy depletes as the adrenaline starts to wear off. A hint of the pain that's coming your way from exerting yourself in the fight starts to show itself. You fall into his embrace again like it's the only thing you need right now to keep you from falling apart. He can feel the way you sag against him, and it makes him wish he would've gotten here sooner.
Your reunion is sadly cut short when the music is shut off from every room in the funhouse, letting you hear the sound of distant shouting and sirens. You pull away from Bucky, scurrying to push him out of the ball pit. He finds it amusing that you can barely make him budge, even more so when you glare at him.
"Do not fight me on this," you warn him, thinking back to the one thing he wouldn't promise, "This place is about to be filled with federal agents, and I'll be dammed if I lose you to this, James Buchanan Barnes," you whisper his full name so only he can hear it. It should intimidate him, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes his heart jump in his chest like it's trying to escape and run home to you.
"You won't, sweetheart. I'm with you till the end," he declares softly, eyes shimmering with the kind of promise only pure devotion knows the language of. It leaves you speechless, giving him the kind of look he would only dream of before. The thumping of boots quickly approaching gets louder, and he hesitantly makes a swift exit. His parting words sticking with you when Fury, along with a team of agents, make their way inside the room, guns drawn.
You know you must look a sight, disheveled and torn in the middle of a children's ball pit.
"What in the hell is going on?"
From the moment Fury asks this question you act on autopilot. Switching to a more detached version of yourself, the one you were used to dawning on before working on this case. A professional version of yourself that helps get you through the job.
Maria and Fury help you out of the ball pit, back into the room filled with puffs of cotton candy, expecting answers and yet not being prepared for the ones you give them.
You tell them about the stalking, the break in at your apartment, and how the suspect injured himself in the process. How the Brooklyn Ripper challenged you to be here. You tell them how John Walker exposed himself as the killer, and during a fierce struggle, revealed to you a lot of damning things. You start to connect the dots for them. The divorce, the connections between cases, how the evidence lined up, Carol's card, the stalking—reliving it all was making your head throb. There was still a lot to make sense of, but those are questions John would have to answer for.
John Walker, a man who chose his vices and then punished them for not filling the void inside him. Drowning in his own insecurities and who was now being carried out on a portable stretcher by a team of paramedics. He's lethargic, mumbling incoherences about a monster in a mask.
The Brooklyn Ripper doesn't seem so scary in this light.
"When I asked you to never do anything like this again, I meant it. This is the second time you've disobeyed me," Fury dawns on that disappointed father demeanor again, but this time you're too exhausted to care. "I know, but once there was a suspicion it could be anyone at the FBI, I had to do this alone."
He sighs, crossing his arms, "We'll have to get your story straight later for the report and the higher ups. You did a good job tonight, but if anyone asks, this was my idea." You hum displeased, but you know why he's saying that. He's saving you from getting fired. An insubordinate agent isn't one the bureau would want to keep around, and even Fury has someone he has to report to.
"Yeah, I get it."
Fury gives you a couple orders he's not letting you disobey tonight. He instructs you to go get checked by one of the paramedics, he'll send a member of the crime scene unit to get photographs of all your injuries for evidence, and then you're heading straight home once you're cleared. John's injuries will have him stay overnight at the hospital, and he might not be conscious for an interview until tomorrow. So for now, Fury will stay behind with the crime scene unit and collect as much evidence and witness statements as they can. You have no issue following these orders.
You walk out of the funhouse, every step feeling heavier than the last. You catch Peter's eye and he grins proudly, showing you the bat in his arms all safe and sound. You had almost forgotten about it.
"I kept it safe, just like I said I would." You grab the bat from his hands, feeling a strong urge to hold it close. "Thanks, kid. You keep my card, okay? If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call." He thanks you in wonder that you'd offer him that.
You don't know how you make it over to one of the ambulances, but eventually you're sitting on the edge of one with an EMT scoping out your injuries and giving you a routine check based on everything you told him happened. Just like Fury said, a crime scene unit member comes over to collect evidence of tonight's events. By the time they're all done taking pictures, swabbing, and prodding at you—you're at your limit.
You're eventually cleared to go home. You look at the chaos across the field, flashing colored lights from the law enforcement vehicles dance across the faces of the evacuating guests of the carnival, the people recording on their phones for social media, and the local news station reporters. All a symphony of chaos you want to run away from.
And then in the field approaching you is your solace and refuge all in one.
"I want to go home," you whisper, and Bucky reaches his hand out for you to take. "Come on then, let's go home," he says softly while you take his hand, the gentleness in which he holds you is such a contrast to the stories the scars on his hand tell. You run your thumb over them absentmindedly, causing Bucky to glance at you and notice something.
"I'm glad to see the bat made it out okay," he comments to lighten the mood. You look down at it, "The kid managing the line kept it safe for me. I knew things would get rough in there with John, so I had to make sure he was safe. I mean, John even gave you a hard time," you point out and Bucky scoffs like you insulted him, "Sweetheart, make no mistake, that was me going easy on him. I could've killed him for laying a hand on you." You frown, not understanding why Bucky would hold back, putting himself on the line if he could have ended things quicker.
His car is in sight when he notices your confusion, "I went easy on him because if I hadn't there would be a lot of injuries you wouldn't have been able to explain and you would've gotten in trouble. John is only alive for your sake." The sincereness in his tone should frighten you, but it doesn't. Not when you think back to the way John had intended to fatally wound Bucky with the knife. If John had been successful, would you have been able to stop yourself from pulling the trigger?
You'll never know for sure, but your heart knows what you would've done.
Bucky doesn't expect you to say anything, but the way you lean into his side before you reach his car is enough to assure him he didn't scare you off. Things had been easier between you before this case. He was the one who was hard to get close to at first, who had too many shadows of his past haunting him. And yet, you never gave up on him even when he wasn't ready or willing to open up to you. So when the tables turned, he always tried to be the light in the dark you had been for him, and patiently waiting for the moment you would let yourself live again.
He hopes you can find yourselves back to that place now that it's all over.
Bucky opens the passenger door for you, helping you inside and then heading over to the driver's seat. He starts the car in no time, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot while the other reaches over to keep your hand in his.
You don't let go.
Bucky's apartment is starting to feel more like home to you than your own. You're staying there tonight, of course. Neither of you had to mention it to know it was happening.
Bucky leads you to his bedroom. You sit on his bed putting the bat beside you on the nightstand. He heads over to his dresser, taking out a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt for you to change into. He puts them next to you on the bed before grabbing a pair of black sweatpants from his dresser and stepping out of the room to give you privacy.
You barely make it past shrugging off your jacket when your starts to protest. It's the only thing you manage to take off when attempting to lift your shirt over your head, burns your skin with an intense ache. Every movement you make suddenly feels like you need double the strength and effort to do, as if you had been hit by a truck.
When Bucky comes back into the room he's half surprised to see you still haven't changed clothes, until he sees the way you wince when turning to face him, and a somber expression overtakes him. He walks over to you, gently brushing your hair out of your face, "Want me to help?"
"Yes."
Bucky gently, and very carefully, helps you out of your clothes, the act intimate in a way only soulmates would know. He softly brushes past parts of your body that are tender and hold signs of how hard you fought before he got there. He swallows hard, looking at the signs like they've stung him.
"Don't do that. Don't blame yourself." It's written all over his face.
"I can't help it. I'll always blame myself for stuff like this." You sit with the weight of that as he finishes helping you get into his clothes. His dog tags dangle from his bare chest when he tucks you into bed.
You grab his wrist before he can leave, "Stay with me."
"Always."
Bucky turns off the lights, joining you on the bed and pulling you into him. You lay your head on his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a safety net. You feel like you can finally breathe—like you're finally allowed to. And then it all hits you suddenly at once, everything you've been holding back from tonight crashing full force into you.
Bucky can feel the shift in you, the way you start to tremble in his arms before you let out the first sniffle. His hand brushes up to wipe a tear away, whispering your name like an oath in the dark. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. You're safe. I got you, doll. I got you. You can let it out." The soft spoken assurance of his words release the floodgates. Your sniffles turning into sobs as you cry into his chest. He holds you close, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and whispering sweet nothings into your ear that come out as an I love you and I'm here in more ways than one.
Time seems to drag on while all your emotions drain out of you. You don't know how long it takes for you to calm down, but when you finally lift your head from his chest, you feel a familiar longing ache in your chest. You lean into him silently asking for something you've both wanted for a long time. He looks into your eyes as if searching for an answer, and all he finds is a plea that falls between an I love you and I need you.
In the end, you don't know who kisses who first. It's pure and ardent all in one—like it could consume you both if you let it—getting lost in a haze that's all you and him. A kiss that promises the kind of future you've been looking for all you life, but is your salvation for now. Something to tether you to this world and remind you there's still good in it. Nothing outside matter right now except what finally falling into place between you now.
You pull away to catch your breath, snuggling into his chest to listen to the beat of his heart—a beautiful lullaby. He feels you melt into his arms, lowering his head to plant a gentle kiss to your forehead.
"Rest now, you deserve it." he whispers of something far more then just tonight, and it doesn't take long after that for you to fall asleep.
There is no rest for the wicked or those who live to stop it, but tonight, you may rest.
Tomorrow will be a new day.
a/n: I always appreciate any kind of interaction, but I would really love to know your thoughts on this one! 🫶🏼 Did you guess who are killer was? 👀
Thank you all again for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡
lovelies who asked to be tagged: @star-yawnznn @sebastians-love
bucky masterlist || fic playlist || trick or treat event
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › somewhere between golden-hour train rides, sleepy kitchen conversations, and waking up tangled together in soft sheets with Alpine purring between you, the lines between friends and flyers blur. and suddenly, the almosts start feeling a lot like forever.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI friends to lovers, fluff, domestic bucky, yearning, mutual pining, crushing hard, lowk idiots in love, feelings confession, alpine! implied stalking/being followed by strangers, brief anxiety/fear, buckys hyper vigilance comes out, protective & possessive bucky, kissing, smut, p in v, missionary & cowgirl, soft dom bucky, dirty talking bucky barnes, oral f receiving, fingering, back to back rounds (👅), sleepy aftercare, bucky nd reader are in lurve, not beta read we die like men. (also halfassed proofread so...)
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 8.5k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › your honor i love them, i love domestic bucky and i want him forever and forever and forever also yeah i barely proofread this i was doing a million things at once and decided to just say fuck it so my fault if its wack
It happens on a Tuesday.
You know it’s a Tuesday because Tuesdays are your longest editing days, and you’re halfway through correcting exposure on a series of portraits when your phone buzzes against your desk. You don’t even look at the name before you smile, you’ve learned the rhythm of him now. He doesn’t text much but when he does, it’s direct.
You home.
No question mark, it makes you smile softly as you type back:
Eventually. Why?
There’s a longer pause this time, then,
Found something.
You grin at your screen.
If this is another broken appliance you’re adopting, we need to talk.
Three dots disappear, then reappear.
Not an appliance.
You snort quietly to yourself, you don’t ask for clarification because you already know he’ll show up whether you do or not.
By the time you make it back to your building, dusk has softened the edges of Brooklyn into gold and shadow. You take the stairs two at a time, not because you’re in a rush, but because you’ve started to associate the top landing with something waiting.
You don’t check the subway map anymore, you don’t hesitate at the corner bodega. You don’t feel like a visitor in your own life. When you unlock your apartment door and push it open you immediately stop. Bucky is standing in the middle of your living room, very still, like he’s holding a live grenade. Except the grenade is small.
White.
And glaring at you.
You blink.
“…Is that… a cat?”
The cat blinks back. She’s tiny. All narrow limbs and oversized ears, fur stark white against the dark Henley stretched across Bucky’s chest. One of her paws is hooked firmly into the fabric like she’s anchoring herself there on purpose.
“She followed me,” he says flatly. As if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. You close the door slowly behind you.
“She followed you?”
“Yeah.”
“Home?”
He nods once.
“She looks like she weighs three pounds.”
“I tried to tell her not to. She’s got opinions.”
On cue, the cat makes a small, indignant sound. Not quite a meow. More like a complaint, you step closer carefully, hands out like you’re approaching something sacred.
“Oh my god,” you whisper with a growing smile.
Her eyes track you instantly, blue, sharp and wholly unimpressed.
“She’s so small.”
He scoffs. “She’s probably feral.”
“She’s so baby.” You cooed with a waggle of your fingers.
“She’s not—”
“She is,” you insist softly, reaching up to brush one careful finger along the edge of her back. Her fur is softer than you expected. She stiffens at first, eye narrowing just a fraction then leans in, just slightly.
Bucky’s brows draw together. “She scratched a guy.”
“He probably deserved it.”
“You don’t even know what he did.” He huffs as he genlty shifts her in his hold.
“He existed near her.”
“That’s not a crime.”
You look up at him through your lashes. “It is if you’re three pounds and fierce.”
He exhales through his nose, but there’s no bite to it. You lean back to fully look at him now, eyes wide with something that feels suspiciously like wonder.
“You brought her here.”
“She wouldn’t leave.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
You don’t say it out loud, but you both feel it. He could have taken her anywhere. A shelter, a vet, anywhere but here. Instead, he brought her to you. You reach out fully now, cupping your hands under her tiny body. “Can I?”
He hesitates for half a second then nods and transfers her carefully into your arms. She’s lighter than she looks, all bone and stubbornness. Her paws immediately knead into your shirt, claws catching slightly as she readjusts.
“Aw,” you breathe, heart cracking open without your permission. “Hi.”
She stares up at you like she’s evaluating your worth, you smile at her like you’ve already decided she’s yours.
“What’s up with you, girl?” you ask softly.
He shifts his weight. “Alpine.”
You look up at him, startled. “You named her.”
“She needed one.”
You look back down at the tiny creature in your arms. “Hi, Alpine,” you murmur.
She blinks once, then, slowly, she begins to purr. It’s faint at first. Barely there, then it gets stronger like a tiny engine vibrating against your chest.
Bucky goes very still at the sound.
“She didn’t do that before,” he says quietly. You grin up at him like you’ve just accomplished something monumental.
“She likes me.”
“She tolerates you.”
“She loves me.”
“She met you ten seconds ago.”
“And yet.” You carry Alpine to the couch carefully, lowering yourself into the cushions you once assembled under his supervision. She curls into your lap like she’s been rehearsing it.
Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.
You glance up. “You know she’s our baby now, right?”
His eyes widen slightly. “She is not—”
“She absolutely is.”
He opens his mouth to argue but closes it. Looks at Alpine, then at you.
“You know… we’re not—”
“I know,” you interrupt gently, softer now. “I’m just kidding.”
But the word ours lingers in the air, and neither of you correct it again.
Adjusting to Alpine afterwards is surprisingly easy, adjusting to each other has been… gradual, natural almost.
Like you’ve both been circling the same warmth and finally allowed yourselves to step fully into it. He comes over without being asked now. Sometimes you’ll hear the lock turn and his boots cross your floor before you even realize you were waiting for him. He leaves things behind, a spare toothbrush, a flannel slung over the back of your couch. Tools tucked under your sink “just in case.”
You make space for them without comment. Alpine claims him in her own way, she sits on his chest when he lies back on the couch, she bats at his metal fingers like they’re an interactive toy, she once knocked over his glass of water and then stared at him like it was a moral lesson.
“You spoil her,” he says one evening as you crouch in front of a pet store aisle, comparing two different brands of kitten food like you’re reviewing fine wine.
“She deserves it.”
He cocks a brow. “She tried to fight a pigeon on the fire escape.”
“She was defending her territory.”
“She weighs less than the pigeon.”
“She has spirit.”
He shakes his head, but he carries the heavier bag without being asked, and back at home, he assembles a cat tree without looking at the instructions. You sit cross-legged on the floor narrating Alpine’s inner thoughts in a dramatic voice.
“‘Yes, father, construct my tower. Higher. Higher.’”
“She doesn’t talk like that.” He murumurs from under a fuzzy hammock.
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s judging you right now.”
You glance at the cat. Alpine blinks slowly before turning her head back to seemingly watch Bucky.
“She agrees with me.” You state with a firm nod of your head.
He almost smiles, you see it, you always see it. Something in your chest heats up at seeing it and you reach for your camera without thinking, lifting the lens to watch him through it.
Click. He looks up at the sound.
“You take too many pictures.”
You hum behind the camera. “I’m documenting history.”
“I’m building a cat tree.”
“Exactly.”
He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.
Later, when Alpine finally climbs to the top perch and perches there like she owns the skyline, you end up sitting on the couch shoulder to shoulder. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. Fingers just barely brushing your shoulder, close enough that you feel the heat of him.
“She’s so tiny,” you murmur.
He huffs something close to a laugh. "She’s vicious.”
“She’s fragile.”
“She scratched a grown man.”
“Both can be true at once.” You tease through a smile.
You glance at him sideways, expecting an eye roll but when you look he’s not looking at the cat. He’s looking at you. You don’t talk about what you are, you don’t need to. Everything important has gone unspoken, he kisses you gently when he arrives. Soft and brief, like checking in. You kiss him back when he leaves, lingering just a second longer each time. It was a silent adjustment to each other’s rhythms. He knows your coffee order without asking, you know when he’s had a bad day by the way he sets his boots down. He reaches for your hand in crowded subway cars now without hesitation, you lean into him when the train lurches.
You’ve started claiming things as yours together without meaning to. Your park bench, your bodega, your stupid inside jokes about screaming radiators.
And now, your cat.
One night, you wake to find Alpine curled between you in bed. Bucky’s arm is draped over your waist, his metal fingers resting warm and steady against your hip and you lie there for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest.
The way Alpine’s tiny body vibrates faintly with sleep. You realize something quietly, you don’t feel like you’re building alone anymore, you feel… accompanied.
Chosen.
Alpine stretches, paws kneading into your collarbone before she headbutts your chin lightly and you laugh softly.
Bucky stirs.
“What’s she doing,” he mutters sleep-rough.
“Claiming me.”
He settles back into the bed. “Hm. She’s territorial.”
“She gets it from you.”
He cracks one eye open to look at you.
“I’m not territorial.”
“You absolutely are.”
He studies you for a second, then leans forward just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “I just know what’s mine,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches for half a second and he closes his eyes again like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest feel too small. Alpine purrs louder between you, small and fierce. And somehow, without either of you planning it—the three of you fit.
Photography has always been your passion in life. Capturing the essence of moments in stilled frames. It started small. Borrowed cameras and phone pictures, sunlight through your bedroom window catching dust in the air like suspended stars. You liked that a photo could hold something still, proof that a moment existed exactly the way you felt it.
When life felt loud or overwhelming, framing the world through a lens made it manageable. Cropped. Intentional. Yours.
New York amplified your love for photography because it gave you an endless supply of almost-moments. A man laughing too hard on a street corner. A woman adjusting her heels before stepping into a cab. Sunlight ricocheting off glass buildings and landing like a spotlight on someone who doesn’t know they’re glowing.
You don’t mean to start photographing him like this.
At first it’s practical. Professional, detached even is what you tell yourself.
The lighting in your apartment is good in the afternoons—warm and honeyed, slanting through the tall Brooklyn windows and catching on dust motes and soft edges. You tell yourself you’re just practicing. Documenting domesticity. Capturing the way ordinary life looks when it’s honest.
It just so happens that Bucky is in the frame more often than not.
He doesn’t notice at first. He’s kneeling in front of your kitchen cabinet, sleeves shoved up, hair falling into his eyes while he tightens the hinge that’s been sagging for weeks. You’re perched at the table with your camera resting against your palm, chin tucked into your shoulder as you watch him through the lens.
Click.
He doesn’t look up.
The metal of his left hand gleams faintly where the sunlight touches it, silver softened into something almost warm. His right hand steadies the cabinet door, careful and patient like he’s working with something delicate.
Like he always does here.
You lower the camera just long enough to watch him without the barrier.
There’s something about him in your space—large and solid and quiet—that doesn’t feel invasive anymore. It feels like furniture. Like foundation. Like he’s always supposed to have been kneeling on your kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about cheap screws.
“Stop glaring at it,” you tease. “It can sense fear.”
He snorts softly. “I’m not glaring.”
“You absolutely are.”
Click.
He glances up this time, catching you mid-shot. His eyes narrow a fraction. “You takin’ pictures of me again?”
“Maybe.”
“Why.”
You shrug like it’s obvious. “I'm documenting history.”
“I’m fixin’ a cabinet.”
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no real protest in it. Just that quiet tolerance he reserves for you — like you’re allowed to get away with things no one else is. You don’t tell him that you like the way his brow furrows when he concentrates. Or the way his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. Or the way he looks softer in your apartment than he does anywhere else.
You photograph him crouched beside Alpine’s food bowl next.
She’s watching him like he’s personally offended her by refreshing her water five minutes too late. Her tail flicks with dramatic irritation while he adjusts the dish on the mat you bought with tiny embroidered fish.
“She’s judging you,” you narrate from behind the camera.
“She always judges me.”
“She knows you’re weak.” You taunt after a shutter adjustment.
“I am not weak.”
“You gave her salmon last night because she blinked at you.”
He doesn’t answer that.
Click.
The photo captures something you didn’t expect, the curve of his metal fingers hovering carefully near her small body. Not touching, just close, being protective without claiming control. Alpine is still small. Still a little too thin around the ribs. You both pretend you don’t remember how she looked the day he showed up with her tucked against his chest, fur clumped and eyes wary.
Now she sits like a queen surveying her kingdom—your apartment, his boots by the door, the couch that used to be yours and now belongs equally to both of them. She swats at his hand when he finally scratches under her chin.
He grins, small and fleeting, you miss it because you’re adjusting the focus.
The subway platform becomes another favorite location.
You catch him staring down the tunnel, coat collar turned up against the wind, hair tugged back by the rush of oncoming trains. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but something about the movement, the waiting, feels cinematic.
He stands slightly in front of you when the platform gets crowded, not enough to make a statement, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
You lift the camera.
Click.
He looks over. “Gonna charge me royalties at some point?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. When the train roars in he places his hand at your lower back as you step inside, it’s a small thing, it always is with him. Small touches. Gentle brushes. The kind that don’t demand attention but linger anyway and you start to recognize the way your body anticipates them, the way your breath steadies when he’s close.
The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.
You’re sitting beside him, knees almost touching, Alpine safe at home because she’s not allowed outside no matter how loudly she protests. It’s early evening, the golden hour slipping toward dusk, the air smells like leaves and city exhaust and distant food carts.
He’s not paying attention to you, he’s watching a kid across the path attempt to throw a tennis ball for a dog that refuses to cooperate and his expression softens without him realizing it.
The sunlight catches in his lashes. You lift the camera instinctively.
Click.
He turns toward you at the sound and for half a second—he almost smiles. Not brazen or wide, not open-mouthed with teethflashing. But something real, something gentle and unguarded. You freeze and lower the camera slowly.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.
“Do what.”
“That.”
He frowns faintly.
Your eyes find his, wide and soft all at once. “Look like that.”
“Like what?”
You hesitate. Safe, you think, but you don’t say it. He rolls his eyes like you’re being dramatic, you play it off with a small breath but when you check the photo your chest tightens. It’s there. The almost-smile. The warmth in his eyes. The absence of the weight he usually carries like armor. You save it immediately.
It becomes your favorite.
Your boss calls you into her office the next day as she flips through the prints slowly, brows lifting higher with each image. There's no denying the growing intimacy of the photos, not in the vuglar or exposing sense, but in the way of his heart began to glow in the lens.
“Who is he to you?”
You swallow, pulse thrumming at your wrists and below your ear, flushing like she had asked if you two were to be wed. “I answered his flyer.”
The words feel bigger now than they did months ago. That stupid piece of paper taped crookedly to a lampost with a scribbled NEED HELP? in bleeding ink. To think you almost walked past it, you almost didn’t take a paper.
Your boss smiles faintly.
“You’re lucky,” she says and you feel it reside itself deep inside you and you think about that all the way home.
Lucky.
You think about that word the whole way home.
You let yourself into the apartment quietly. He’s on the floor with Alpine sprawled on her back, paws in the air while he rubs her stomach in slow, careful circles.
You lean against the doorway. “Hey.”
He looks up immediately. His face shifts when he sees you, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders easing back, the corners of his mouth softening upwards.
“Hey.”
You don’t move for a second, just stand there and watch him, watch the man you almost didn’t meet.
“I was thinking about something,” you say softly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I saw your flyer.”
The words hang there between you two, simple and honest, yet carrying a weight you hadn't expected to hit so hard.
He stills and Alpine chirps in protest at the loss of movement. He clears his throat.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You step closer. “I almost didn’t call. Put it in my purse and left it there.”
His jaw tightens faintly. “I almost didn’t put it up.”
“What?” You blink.
He shrugs, looking back down at Alpine like she’s suddenly fascinating. “Figured nobody’d answer.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t respond right away. You kneel across from him, mirroring his position and Alpine rolls toward you greedily, like the traitor that she is.
“Buck.”
He exhales slowly.
“Didn’t think anyone would want to take a chance.” On me, he doesn’t say but you hear it anyway.
Your chest aches.
“I’m glad I did,” you whisper.
His eyes lift to yours and something raw flickers there, quick and then it's gone.
“Me too,” he says quietly.
The room feels smaller suddenly, closer, the air heavier. Alpine headbutts your hand impatiently, demanding attention. You both laugh at the same time and the tension dissolves into something softer. But it doesn’t disappear entirely, it settles between you like something warm and real.
You keep photographing him, but now it feels different, it's not just observation anymore, not just study. sdwfeIt feels like preservation, like proof. Of the way he leaves his boots neatly by the door because you once mentioned tripping over them.
Of the way he started buying your favorite cereal without asking, of the way he checks the locks twice before bed, of the way he presses a gentle kiss to your temple when he passes behind you in the kitchen.
Nothing intense, nothing overwhelming. Just soft and intentional. You catch your reflection in one of the subway windows one evening with your shoulder tucked under his arm while the train sways. You look… settled. Happy. It makes you think about the flyer again. The crooked tape, the quiet hope behind it. You think about the man kneeling on your kitchen floor. On your living room rug. On a park bench in golden light.
You think about the almost-smile, and you realize something slow and steady has taken root inside you.
It isn’t just attraction anymore. It isn’t just comfort. It’s the knowledge that if you hadn’t looked up that day, if you hadn’t paused on your stoop and seen that lampost, your life would be missing something fundamental.
You press your face briefly into his shoulder on the train, it makes him tilts his head toward you instinctively.
“What's wrong,” he murmurs.
“Nothing.”
You don’t tell him you feel something more than lucky, you don’t tell him that sometimes you look at him and think: I chose right, you don’t tell him that your favorite photo isn’t the almost-smile. It’s the one where he’s not looking at the camera at all, he’s looking at you. Like he’s quietly grateful you took a chance on him, and maybe, just maybe he’s a little lucky too.
It slips into something quieter one night.
You’re at the counter again, but this time there’s flour everywhere—your hands, the surface, a faint dusting across your shirt where you tried (and failed) to brush it off.
“I said I could just go buy something,” he mutters, watching you wrestle with dough like it personally offended you.
“And I said no,” you shoot back, not looking up. “People make this all the time.”
“Yeah. People who know how.”
You narrow your eyes at the dough. “It’s about the principle.”
“It’s about you losing a fight to bread.”
“I’m not losing—”
You look up just as he steps closer. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second you think he’s going to reach for the bowl, or the counter, or anything but you.
Instead, his thumb brushes across your cheek, light and careful as he wipes away a streak of flour you didn’t know was there.
Everything in you stills and warmth prickles all across your skin. The room doesn’t go quiet, you can still hear the faint hum of the fridge, the city outside your window, Alpine batting something off a shelf in the other room but it feels like it does.
You don’t move and neither does he. His hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb hovering like he forgot what he was doing midway through it. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven in a way that feels louder than it should be as your heartbeat does strange, unfamiliar things.
“You had—” he starts, voice lower now, rougher. “Flour.”
“Yeah,” you barely manage, your mind floating somewhere far from here.
His hand drops eventually, but the space between you doesn’t widen again.
He starts staying over more after that. Not "officially". Not in a way either of you acknowledge out lou, it just happens. At first, it’s practical.
It’s late, the trains are slow and Alpine is already asleep curled into his side like she made the decision for him.
So he stays. He takes the couch the first few times, or at least, that’s what he tells you. You believe him until one night you wake up thirsty, the apartment dim and quiet, the soft blue wash of streetlight bleeding in through the windows.
You shuffle toward the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing at your eyes and then you stop.
He’s not on the couch. For a second, your stomach dips, sharp and immediate but then you see him. On the floor. Blanket barely tucked under him, one arm thrown over his eyes like he fell asleep mid-thought. Alpine is curled against his side, a small, white comma against the dark of his shirt.
Your chest tightens.
“Buck,” you murmur softly.
He doesn’t stir and you hesitate.
You could wake him and tell him to take the bed, tell him the couch is fine, that the floor is ridiculous, that he doesn’t have to—but you don’t. Instead, you step closer, then closer. And before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself you lower down beside him.
The floor is cool beneath you, grounding in a way that makes your breath even out. You don’t touch him at first, you just lie there close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that Alpine shifts slightly, resettling between you like she approves of the arrangement.
It feels strangely natural, like you’ve done this before, like you were always going to. He stirs after a minute, brow furrowing slightly before his arm drops from his eyes. His gaze finds you in the low light, still hazy with sleep.
“…You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Couldn’t sleep.”
A pause.
Then, softer—“Floor’s more comfortable than it looks.”
You huff quietly. “I can tell.”
Somewhere between one breath and the next, the distance between you disappears. It’s not intentional, not really. You just shift slightly, then he does too. And then his arm is around you, your head is tucked against his shoulder. Alpine is wedged between your ribs like a tiny, purring anchor. You fit together so easily it almost startles you, but neither of you pulls away.
By morning, you’re tangled.
Not in a way that feels messy or complicated. In a way that feels right. Your leg hooked over his, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist, Alpine sprawled across both of you like she owns the entire situation.
You wake up first and for a second, you just lie there taking in the quiet and the warmth. The way his grip tightens slightly, even in sleep, like something in him registers your presence and refuses to let go.
He stirs a few minutes later, breath shifting, eyes blinking open slowly and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he looks at you and something in his expression softens immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
Neither of you moves, neither of you rushes to untangle the way you probably should. His thumb traces a small, absentminded line against your side, like he’s checking that you’re still there.
You are.
You both are.
And neither of you calls it anything, but neither of you pretends it’s nothing, either.
You don’t notice it at first.
That’s the part that sticks with you later throughtout the whole day—the way it happens without announcement, without anything sharp enough to pull you out of your own head.
You’re tired.
Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there, heavy and burning. You’ve been staring at a screen for hours, adjusting exposure, chasing light that already happened, trying to make moments feel the way they did when you first captured them.
It blurs after a while. Faces. Colors. Time. The subway hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that you usually find comforting.
You’re thinking about a photo when it happens. Not even a good one—just a small detail you want to fix tomorrow, the way the light caught on the edge of a frame, how you might crop it tighter when the train slows, stops and the doors open.
You don’t move.
And then they close again.
It’s only when the station sign slips past the window, unfamiliar, wrong, that something in your chest stutters and your stomach drops as you realized you missed your stop .
“…Great,” you mutter under your breath.
Too late.
The train lurches forward again.
The next stop feels longer than it should, everything does when you’re suddenly aware of it. The way your foot taps against the floor. The flicker of the overhead lights. The low murmur of strangers who don’t know you just made a mistake.
You step off quickly when the doors open again, pulse just a little too fast. The platform is quieter here, too different. You don’t like it.
The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.
“—maintenance delays—next train—extended—”
You close your eyes briefly because, of course. It's late when you check the time, later than you meant to stay out. Later than you usually feel comfortable being anywhere unfamiliar. You could wait for the next train to turn around. You should wait. But the platform feels wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too open, too empty, like something that’s supposed to be full of noise has been hollowed out.
So you decide to walk to the next station, it’s not far, you tell yourself that like it makes the decision better.
You know the moment it shifts when you step out into the might air. It’s not something you see but something you feel. The street is quieter than Brooklyn. The buildings taller, the gaps between people wider. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful but absent. Streetlights flicker overhead, one buzzing faintly before stabilizing and your footsteps sound louder than they should. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders drawing in slightly without meaning to.
And then there's that feeling again. The one that crawls up the back of your neck before your brain catches up.
You glance up and see there’s a group of men down the block. They notice you immediately. You see it happen in an instant the shift in posture, the subtle way their attention locks in. Alone and disoriented.
Your chest tightens as you look away quickly, adjusting your path just enough to seem casual.
Keep walking.
Don’t react. Don't—
They start moving, not obviously, just enough to match your pace. The air feels colder suddenly, like something’s been pulled out of it. Your breathing changes before you can stop it, shorter, sharper. You turn a corner and try to stay calm. You don’t look back right away because you don’t want to confirm it, but you know. You hear it, the sootsteps are still there, still echoing behind you. Your fingers shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket.
There’s no debate, no hesitation as you hit his name.
He answers on the first ring.
“What broke?”
Any other time it would make you laugh.
Your throat tightens and you barely get the word out. “Buck.”
It comes out thinner than you want it to, and there’s a brief pause. But everything about him changes on the other end of the line—you can hear it, feel it, the way his breathing shifts, the way his voice drops into something sharper. Focused.
“Where are you.”
You try to explain. Street names you barely registered, landmarks you didn’t think to remember. It comes out in fragments, rushed and uneven, your words tripping over each other.
“I—I missed my stop and I got off and I’m walking and there’s—”
“I got you,” he cuts in, calm and steady.
“Stay on the phone.”
Your grip tightens around it. “Okay.”
“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”
Your heart is pounding too loud now, drowning out everything else. Behind you, one of them calls out something. You don’t process the words, you don’t respond you just keep walking.
Your breathing stutters.
“Buck—”
“I’m here,” he says immediately. “You’re good. Just keep going.”
Your vision feels too narrow, like everything outside of the path in front of you has been blurred out. You turn another corner and they follow, closer now. Your chest feels tight, like you can’t pull in a full breath. And then headlights, bright and fast flash in front of you as a truck pulls up hard along the curb beside you, tires crunching against the edge of the street.
You flinch at the sound as the driver’s door opens. And he’s there. Bucky steps out like he’s stepping into something controlled and not the eratic chaos you feel in your ribcage. He's calm and measued, something almost cold in his eyes.
The shift is immediate. He doesn’t yell at the group of men, doesn’t posture, he doesn’t say a word. He just moves, placing himself between you and them like it’s instinct, like it’s the only position that makes sense. The streetlight catches on his left arm, metal glinting sharp and unmistakable and the men stop. There’s a beat of calculation, and then they back off. Muttering something under their breath, turning away like the decision was easy, like you weren’t worth it.
You don’t process it, not yet, all you know is that he’s here. You move before you think, closing the distance, your hands grabbing onto him like you need proof he’s solid and real, not something your brain made up out of fear.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, closer to the one you know. “I got you.”
You nod against him, even though he can’t see it properly, your grip tightening for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn't miss a beat, he just guides you toward the truck, one hand steady at your back.
The drive is quiet.
You sit in the passenger seat, hands still curled slightly like they forgot how to relax. Your heart hasn’t fully slowed down yet and you’re aware of everything. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires against the road, the way his hands grip the wheel.
Too tight, the knuckles of his right hand pale under the dim lighting. He doesn’t look at you at first, his focus is locked forward, expression carved into something hard and controlled.
You’ve seen that look before.
Just not like this, not because of you, not because of something that almost happened. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason now.
“I’m okay,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t respond right away as the truck turns down your street.
Finally, his grip shifts slightly on the wheel, like he’s forcing it to loosen.
“I know,” he says.
But his voice is still tight, still holding something back. You glance at him, really look this time. And you realize he’s not just angry, he’s shaken. Not with fear in the way you are, but something sharper, something that looks a lot like the realization that he almost wasn’t there in time.
He doesn’t say anything else when he parks, he just kills the engine and gets out, rounding the front of the truck before you’ve fully gathered yourself. He walks beside you to the door, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.
He unlocks it before you can reach for your keys, like it’s instinct now, like it’s always been his job.
Inside, the apartment wraps around you both with familiar walls, soft lamplight, and the faint sound of Alpine shifting somewhere deeper in the space.
For a second, neither of you moves.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows is heavier than anything outside. You turn toward him and he’s already looking at you. There’s something in his expression you don’t see often, something unguarded, pulled tight with restraint.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight and focused.
You shake your head. “No, I—”
His hands are already there, gentle but firm, checking your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs proof. Like he won’t believe it until he confirms it himself.
“Anywhere?” he presses, quieter now.
“No,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”
He stills just for a second as your words take a moment to settle somewhere deeper than they should have to. And then something in him gives. His hands slide up, framing your face, and before you can process the shift he pulls you into him.
The kiss isn’t careful.
It isn’t the soft, checking-in kind he’s given you before. It isn’t brief or hesitant or something that leaves room for doubt.
It’s desperate.
Like something almost slipped through his fingers, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. That you’re real, that you’re okay. Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, holding on just as tightly, just as instinctively as you melt into the kiss.
“You scared me,” he breathes against your mouth.
The words are rough, honest in a way that cracks something open in your chest.
“I know,” you whisper back.
“I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he finds your eyes again. “I can’t lose you.”
Your breath stutters.
There’s no distance left between you now. No space to pretend this is anything less than what it is.
His voice drops, quieter but steadier.
“Be mine.”
The words land heavier than anything else tonight.
“For real,” he adds, like he needs you to understand. “No unspokeness. No almost.”
You blink, heart racing for an entirely different reason now, something softer threading through the remnants of fear.
“I am,” you say.
There’s no hesitation in it.
“I've always been yours, Buck.”
His grip tightens slightly, like he needs to hold onto that.
“Forever,” he insists, softer now but no less certain. “Let me take you home. Every time. Let me hold you on every train. Let me put up every shelf. Let me—”
He doesn’t finish, you kiss him again. This time slower, still deep and certain, but steadier, like something inside you both is finally settling into place.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll choose you. Every day.”
Your answer comes easily.
“Yes.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for longer than just tonight.
His hands shift, gentler now at your waist, but no less sure of where they belong. You tug him closer without thinking, closing whatever space might still exist between you and something shifts. The heat from your bodies no longer stays under the skin, it moves and blooms into a fiery heat somewhere deep inside you. Inside you both.
The mismatching calloused and metal pads of his fingers trace down to the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kisses you again but this time his lips follow his downward trajectory, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. Each one lingers, deliberate, until your skin blooms pink beneath his mouth.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes, the words warm against your collarbone. His teeth graze the spot just above your pulse, gentle and testing before he sucks softly, drawing a quiet gasp from you.
You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "Bucky—"
"Tell me," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me you're mine."
The words tumble out without hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."
A low sound rumbles in his chest, pleased and possessive. He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming rhythm. His hands roam your body, worshiping every inch of the softness of your thighs, the flutter of your ribs beneath his palm, the way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your nipple.
You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you pull it off, then guides your hands to his chest, letting you explore the hard planes of muscle, the scars, the warmth of him. His breath catches when your fingers skim over a sensitive spot just above his hip.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're gonna be the death me."
"Not yet." You hum as you kiss him again, pouring everything into it, trust, want, love.
His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the apartment and to the bed. He lays you down like something precious, following you with his body, covering you without crushing you.
His lips find yours once more, soft and insistent as you both shed every last layer between you, before trailing lower—over your breasts, your stomach, lower still. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss a promise.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your inner thigh as you nod shakily.
His fingers tremble slightly as they skim your bare skin—so close to where you ache for him, yet hesitating. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath comes uneven against your skin.
"Buck," you whisper, stroking his hair. "It's okay."
He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to your hip. "Been a long time," he admits, voice rough. "Don't wanna mess this up."
"You won't." You tilt his chin up, meeting his eyes. "We'll go slow. Together."
A ragged breath escapes him as he nods, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your thigh. His hands grip your hips, steadying himself, before he lowers his mouth to you, tentative at first, then bolder as your soft gasps guide him.
"Christ, baby," he groans against you, fingers digging into your flesh. "So sweet like this."
You arch beneath him, pleasure curling tight in your belly. "Bucky, please—"
His tongue is slow at first, experimental, and almost shy as if he’s relearning the shape of you like this. But the second your hips jerk under his mouth, he groans against you and his confidence soars, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Easy, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. "Let me take my time with you."
And god, does he take his time.
His tongue traces slow circles around you, teasing but never giving you exactly what you need until you’re writhing beneath him. "Bucky—" you gasp, fingers knotting in his hair.
"Patience," he rumbles before finally closing his lips over your clit and sucking gently. You cry out, back arching off the bed as pleasure arcs through you like lightning. His fingers join then, one sliding into you with ease, curling just right, the dual sensation has your thighs shaking around his head.
"That’s it," he murmurs against you, adding a second finger as his tongue flicks faster over your clit. "Let me feel it, let me hear you."
You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision whites out for a second, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless chant as you grind against his mouth. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from oversensitivity, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick and his eyes are black with hunger. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, licking his lips like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.
You tug him into a kiss by the hair, crashing your mouth against his so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He groans into the kiss, hips grinding down against yours where he’s achingly hard.
"Need you inside me," you pant between kisses, rocking against him insistently. "Now."
His breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Yeah?" His fingers flex possessively on your hip. "Gonna beg for it?"
"Please," you whimper, dragging his hand between your legs again, showing him exactly how ready you still are for him.
His throat works as he nods, reaching for the condom on the nightstand with unsteady hands. You help him roll it on, stroking his wrist when he fumbles.
"Easy, soldier," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
He chokes out a laugh of half nerves, half affection before settling between your thighs. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours. "God, sweetheart—you—"
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Move with me," you breathe.
He does, slow at first, sinking into you inch by inch as his muscles tremble with restraint. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your neck, lips finding your pulse point again, sucking gently.
"Good?" he rasps.
"So good," you sigh, fingers clutching his back. "More."
He moans, hips rocking against yours in a deep, unhurried rhythm. Every thrust is deliberate, every groan muffled against your skin as he murmurs praises or "perfect," "mine," "angel" between kisses. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he loses himself in you, the hesitation melting away with every shared breath.
"Close," he grits out, sweat beading on his brow.
You nod, urging him deeper, nails scraping lightly down his spine. His rhythm stutters, his body tensing as he spills over the edge with a broken moan of your name.
He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck, arms tightening possessively around you as he murmurs something low and soft against your skin.
His cock twitches inside you, still thick and hard despite his release. You shift your hips experimentally, drawing a sharp gasp from him as his fingers dig into your waist. "Still?" you tease, rolling your hips again just to feel him shudder beneath you.
Bucky's metal hand slides up your back, pressing you closer as his hips shift, grinding deeper. "Always for you," he growls, voice rough with need.
You push him by the shoulders until he rolls onto his back as you rise up on your knees, guiding him back inside with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His groan is ragged, hands gripping your thighs as you take control, riding him with slow, deep strokes that make his breath hitch. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down for a searing kiss as his hips meet yours in perfect rhythm.
Your body trembles as Bucky’s thrusts grow rougher, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot again and again until your vision blurs. A breathy whimper escapes your lips as your head drops against his shoulder, nails biting into his sweat-slicked skin. His arms lock around you, keeping you pinned against him while his hips snap upward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.
"That’s it, sweetheart," he growls, voice rough with need, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Take it—take everything I give you." His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a sloppy, desperate kiss. "You feel so damn good, like you were made for me."
A moan shudders out of you as he shifts slightly, the new angle rubbing his cock against your walls in a way that makes your thighs shake. You whimper his name, hips grinding down in needy little circles just to feel him twitch inside you. Bucky groans, his metal hand sliding down to grip your ass, forcing you down onto him harder.
"Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me," he snarls, teeth grazing your collarbone as his thrusts turn punishing. His breath is ragged against your skin, his voice dropping into something dark and possessive. "Mine. All fucking mine."
You arch against him, pleasure cresting so sharply it steals your breath. Bucky’s grip on you tightens, his rhythm faltering as his cock pulses deep inside you, filling you with another wave of heat and pleasure as you tremble around him.
He exhales sharply against your neck, his hips still rocking into you in slow, possessive rolls even as his breathing slows. His hands stroke over your skin, gentle but his grip stays firm, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.
The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.
Not silent as it's never truly silent in New York, but softened.
The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. A car horn sounds somewhere far below the window. Alpine hops onto the bed at some point, circles twice near your feet, then decides against staying when Bucky shifts beside you with a sleepy murmur.
Everything feels warm.
Warm in the way your skin still hums from being held so closely, from his hands lingering at your waist like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. The sheets are tangled low around your legs, the air heavy with the lingering heat of summer and each other.
You’re tucked against his chest, cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arm is around you. Like even asleep he can’t stop reaching for you.
You think you should feel shy about it all afterward. Different somehow. Instead, you just feel calm, like something that’s been leaning precariously finally settled into place.
Bucky presses a sleepy kiss into your hairline, half-conscious and entirely automatic, and your chest tightens at the tenderness of it.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You smile against his skin. “Yeah.”
His fingers drag lazily along your spine once before stilling again.
“C’mere,” he mutters, even though you’re already impossibly close. You go anyway.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake slowly, not completely but just enough to feel it first. The absence, his warmth gone from beside you. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disoriented for half a second as your hand drifts across the sheets to feel it empty.
Your stomach tightens immediately.
“Buck?” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.
No answer.
You push yourself upright too quickly, pulse already starting to climb. The apartment is dim, silver-blue moonlight stretching across the floorboards. For one irrational second, panic flashes through you sharp and immediate.
Then, the bathroom door opens. Warm light spills briefly into the room before he steps out, shutting it quietly behind him.
“There you are,” you breathe.
His expression changes the second he sees you sitting up, concern softens immediately into apology.
“Hey,” he says quietly, crossing the room. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Your shoulders loosen all at once. “I thought—”
You stop yourself.
Thought what?
That he left?
That this disappeared overnight somehow?
The feeling must still show on your face because his own softens further.
“Just cleaned up,” he murmurs.
There’s a washcloth in his hand, steam still faintly curling from it. He sits carefully at the edge of the bed, reaching toward you with a gentleness that makes your throat ache.
“C’mere.”
You let him.
He brushes the warm cloth carefully along your shoulder, your neck, your arms and between your thighs. His hands are soft against your skin, like he’s caring for something precious. You watch him through sleepy eyes, the furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration in the way he holds your wrist gently while cleaning flour-soft traces of the evening from your skin.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.
Your lips twitch. “Documenting history.”
A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.
“There she is.”
The washcloth gets abandoned somewhere on the nightstand eventually because he leans down to kiss you before finishing, slow and lingering and warm enough to make your eyes flutter closed again. When he pulls back he doesn’t go far, his forehead against yours, breath mingling softly in the dark.
“You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly.
The vulnerability in it hurts worse now somehow than it did earlier.
You reach up, fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw. “I’m here.”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
Like he’s still convincing himself.
He climbs back into bed beside you a second later, pulling you into him immediately, no hesitation left in the movement now. Your leg slides between his, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist until you’re tucked against him again exactly where he wants you.
Where you want to be.
You press a kiss beneath his jaw and his hold tightens slightly.
“All mine,” he murmurs sleepily into your hair.
Your heart turns over softly in your chest. You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him once more, slow and fond and certain.
“Yours,” you whisper back.
And this time when sleep finds you again, it finds both of you together.
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