MDNI!!! 18+ ONLY
Hey everyone, I am Elle (27). I am getting back into writing! All of my Fandom writings will exist here. I mostly bounce between Game of Thrones and Marvel. Requests are open.
Main Blog: niallquesadilla
MDNI!
a million little times (that's the thing about illicit affairs)
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
summary: you’ve had a crush on steve harrington ever since you were 13 and he had protected you and your friends from the demo-dogs. you told him so when you were 18 and he was driving you and your drunk friends home from a graduation party. now you’re 22 and back in hawkins, and you can’t deny the fact you still have feelings for him. and he doesn’t know how to feel when he realizes he’s beginning to see you differently than he used to.
tags/warnings: steve harrington x reader, set post epilogue, no use of y/n, slowburn-ish, age gap (5 years), angst, fluff, smut, secret relationship, hurt/comfort, dramaaa, friends to fwb/situationship to lovers?, mentions of lumax, byler, henderhop, jancy and jopper, alcohol and alcohol abuse, mentions of cheating and shitty exes, trauma, crying, idk what else to add...
playlist
prologue: " born from just one single glance "
chapter one: " what started in beautiful rooms "
chapter two: " make sure nobody sees you leave "
chapter three: " clandestine meetings and stolen stares "
chapter four: " leave no trace behind, like you don't even exist "
chapter five: " don't call me kid, don't call me baby "
chapter six: " they show their truth one single time "
chapter seven: " but it dies, and it dies, and it dies "
chapter eight: " look at this godforsaken mess that you made me "
chapter nine: " tell yourself you can always stop "
chapter ten: " for you i would ruin myself a million little times "
epilogue: " that's the thing about illicit affairs "
a/n: this is something i've been planning/working on for a little while now and since so high school and the smau are both coming to an end i thought now would be a good time to post this. not sure when the first part will be up but hopefully soon! yes i'll be writing spidey steve again istg just give me time. anyway comment if you'd want to be added to the taglist for this series.
You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
Tags: 18+ content minors dni, nudity, female masturbation, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, safe word/motion use, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, major arguments, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 10k
A/N: it's ready early! thank you everyone for the support. um i'll keep it brief but this is a pretty rough, angsty one. please trust and bear with me. it will get better. thank you for putting up with my silly ideas. also a big thank you to @soelstress and @buckybarnesfic for reading this over for me and giving feedback while i was pulling my hair out a bit! as always, sorry for any typos!
main masterlist | series masterlist
In the split second it took for you to twist around, an arm half-heartedly lifting to cover your chest, Steve’s complexion had lurched from deathly white to a deep, mortified crimson. One hand clamped desperately over his eyes, as if that could undo what he'd already seen. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, floundering for something to say, before he choked out a strangled “Sorry!” and spun around so violently he almost took the doorframe with him.
The silence that followed was somehow worse. Beneath your hands, Bucky turned to stone, all his warmth leeched away, as if he'd been sculpted into a gargoyle mid-breath. You remained straddling his lap, dress tangled around your waist, nipples peaked against the air.
“Well,” You muttered dryly, glancing down at him. “That’ll give him something to think about during his little jogs around the compound.”
Bucky didn’t laugh.
His eyes were wide, glassy. He jerked his head towards the door, then back to you, panic flickering across his features. “How much did he—What do I—”
His hands left you completely, raking his hands down his face, as if he could claw the moment out of existence. You caught it then, the way his shoulders started to shake, breath stuttering in his chest, fingers balling into a fist as he pressed his knuckles against his forehead. You reached for him gently, two fingers grazing his wrist, the start of a soft coaxing, just enough to try and ease his hands away from his face. But he caught your wrist mid-motion.
You went still, dread curling behind your ribs.
His grip was trembling, the cool metal of his vibranium fingers tightening around your skin. Wordlessly, he motioned, three firm squeezes in quick succession.
Stop.
You were already sliding off his lap, kneeling in the tangle of half-kicked sheets and discarded pillows next to him in a futile attempt to give him more space, but it was already too late.
“Bucky?” You breathed, and he visibly flinched. You were unsure where the panic had pulled him, nor what thoughts drowned him, but you knew you couldn’t let him stay lost. “Bucky, talk to me.”
“I can’t, I can’t—” He gasped, voice thin like every breath was a fight.
“Bucky.” You interrupted him firmly. “I need you to breathe.”
The super soldier ignored your instructions, crumpling in on himself as you hovered, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse. His breaths were coming fast, too fast. You could hear how each intake rattled in his chest, lungs not fully expanding as his body was quickly switching into a fight-or-flight mode.
“He’s going to be upset.” Bucky managed to choke out, his voice breaking.
“Why would he be upset?” You pushed, keeping your voice steady and calm. “He’s your friend.”
“I don’t know, I just…” His voice was rising, near frantic. He was tugging at his hair now, stuck in a panicked spiral of his own making.
“You’re panicking. You’ve had a shock,” you said quickly. “That’s all it is. Just breathe, okay? In and out, like we always do. We’ve done this before, remember?”
His chest heaved, a desperate sound clawing up his throat.
"I can't... I—”
"Just breathe," you repeated quickly. You needed to make yourself small, unthreatening. You dropped off the side of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him. "Bucky, look at me."
His eyes were wild. You reached out, gently, just brushing his kneecaps with your fingertips. "Let's rationalise this for a second, okay? You’re safe. Nothing bad happened."
He shook his head in short, jerky movements, like he couldn't even hear you over the roaring panic inside his skull.
"He's gonna hate me," he gasped, chest spasming. "I—fuck—he's gonna be disgusted—"
"Hey, hey, stop," you said firmly, voice low and steady, even as your heart hammered in your own chest. You pressed your palm lightly against his thigh. "Steve is not disgusted. Embarrassed? Sure. Mortified? Definitely. But not at you, Bucky."
"I—he—" He couldn’t even get the words out anymore. His hands tore away from his hair to clutch at the sheets twisted around him.
You frowned, your mind racing as you tried to decide your next move. The shift had happened so fast. Alarm prickled at the back of your neck. You needed him to come back to you, to breathe, to move, to thaw out before he became solid ice.
You leaned closer, gently but firmly capturing his wrists in your hands. Your fingers curled around the tense line of his forearms. His skin was clammy under your touch, his pulse erratic just beneath the surface. You drew his arms down, guiding them from where they hovered and settling them across his lap.
"You’re not in trouble," you repeated, slowly and carefully. "Nothing bad is happening. Steve just walked in at the wrong time. That’s all."
He made a broken sound in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. His vibranium hand was twitching uncontrollably against your grip.
"You’re okay," you whispered. "Look around. We're still here. No one's yelling. No one's mad."
He shook his head again, tiny tremors wracking his whole body.
"You're not back there," you added quietly, knowing exactly where his mind wanted to go. "You're Bucky Barnes. You’re safe. You’re home."
The words seemed to reach some small part of him. His breathing was still ragged, but he cracked his eyes open, glassy and rimmed red.
"There he is," you murmured, giving his wrists a soft squeeze. "Hi. Still with me?"
He nodded shakily.
"Good," you praised, shifting your grip to run a hand slowly up his arm, grounding him. "Breathe with me, Buck. In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth. Easy. Like we always do."
You exaggerated the breath yourself, making it big and obvious, hoping he'd mimic you. You tried not to let your mind flicker to how ridiculous the situation was, you half-naked, the remnants of arousal now a cold, wet patch in your underwear as you guided a super soldier through his panic attack. Was he in over his head? Were you in over your head? He had used the safe motion. Had you pushed him too far this time—?
No. No, you had to remind yourself. It was all fine, all controlled and okay until Steve walked in. He was the unpredictable element. Each time you and Bucky had lessons, he was handing you a piece of himself, handing you all of his trust. He was vulnerable in these moments, entirely raw and exposed. And you hadn’t even taken a second to ensure the damn door was locked, too caught up in the moment, the thrill. Why had you done that? Why were you allowing yourself to be so easily swept away?
It took a few tries, several messy, half-choked inhalations, but finally, finally, he caught the rhythm. You sat there with him, counting out soft beats under your breath, refusing to let your thoughts drag you under.
When the worst of the tremors had faded, you eased back just a little. Bucky shook his head slightly, another ragged breath escaping him, but this time there was something like life in it. His hands were still shaking, but he wasn’t clawing at himself anymore.
"You're okay," you soothed. "We’re okay."
"I’m sorry," he croaked.
"You don’t have anything to be sorry for," you replied simply. "It’s not your fault. Steve should’ve knocked. If anything, I should be charging him rent for getting a free show."
That dragged a real, if frail, smile out of him.
You grinned back, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead gently.
“Listen to me,” you leaned in closer. “Let me talk to him. I’ll get Steve to come back. We’ll clear it up, face it head-on. It’s only going to make it worse if we pretend it didn’t happen.”
His blue eyes met yours, unsure. The colour looked almost unnatural, too bright against the bloodshot whites. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure, Bucky,” you replied, voice firm with conviction. “You think I’d ever do something to hurt you?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak, but you saw the tiny shift, his fists uncoiling, his breathing slowing, no longer tearing through him like it might rip him apart. You stood, tugging your crumpled dress back up to cover your chest again, hooking the thin straps over your shoulders.
Bucky stared down at his hands, gears in his vibranium arm whirring slightly, still sat among the dishevelled sheets. You knew he was overthinking, already surrendering to worry in those brief seconds. Against your better judgment, you reached out, cradling his head in your palm as you forced him to look up at you, shell-shocked and miserable.
“I’ll be back," you promised. He blinked up at you, throat bobbing with a hard swallow, and you had to trust he believed you. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his temple, fingers dragging across his jaw as you pulled away. You could’ve sworn he tilted his head to follow you, chasing your touch as you marched towards the door. “And hey, atleast next time we’ll remember to lock the fucking door.”
You weren't sure if he replied or if he even heard you. Some part of you, the jaded, self-destructive thing that had learned it was safer to be alone, whispered that maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. And that perhaps it was for the better. You’d survived so far, tearing down anyone who got too close, keeping parts of you locked away in solitude for your protection…You crushed that thought before it could bloom any further and slipped barefoot into the hallway. Steve hadn’t made it far, and you caught him halfway to the elevators.
"Steve! Steve, can we just talk?"
He didn't even turn around, just threw a hand up over his shoulder. "I don't think I want to know what I just walked in on—"
"Listen," you snapped, stepping sharply into his path before he could retreat any further down the hallway. He tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored him without hesitation, cutting him off cleanly. He shifted again, impatient, but you were faster, darting to block him completely. You planted yourself firmly in front of him and crossed your arms, chin lifted in a challenge. You were sure you looked a right state, hair messy, lips swollen, and the remnants of your makeup smudged. "He’s freaking out in there, okay? He thinks you’re mad at him. Please just come back and reassure him it’s fine—"
“Is it fine?” Steve cut in, slicing clean through your rambling. The edge in his voice made you falter, your brows knitting together in confusion.
Was he… angry?
Steve Rogers was ever the serious figure in the compound, tightly wound, controlled, the kind of man who dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’. But you’d never heard his voice drop in such a way before—low and tight, his jaw clenched and his posture stiff, as if he was stewing on something unspoken.
“What?” You managed to stumble out.
Steve looked you up and down, unimpressed. His arms crossed over his own chest in a mirror of you, biceps bulging against the fabric of his sleeves. “What you’re doing. Is it really fine?”
You hesitated, thrown completely off-balance. This wasn’t anywhere on the radar of reactions you’d prepared for. You’d expected embarrassment, maybe a flustered apology, half-hearted but well-meaning. Perhaps even a flash of happiness, pride that Bucky was finally confident enough, safe enough, to take a step forward in his life. You’d braced for fist bumps, for some awkward bro code moment, whatever the hell men did. What you hadn’t prepared for—what hadn’t even occurred to you while you were coaxing Bucky through his panic—was that Steve’s anger wasn’t aimed at Bucky. It was aimed squarely at you.
Steve watched you expectantly, and all that tumbled out of your mouth was a bewildered, “I don’t understand?”
“Listen, I don’t think there is a polite way to put this…” Steve said, voice low, tight with restraint. His weight shifted forward like he was gearing up for a fight he didn’t want but felt he had to have. You braced yourself instinctively, steeling yourself with a deadly calm, ready for an outburst, accusation, or insult. But to your surprise, when he spoke again, it wasn’t anger that flooded out.
It was fear.
Fear that you had no problem deducing came from a desire to protect Bucky, not just from H.Y.D.R.A., any other foe or the world as a whole, but to protect him from you.
“He’s vulnerable. If this goes south, it could break him.”
“You don’t think I know that?” you shot back, sharper than you intended.
Steve’s eyes flickered with surprise, but from the way he was gritting his teeth, it didn’t take a genius to tell he disapproved. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to hold back everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.
“Just—” His voice cracked slightly. He ran a hand down his face, visibly struggling. “I need you to understand. Ever since we got him back, I see pieces of him. Fragments of the man I used to know.”
He paused as he motioned vaguely into the air, as if he was trying to stop the floodgate of words spilling from his lips.
“And it kills me, it kills me every day, knowing we’ll never get all of him back. That parts of my best friend are just… lost forever. I don't know what H.Y.D.R.A. took from him—hell, maybe none of us ever will—but what I do know is that he’s hanging on by threads. Whatever you’re doing with him is a bad idea.”
He swallowed thickly, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to desperation. “It won’t just hurt him. It'll undo him. And I can't…I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you play with his emotions like that. I don’t want you damaging him any further than he already is—-”
Any sympathy you felt for Steve quickly drained as you felt heat rising up your neck, and before you could stop yourself, you snarled, “I’m not damaging him—”
You knew this look.
The thinly veiled judgment behind it.
It had followed you like a shadow from the moment you were freed from Dreykov’s clutches. You weren’t oblivious to the way people glanced at you when they thought you weren’t looking, the way prejudice soured even their best intentions. You were not naïve. You were not feeble enough to stand there and be quietly condemned.
“Are you sure?” Steve cut back, ignorant of the frustration now festering in your gut. “He’s not ready for whatever you’re pushing onto him—”
You pinched the bridge of your nose as you struggled to hold onto your temper, but it was slipping through your fingers fast. You could see it in the stubborn line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.
“I’m not pushing anything onto him!”
You took a hard step forward. The movement made Steve tense, like he half-expected you to swing at him, but you didn’t. You just stood your ground, daring him to keep going, daring him to say something worse.
“I think this attitude is part of the problem, Rogers," you bit out. "How is he supposed to overcome anything, experience anything if you baby him? If you cut him off before he has the chance to grow? I’m not hurting him, I’m just helping him.”
Steve opened his mouth like he had a retort ready, but whatever words he had dried up halfway to his tongue. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, finally sagged open in helplessness. His whole stance wilted slightly, shoulders bowing under the weight of doubt.
“I don’t know...” he muttered, the words dragged from him reluctantly, like they tasted sour in his mouth.
You didn’t give him a chance to wallow. The anger was already riding too hot in your blood, crackling in your chest.
“He consents. Every time. I check with him every time.” You hissed. “Because I know how important that is to him, because it’s important to me too, but that’s a topic none of you will ever address, is it?”
Steve stared at you, breathing heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling like a man trying desperately to hold onto his last thread of composure as you continued your rant. “We never go past his comfort zone. I never pressure him. I never trick him. I respect him. Why would you even think that?”
His mouth contorted into a scowl before he finally answered, “because I don’t know you.”
You recoiled a fraction, brow lifting in disbelief. You could’ve sworn there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, like he was watching something familiar but hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet. You stared back at him, heat flushing your face, and when you finally found your voice, it came out quieter, but no less biting.
“No, you don’t,” you spat, the words ripping from your throat. “I know I never put the effort in, but you can’t say you ever tried either.”
The hallway fell into a suffocating silence. The kind that rang in your ears. The kind where neither of you wanted to be the first to speak, where the air between you burned with the things you couldn’t unsay now. Steve’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes flashing with a storm of emotions he clearly didn’t trust himself to voice. He finally just looked away, the tension radiating off him like static.
It would have been so easy to leave it like that, to turn your back and let Steve stew in his distrust. But that wouldn’t help Bucky. And he was the only thing that mattered right now.
So you spoke up, catching the thinnest, fraying thread of truce before it would fade entirely.
“Look, I don’t care what you think of me," you tried to calm your voice, keeping your tone neutral despite the fire licking up your spine. "I don’t care if you even like me to be honest, but what I do care about is that if you say you’re his friend, if you say it’s your job to look after him, then I need you to go back there and reassure him before he spirals.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. A rare, raw show of uncertainty from Captain America himself, usually so sure of himself and his actions. “You’re... you’re probably right.”
Before he could hesitate, before he could get cold feet, you reached out and grabbed his arm. His muscles went tense under your grip, but you didn’t let that deter you. You pointed a finger at him, close enough that he had no choice but to meet your glare head-on.
“Don’t treat me like the villain because I care.”
Steve gave one stiff nod, but he said nothing. You stared at him a second longer, making sure it stuck, before you finally released him with a shove of your hand.
Without another word, you turned on your heel and stalked back down the hall. You didn’t look back to see if Steve was following.
You didn’t need to.
His footsteps, reluctant but steady, fell into place behind you.
The silence prickled along your skin as you navigated quickly back to Bucky’s apartment. His anxious face plagued your mind, the way his breathing had turned shallow and scared, like a caged animal.
The door to Bucky’s apartment was still ajar, just a crack, like he'd been too afraid to close it. Or maybe he hadn’t even noticed it was open at all.
You pushed gently at the handle and stepped inside.
Bucky was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, hair half-clinging to the sweat still damp on his temples. His shirt was still wrinkled from earlier, his vibranium hand flexing unconsciously, twitching in small stutters as though trying to grasp at something he couldn’t hold.
His eyes lifted the moment he heard the door creak, wild, wide with nerves, and then they landed on Steve.
“Hey Buck…” Steve started, voice soft.
“Steve, I can explain—“ Bucky’s words spilt out in a tangle of panic, but Steve raised a hand, halting him.
“It’s alright,” Steve said quickly, the kind of quick that begged not to make it worse. His eyes scanned the room like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “I’m not mad. I just… didn’t expect it.”
He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a weak, crooked sort of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “So, uhh… how long has this been happening?”
“Since the gala,” Bucky muttered.
“The gala?” Steve echoed, blinking. “You two really hit it off then, huh?”
You resisted the urge to groan. There was a pause, awkward and brittle.
“So are you like dating or—”
“No—” You and Bucky answered in perfect, rapid unison.
Maybe too fast.
The silence that followed was deafening. Steve raised both brows, then glanced between the two of you slowly, clearly re-evaluating everything. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his jaw while you picked hard at the raw skin around your nails.
“Alright,” Steve said after a moment, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand. It’s a whole new century, Buck. I guess we gotta adapt to the times.”
He was trying, that much was clear. His voice gentle, his posture no longer combative, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite let up. It was the kind of compromise only a man like Steve Rogers could offer—discomfort wrapped in compassion.
You opened your mouth, the words slow to form on your tongue. “We’ve just been… I’ve just been…”
You hesitated. Your eyes flicked to Bucky, trying to read him, trying to decide whether he wanted this out in the open, whether he’d say anything at all. But his body locked up like it expected pain, arms folded, metal fingers curled tight. His expression was a mix of shame and fear.
He looked like a man staring down a loaded barrel.
“We’ve just been fooling around,” he cut in, voice flat and even. “Nothing serious.”
Nothing serious.
You tried not to flinch, tried not to let the words sting like salt in an open wound, nor assess why you felt that way. You didn’t understand why it hurt so much, considering you had repeated those same words to Natasha not long ago. He wasn’t lying. What he said was true, even if he carefully sidestepped the messy reality of the lessons. That was a whole other rabbit hole Bucky clearly wasn’t ready to admit to Steve. Maybe not even to himself.
Still, you forced yourself to nod along, pretending the hollow feeling in your chest wasn’t there. Pretending you hadn’t gotten a little too attached to this— to the lessons, to the quiet understanding, to the broken man sitting right in front of you.
Steve’s gaze shifted between the two of you, his mouth tightening. He didn’t press, but the flicker in his eyes said enough. He noticed something, but he just wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge it.
“Alright, I believe you,” Steve said carefully. “You told anyone about this?”
“Just you,” Bucky muttered, still refusing to meet his friend's eye.
You shifted your weight, the guilt gnawing at you sharp and immediate. You forced a breath through your nose, nails digging into the tender skin around your thumb. Neither super soldier seemed to notice the way your jaw tightened, or how the metallic taste of iron bloomed across your tongue from how hard you bit down.
You couldn’t keep lying. Not now. Not after everything you had just preached about trust and care, not if you wanted Bucky to keep believing in you. You had to tell him. In the spirit of being truthful, you would tell him. You had to own up to the fact that you had foolishly confided in Natasha, that you had allowed her to get under your skin, left yourself vulnerable in a way that could very well undo everything you had built together.
The word caught your throat on its way out.
“Well...” you interrupted, voice soft, bracing yourself.
Both men turned to you, and you already regretted your decision. Steve straightened subtly, his arms crossing over his chest as he glanced between you and Bucky with wary eyes, as if already preparing himself to referee whatever was about to happen. But it was Bucky’s reaction that truly cut, his whole body going rigid where he sat, muscles locking beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. His brow furrowed, deep lines creasing his forehead as he stared at you with a mixture of confusion and something rawer, something alarmingly close to hurt.
“You told someone?” he questioned, voice tight.
“No, it’s just... Nat,” you admitted, the words spilling too fast, too desperate to soften the blow.
Bucky's face twisted. “You told Natasha?”
“No! She, uh, kinda pieced it together?” You fumbled over your words, blindly and furiously picking at your nails.
“What?”
“Look, you’re not exactly subtle,” you rushed to explain, feeling Steve shift awkwardly at your side as the conversation nosedived. “I was going to talk to you about it first, but then she cornered me, and I didn’t know what to say—”
“When?” Bucky cut in, voice rising. “When were you going to talk to me about it?”
“I don’t know!” you burst out, exasperated with yourself more than him. “I was trying to figure out how to bring it up—”
“You lied to me.”
“No, I was just—” you tried, stepping forward instinctively, but the look he gave you rooted you to the spot.
“I asked you if you had said anything to Natasha or Yelena,” Bucky interrupted, voice low and wounded, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “And you said no.”
“It just didn’t feel like the right time—” you mumbled weakly,
Bucky rolled his eyes, a sharp, bitter sound escaping him. He looked past you, to Steve, as if hoping for some escape.
“So Natasha knows,” he muttered darkly. “And then we can assume Yelena probably knows as well—”
“Nat wouldn’t say anything—”
Bucky’s laugh was hollow, almost humourless. “Do you know that? For sure?”
“Why are you so worried—”
“Because I don’t want people to know!” he snapped, voice cutting sharper than you thought he could bear to be with you. “Are you not embarrassed?”
You recoiled in shock.
Steve exhaled a breath that came out sounding suspiciously like a curse, entirely unexpected and out of character for the golden super soldier.
“Why would I be embarrassed?” you asked, voice steady despite the way your chest ached.
Bucky opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes darted away, landing on the sheets crumpled around him like they held some escape, some answer. His whole posture shrank inward, collapsing in on himself.
You didn’t let it go. You couldn’t.
“Why would I be embarrassed?” you repeated, louder this time, forcing the question into the space between you.
Bucky still wouldn’t look at you. His shoulders hunched, head bowed. Scolded dog—but for once, you didn’t find it cute.
“Are you embarrassed by me, Bucky?” you asked directly.
“No,” Bucky said immediately, shaking his head. “No. That’s not what I meant—”
“It sure sounded like it,” you scoffed.
The silence that settled over the room was uncomfortable enough to make Steve squirm, the blond opened his mouth to try to smooth over the situation. You stopped him before his tongue could even form a syllable, holding up one finger as you stared across at Bucky. He blinked up at you with an expression cut somewhere between guilt and horror as he realised there was no coming back from what he had just implied. The insult had hit, the damage done, and all that was left was a chasm between you.
“I should go,” you said at last, voice clipped.
“Now, hold on—” Steve interrupted, stepping forward slightly.
“No, it’s fine," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You two should talk alone anyway."
Bucky's head jerked up slightly at your words, expression stricken. He didn’t move from where he sat, just watched silently as you crossed the room with stiff, deliberate motions. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your bra from the floor, nor when you collected your coat and shoes from where they had been haphazardly tossed.
At the door, you paused, squaring your shoulders before gesturing vaguely between them with a small, almost pitying smile. Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, not angry, not scolding, just exhausted.
“Remember, in and out. Use your words. Talk to him, sort it out.” you reminded him, voice gentle but unwavering. “You’re on your own now.”
“Wait—” Bucky reached out instinctively, voice cracking under the strain, but it was too late.
You snapped the door shut behind you, cutting off whatever apology or excuse he might have tried to offer.
—
You’re on your own now.
The words had echoed through your mind like a curse, looping over and over.
They whispered back every time your phone lit up. They rang louder when Natasha tried to corner you with soft girl-talk after long missions or training sessions. They surged again whenever Steve hovered too close after briefings, or loomed beside the coffee machine like he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you alone.
You’re on your own now.
You were beginning to think those words weren’t for Bucky but for yourself.
It was your mess—a slow-burning wreck of your own making. Bucky had reached out in the aftermath, trying to bridge the silence with texts asking to talk, explain, and understand. You’d read them, every one, then locked your phone and buried it like that would bury the damage too. You were too exhausted. Too goddamn ashamed of how much you’d let him in.
You’d broken your own rules and now, predictably, you were bleeding for it.
Two weeks later, you were doing better, or at least performing the illusion well enough that no one dared question it. You’d buried yourself in work with single-minded fervour. What started as six-hour recon missions inside Karpin’s club had stretched to eight, then twelve. You hadn’t missed a shift or turned in a report that wasn’t pristine, timestamped, and drowning in intel. You were producing results so efficiently that it bordered on obsessive. Another compromise, another calculated smile, another night letting your soul rot beneath the thump of bass and leering stares in the club’s smoke-slicked VIP rooms. Progress came steep and you were the currency.
The black dress you wore clung like regret, stitched tight across your thighs and chest, sweat seeping through the synthetic fabric. Glitter clung to your skin like a rash, and your heels had carved angry grooves into the backs of your feet. The thick eye makeup you’d smeared on hours ago had begun to crumble in the corners, leaving your reflection a cracked porcelain doll in the glass door you passed. But none of that mattered. You just wanted to make it to your apartment, scrape yourself clean, and pretend, if only for a few hours, that you hadn’t given up everything just to feel nothing.
You slapped the final handwritten debrief into the data analyst’s hands, your signature barely legible.
Another mission done, but you had the sinking feeling your day was far from over, mainly because Steve was standing by the elevators with a little too much casual ease. The kind that wasn’t casual at all. He’d been lingering since you arrived to complete your debrief protocol, hovering just close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to call it out. Hands shoved in his pockets, one foot angled toward the hallway like he was trying to look like he had somewhere else to be, even though he didn’t. He was waiting, watching, hoping to intercept.
You knew better than to take the elevator. Not just because it was a coffin on cables, but because he would follow. You could already picture it, his voice low in some lame attempt not to spook you, trying to reason with you, explain himself, maybe even apologise. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want any of it. Not his concern, not his guilt, not whatever sense of responsibility he’d suddenly found like loose change in his pocket. He’d said his piece two weeks ago—said you weren’t good for Bucky. So what was this? Regret? Or worse, another excuse to tear into you?
You ducked your head, ignoring the burning ache in your heels, and made a sharp turn toward the stairwell.
“Hey,” came Natasha’s voice, too light, too amused.
You didn’t stop walking. What was this? Some kind of coordinated attack?
“Trouble in paradise?” she added, like this was a game. Like any of this was remotely fucking funny.
“Jesus, give it a break.”
“Not when you keep moping around like you’ve had your heart broken—”
“My heart isn’t broken—” you snapped without turning, pace only quickening.
“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realise things were so serious between you and Barnes. Let’s just talk about it—”
You stopped at the stairwell door, hand on the bar. Your spine went rigid, and you turned slowly, fixing her with a scathing look that could've flayed skin. She faltered under the heat of it.
“Oh, fuck off, Nat.”
Her smirk dropped. And just like that, you shoved the door open and disappeared into the stairwell.
Two weeks of silence, two weeks of pretending, two weeks of giving everything you had to missions because it was easier than sitting still. Easier than thinking about how much you’d given away and how little you had left.
You should’ve talked to him. Should’ve answered. Should’ve tried.
But you hadn’t. You hadn’t had the strength, or maybe just hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable one second longer than necessary. Because once you were vulnerable, once you opened that door, you couldn't un-feel what was felt. You couldn’t un-know the way he looked at you.
You hit the fifth landing when it happened, and your heel caught.
A sickening skritch, and your ankle jolted back, yanked by the spike of your stupid, overpriced, Stark donated shoe catching in one of the grid holes in the grated metal step. You cursed, gripping the railing, yanking once, twice—harder.
It wouldn’t budge.
A breath shuddered out of you. Your hands trembled as you crouched down, fingers scrabbling to free it. The heel was wedged deep in the hole, warped just enough that it wouldn’t twist loose. You gritted your teeth, tugging again. Nothing.
The pressure inside you, simmering, festering, unspoken for days, snapped like a wire. You stood abruptly and kicked your other shoe off with a grunt, the heel clattering against the wall with a hollow thud. Then you grabbed the stuck one with both hands, tore it loose, and flung it with everything you had.
The shoe hit the concrete wall with a loud crack, then fell limp to the landing.
You let out a dry, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and dropped to sit on the step, barefoot, legs shaking. No tears came, but the pressure behind your eyes stung. You pressed the heels of your palms hard into your face, breathing ragged through clenched teeth.
You’re on your own now.
—
The shower hadn’t helped.
You’d stood under the stream far too long, letting the water scald down your shoulders and rinse away the tension, the sweat, the last remnants of Karpin’s perfumed hell. Now, dressed in an old t-shirt and soft shorts, you stood at the foot of your bed. The sheets were untouched, cool and smoothed from disuse, undisturbed like a hotel room no one had ever checked into. You blinked at them like they might blink back.
You hadn’t been sleeping well. Not for weeks. Then again, sleep had never come easily. Most nights, you crashed on the couch, half-dressed, half-conscious, the TV humming in the background. There was something final about beds, something about the unspoken history soaked into the mattress and pillows.
With a small, habitual sigh, you pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, curling slightly onto your side, picking absently at the skin around your thumbnail. You winced when your nail caught a sore patch, your skin already raw and torn, but didn’t stop until the sting sharpened.
You reached for your phone, trying to distract your nervous hands. The light burned your eyes, too bright in the dark room, but you navigated by muscle memory. Messages. His name. Your thumb hovered, heart slowing as the thread opened.
The last ones sat like ghosts, pale and greyed, still waiting for a reply.
Just talk to me.
Please?
I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that.
Can we please talk?
You stared at them, lips parting slightly. That sick little ache twisted low in your ribs. You scrolled past, skimming quickly until the tone shifted, until the anger and desperation faded into something older.
Are you still awake?
Come over?
Can’t sleep.
Still can’t sleep.
I made tea. It’s too strong. You’ll hate it. Come fix it?
You could almost hear his voice, tired, soft, and just a little grumpy, the way it got when it was too late and he didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to say it.
You scrolled further, reading the back-and-forth, the playful jabs, the dry jokes, the quiet check-ins he always offered at the end of your missions, even when he already knew the details. You closed your eyes and saw it clearly, his apartment cast in low, amber light, the muted hum of the fridge, the TV murmuring. His arm would hang lazily over the back of the couch, like he wasn’t obviously waiting for you.
You could picture how his lips would twitch into a grin when you finally walked through the door. The quiet press of his hand against the small of your back as he led you past the threshold. How he had grown more confident with each night, how he laughed now, full and unguarded, at the sarcasm that used to make him flinch. How he looked when he was unravelled beneath you, breathless, red-cheeked, eyes blown wide.
You didn’t know when your hand had slipped beneath the sheets.
But now it was there, curled between your thighs, brushing past the waistband of your shorts as memory and longing swelled in your chest like a bruise. His voice in your ear, the way he would shiver when you whispered to him. The little whines he tried to swallow down.
Your fingers found slick heat, and your breath hitched as you brushed against your clit, circling slowly, gently. You kept your eyes closed. It was easier that way. Easier to summon the image of him pressing kisses to your sternum, the chill of his vibranium palm cupping your breast, thumb skimming over your nipple. You could almost feel it.
A soft moan escaped your throat as your fingers dipped lower, working in a rhythm that was steady but hollow, a poor mimicry of what you really wanted. Still, you chased it—chased him—through every flicker of heat and memory.
You ground the heel of your palm against your clit and gasped into the pillow, hips twitching upward.
“Bucky—”
His name slipped from your lips, barely a breath.
And everything stopped.
You froze. Fingers stilled. You sat up sharply, yanking your hand away like it burned, chest rising and falling beneath the old cotton of your shirt. You would’ve thrown your own damn traitorous hand across the room if it wasn’t attached to your wrist.
You stared into the dark, lips parted, throat tight, wondering how the hell you’d ended up here, half undone in an empty bed, chasing a ghost who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.
—
You stepped into the gym, the doors swinging shut behind you with a dull thud. The air greeted you like a punch to the lungs, rubber mats, dried sweat, and stale air conditioning. Your routine had become muscle memory by this point. Drop the bag by the bench. Roll your shoulders. Stretch until your bones stop screaming. Pretend everything is fine.
Except it wasn’t.
You blinked against the harsh fluorescents, scanning the space. No flash of red hair. No high blonde ponytail bobbing by the punching bags. No snide commentary lobbed across the sparring ring. Just quiet. Not peace, it was never peaceful, but that suffocating kind of silence that settled just before the ground gave out.
And then it did in the shape of Steve Rogers.
“They got pulled last night,” he said, emerging from the weight racks where he and Sam had been mid-stretch. “Mission came in late. Left before sunrise.”
You nodded once, jaw tight, masking the drop in your stomach. Of course they did. Of course, they left. Probably Nat punishing you for being a bitch to her by the stairwell.
Steve offered a vague, practised smile, too quick, too knowing. “But don’t worry. We’re subbing in.”
Your gaze flicked to Sam, who gave you a friendly wave. Then to Bucky, who was hunched over, lacing up his boots with a quiet intensity that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes caught yours for only a second, just enough for you to register the damage. He looked as wrecked as you felt. Pale, bruised beneath the eyes, mouth tight. He hadn’t slept properly in days. Favouring his right side again, you could see the subtle strain as he stood up, rolling his shoulders in faux nonchalance.
You hesitated. “You’re... stepping in?”
Steve shrugged. “We usually run around this time anyway. Figured we’d help cover.”
You glanced back toward the exit. The door was still there. Still functional. Escape was still an option, and you were a pretty good liar when you wanted to be. But selfishness was a slippery thing, and you didn’t move.
So you nodded, slow and controlled. “Right. Okay.”
You dropped down into a lunge, one knee kissing the mat, the other bent clean above your ankle. You held it steady, focusing on your breathing as your muscles slowly stretched awake.
Steve crossed his arms over his chest, using that easy posture he adopted when he wanted to appear relaxed. It only made you suspicious.
“What do you three usually run on Mondays?”
You shifted into a hamstring stretch, straightening your front leg and folding over it with practised ease. “Sparring,” you said, voice calm despite the tightness in your shoulders. “Nat’s idea. She says it sets the tone for the rest of the week.”
Steve gave a small smile. “Great. You’ll go with Bucky.”
You stilled mid-fold, hands hovering above your shin. The mat felt suddenly unstable beneath you.
Lifting your gaze slowly, you tried not to flinch visibly. “Is that… necessary?”
Steve tilted his head. “Why? Is there a problem?”
Sam raised a brow but said nothing, sensing the tension but clearly not sure what to make of it. You sat back on your heels, drawing your arms overhead in a stretch you didn’t need, using movement to mask your hesitation.
“No,” you said evenly, rising to your feet. “No problem.”
Across the room, Bucky had stilled, his jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking as he shot Steve a single, withering glance. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The reluctance in his movements said enough as he pushed up from the bench, slow and stiff, like gravity was suddenly working against him.
This wasn’t training. This was theatre. A stage set under fluorescent lights and recycled air. And Steve? Still over by the weights with Sam, pretending to be engaged in some idle conversation? Their voices were hushed, but their eyes flicked over too often, too deliberately? This had been arranged, choreographed behind your back like some well-meaning intervention. You wondered who else knew, who had caught wind. Had Sam pieced it together? Had Yelena? Was this their way of ‘helping’?
Bucky stepped into place across from you, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at his sides. He shifted, rolling his shoulders in a slow motion. The right still caught slightly. He still hadn’t gone to physio, that was clear. Stubborn as ever. Just one more thing for you to worry over.
“Ready?” he asked at last. His voice was dry, flat.
You swallowed the knot in your throat and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”
The first few rounds were predictable. You struck low, swept a leg, and knocked him off balance. He grunted, hit the mat, and bounced back up without a word. Then it was your turn. He twisted past your arm, hooked your leg behind his, and took you down in one smooth motion. You landed hard, breath puffing out of your lungs in a curse.
The fourth time you clashed, your forearms locked, both of you panting, he finally spoke.
“You always fight this sloppy when you're pissed off?” he muttered.
You bared your teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He pushed off with a sharp motion, shoving you back with more force than necessary. You staggered but caught yourself.
“You said we were done,” Bucky said, jaw clenched, circling you again. “Figured that meant you wouldn’t be sneaking glances at me every five seconds.”
A guttural laugh left your lips as you stepped in, aimed low and fast, but he blocked you easily. “I’m sorry, are you embarrassed, Barnes? Must be so embarrassing for you to have someone like me near you—”
“Don’t say that,” he snapped.
You hesitated just a second too long, and he used it, sweeping in, gripping your arm, twisting you toward the floor. But instead of letting the momentum carry, you pivoted mid-fall and slammed your elbow into his side, dragging him down with you. You both hit the mat in a tangle, limbs locked, breath heavy. Your chest pressed to his. His fingers curled tightly around your wrist. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm.
You shoved off him roughly and stood, pacing back toward the centre, sweat prickling down your spine, adrenaline and something uglier twisting in your gut.
“You really wanna do this?” you said, voice hoarse.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flashing. “I don’t know. Do you?”
Your blood roared.
Steve called out from the other side of the gym, something about keeping it light.
But it was too late.
You charged again.
No more feints. No more dancing around it. You drove into him with a fury you hadn’t realised had been coiled so tightly in your chest. Bucky blocked, returned, shoved—your bodies collided again and again, a flurry of jabs, kicks, twists, and takedowns. Your knuckles ached from where they connected with his forearms, your legs trembled from exertion. Neither of you held back anymore. This was the type of sparring that Nat was desperate to get out of you, messy, dirty plays that she praised.
He got a hit in against your ribs. You grunted and retaliated with a kick that swept his leg, sending him crashing to the mat. He growled, rolled, pulled you down with him, and suddenly you were grappling, arms locking, muscles burning.
Then he flipped you.
You hit the mat hard. Your breath left you in an abrupt wheeze.
His weight came down over you, solid, full-body pressure, his knee between your thighs to brace, his forearm across your collarbone pinning your shoulder. His hand gripped your wrist, and your other hand was caught somewhere beneath your own hip. The mat pressed into your spine. His face loomed above yours, his jaw clenched tight, and his breath fast and uneven.
You struggled.
At first, it was instinctual. A jerk of the hips. A twist of the arm. Trying to buck him off like you always had before. The sparring was routine, muscle memory, a thing you’d done with a dozen people a hundred times. But Bucky was heavier than you remembered. Stronger. His grip was too tight, his weight too much. Maybe you’d never quite realised how gentle he had been with you before, how soft and malleable he made himself when both of you were in bed.
Something primal and old stirred in the pit of your stomach.
Your limbs started to go rigid. Your throat tightened. You blinked, but the edges of your vision were already going dark, tunnelling inward, compressing the world into a narrow box with no air. His weight pressed down on your hips, his knee solid between your thighs, your shoulders pinned in place. You couldn’t breathe. You tried sharp, gasping inhales, but it wasn’t working. The more you pulled in, the more the air seemed to thin.
Your body twitched beneath him, useless, trapped, every muscle locking up. You felt yourself whimper, but it barely escaped your throat. You bit down hard on your lip to stop it from turning into something worse.
You tried to scream, to yell his name—Bucky, stop, stop—but no words came out. Just pressure and panic and the unbearable rush of tears behind your eyes. They brimmed but didn’t fall. You refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.
He didn’t move. Didn’t notice. He thought it was part of the fight. He thought you were still in it.
You tried to suck in a breath and choked on it.
You lifted your hand, every motion sluggish and jerky, and tapped three times on his forearm.
Bucky froze.
His entire body went still like someone had hit a kill switch. The pressure lifted instantly as he pushed himself off, retreating back on his knees. His face was alarmed, eyes wide and scanning.
You sat up slowly, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Your hands were flat against the mat, supporting your shaking frame. Your lungs worked overtime, trying to stabilise, trying to ground yourself. Your face flushed hot, not just from exertion but also from shame.
“Hey…” Bucky reached a hand toward you, but you cowered before he could touch you.
You forced yourself to your feet, knees stiff, stars swimming across your vision.
Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just knelt there on the mat, his eyes locked on you, searching your face like he was trying to read between the lines, like the truth might be scrawled somewhere in the way your mouth trembled or how you blindly picked at your nails.
His expression had dropped into something taut and drawn, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His brain catching up with what the tap meant—what it truly meant.
“Shit,” he breathed.“I didn’t know. I—I didn’t see it.”
He looked like he might be sick. Like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t. Knew he shouldn’t. His weight shifted, knee lifting like he was going to get up, close the space between you, but you took half a step back before he could. That was enough. He stayed where he was.
You hated how badly you wanted to fall into him.
Your whole body screamed for it, for safety, for the press of arms you trusted around you, for the warmth of him. For the feeling of a steady heart under your cheek, a voice in your ear telling you you were okay, you were here, it was over.
But you didn’t move. You locked your arms around your middle instead. Drew in a breath so deep it scraped your ribs raw and shoved everything down.
Still, your eyes lingered on him for a beat too long. On his worry. His guilt. His panic. He had remembered. He had known what the signal meant, even after all this time, hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned it and hadn’t made you explain.
And that—that meant something.
Slowly, with herculean effort, you rolled your shoulders back and let your face go blank as Steve and Sam approached.
“What are you two doing?” Steve asked, brows drawn together. He didn’t sound accusatory, just cautious, like he was testing the temperature of a room already on fire. “I told you to spar, not kill each other—”
“I—” Bucky started, lifting his hands slightly, almost in surrender. His voice was steady, but there was a slight tremor beneath it. You heard it. He was trying to smooth it over, or maybe like the words had just slipped from that place inside him that wasn’t guarded. He ignored Steve, eyes firmly locked onto you. “You alright, doll?”
He said it with such casualness. Casualness that indicated he didn't realise what had just slipped past his lips. It was instinct, probably.
Still, it hit you like a slap.
You didn’t even get the chance to level him with a look of ‘well-you’ve-gone-and-done-it-now’ before Sam’s head whipped around, armed with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and horror.
“What did you just call her?”
Bucky said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line, and you swore you saw the slightest tinge of red creep up his neck. Steve exhaled through his nose, loud and irritated, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting whatever scheme he had been plotting. Whatever it had been, it was clear to you that Sam hadn’t been brought up to speed.
“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly.
You didn’t look at anyone, just grabbed your bag from the bench and turned, heading for the locker room without a word.
Behind you, silence lingered on the mat.
—
Tony’s penthouse glittered like a scene from a luxury magazine shoot, all sleek lighting, glass walls, and a sky full of stars pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Music thumped low and rich through the space, some jazzy, remixed classic that Tony swore gave the night ‘class’. Outside, New York burned electric, skyscrapers blinking like a million eyes. Inside, the air reeked of expensive cologne, champagne, and politics.
You stood by the bar, posture poised, gown clinging perfectly in all the ways it was meant to. The colour was deep and dark, with a silky fabric cascading down your body like liquid shadow, explicitly chosen to flatter, distract, and hide. Your hair was swept into a neat updo, not a strand out of place. Lipstick matched the shade of your nails, the polish partly to distract from the skin you had picked raw. Sleek, practised, controlled. You looked the part.
God, you hated looking the part.
But the board had insisted. Visibility. Cohesion. Unity. The Avengers, Agents, Consultants, Freelance, everybody needed to be seen tonight, in public, together, smiling. To show the sponsors, the donors, the shareholders or whoever the fuck had power that everything was fine. That the world was still being held together by its favourite, dysfunctional little family.
You sipped your drink and nodded when someone from marketing passed by and forced a tight-lipped smile when a UN delegate’s assistant asked for a photo—laughed, genuinely for a moment, when Yelena shoved a canapé into Kate’s mouth mid-sentence and nearly made her choke.
Thor had clearly been overindulging in full Asgardian regalia and a black bowtie hanging comically loose around his thick neck. He was halfway through recounting an epic battle tale to a group of mortified interns, sloshing golden liquid onto the white rug as he gestured too grandly, his booming laugh echoing off the glass.
You laughed with him. Or, rather, around him.
You weren’t drunk, hadn’t dared allow it. The buzz you wore tonight came from anxiety. You had perfected the art of looking like you were fine. Fine in heels. Fine in silence. Fine in a room full of people where the one person you couldn't stop thinking about was also pretending he was fine.
You were on your millionth fake laugh when Steve stepped up beside you.
“I come in peace,” he said quickly, hands raised, like he expected you to throw a punch.
You shot him a flat look and started to turn away. “Whatever it is, Rogers, I’m not in the mood—”
“Hey—” he cut in gently, lowering his voice. “Nat was looking for you. Said she wanted to talk. Something important. She’s out on the balcony.”
That made you pause.
You glanced at him, reading his expression, trying to discern if there was more to it. But Steve had always been a terrible liar. This wasn’t his idea. There was definitely something sketchy about it…but you’d bite.
“…Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass on the bar. “Thanks.”
You peeled yourself from the crowd's edge, careful not to make eye contact with anyone too important or drunk. The floor beneath you pulsed faintly with the bass of the music, the champagne-fueled laughter, the click of heels and the hum of fake conversation.
Out of habit, your eyes scanned the room for him. You didn’t even mean to. It was muscle memory by now. A flicker of dark hair. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that stood out, even when he was trying not to. But you didn’t see him.
Maybe he left. Perhaps he found a corner to vanish into, away from all this noise.
You dodged a passing executive with a knowing smile and a polite excuse, dipped past a photographer angling for candids, and spun gracefully on your heel to avoid getting cornered by a senator’s wife with a diamond necklace and a mile-long list of questions.
Finally, you reached the balcony doors and slipped through them.
The cool air of the balcony kissed your bare shoulders the moment the sliding door clicked shut behind you. You exhaled. Finally, quiet.
Except—
He was there.
Leaning on the glass railing, gazing out over the city, hands braced as if the skyline could offer answers.
He didn’t turn at first. Just stood there, tall and tense, framed by the hum of the city lights below. His suit fit too well, with sharp lines and immaculate tailoring, the black lapels catching faint glints of light. The tie was knotted tight against his throat like a collar, strangling something feral just beneath the surface, like dressing up a wild, wounded animal and calling it tame.
You knew how much he hated this, the attention, the stiffness, the shallow, gleaming pretence. He hated how the suits itched, how they never accommodated his arm, and how they made him feel on display. Something was jarring about seeing him like this. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back and perfectly parted. Like someone had tried to iron out all the edges and polish him into something smooth and forgettable, it didn’t work. It never did.
And then you saw it—the glove. Smooth black leather over his left hand. Hiding it.
Shame. Fear. Judgment. You knew what that glove meant, what it had always meant. Just another mask he was forced to hide behind, or maybe a mask he forced himself to hide behind. And even now, he felt ashamed among people who called him a hero, who toasted him with champagne and wanted him in photos. And maybe he was right to feel wary, not to get too comfortable around the puppeteers who pulled all the strings.
It broke your heart.
Your heels clicked softly across the balcony tile as you approached. Bucky turned at the sound, startled.
His eyes locked on yours.
You stopped a few paces away, your breath catching for just a second. His gaze darted to the door, then back to you.
“Let me guess,” you said dryly, arms folding over your chest, “Nat came to you and told you Steve was looking for you on the balcony?”
Bucky blinked. “How did you—?”
“Because Steve just came to me,” you said, arching a brow, “and told me Nat was looking for me on the balcony.”
He swore softly under his breath and looked away, exhaling like he’d been sucker-punched. The wind tugged at his jacket, and his hand ghosted near the balcony rail.
“I think we’ve been set up.” You hummed.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quickly, already stepping back. “I can go—”
“No, it’s okay.” You cut him off. “We should talk.”
---
hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3
Summary: Sam and Bucky try to recruit (Y/N), Bucky's ex and a former Avenger who has left that life behind. But they realize her life has changed completely once they meet a her daughter with striking blue eyes.
Pairings: Bucky x Former!Avenger!Reader
“They want me to assemble a group,” Sam takes a long sip of his beer, thinking that it’ll do something to ease his mind. “The New Avengers.”
Bucky lets out a low whistle.
“I know.” Sam mutters. So far, it’s Captain America and the Falcon, but other than that, he’s completely lost. “Back when Steve was here, there was a place for us to go. We could aspire to one day go into the compound and train, but now, anyone who is willing to be part of the team is scattered all around the world.”
Bucky hasn’t said anything, not because he doesn’t know how to help his friend but because he’s so lost in his own journey. Running for congress sounded like a good idea, until he started dealing with the political world. So much bureaucracy, so many people wanting to fatten their wallets. And not enough actual helping.
“You got any ideas?” Sam asks, bringing him out of his mind.
But Bucky just hums, because the idea he does have is crazy.
“C’mon I know that being a silent watcher is your whole deal but I need some help over here. How the hell am I going to build a team from zero?”
Bucky finishes his drink, as if that’s going to help jumpstart his confidence. “Are you looking for fresh meat? Or do you got space for an old timer?”
Sam’s eyes widen. “I thought all your fighting days were behind you.”
“I want out,” Bucky loosens the tie on his neck. “I want to go out on the field again. Really help.”
Sam runs a hand down his face, there’s hesitation in the way he looks at Bucky.
“Unless…” Bucky gulps. “Unless I’m not what you’re looking for.”
“No, no.” Sam places a hand on his shoulder. “I just need to tell you something before you say yes to this-“
“What is it?”
“I was-uh-“ Sam looks up at the screen above them, not wanting to look at his friend in the eye when he says it. “I was gonna ask her to join, too.”
“Oh,” Bucky can’t help but think back to when you were his, at least for a moment. Every time he thinks about being happy, you’re right there next to him.
You were the first woman he was actually interested in. He spent years wasting time with thousands of women, letting them in his apartment but never into his heart. But your eyes reeled him in from the moment you started as an agent. Steve would always tease Bucky, saying he’d have to see you fall in love with someone else if he didn’t ask you out.
Those were the best years of his life. No doubt.
Until you left. You retired, and wanted nothing to do with him. And all the love you had seemed to evaporate from one day to the next.
But Bucky? He was still waiting for you to come back.
“I-I thought she disappeared, retired.” Bucky stutters at your memory.
“I found out where she lives now. And I planned on talking her into the group.” Sam looks down at the beer in his hand.
“I’m in.” Bucky says, but he’ll never be sure if he accepted because he wanted out of the political world or if he wanted another glimpse of you.
-------
“The house is supposed to be up the road.” Sam mutters, trying to find cel reception. But the two of them were so deep into the woods, it was almost impossible.
Bucky had always imagined you’d end up like this. Off the grid, living off your land. But in the dream, the two of you would be together. He’d spend the day cutting wood and harvesting whatever you’d grown, and you’d be deep into a hobby, spending your nights recounting your wild life.
They see an opening up the road, but as they come closer, their eyebrows knit together.
“This can’t be it.” Sam says under his breath.
A huge cabin, surrounded by pine trees, is the only thing around. There’s a big tree at the front of the cabin, with a tree house on one of its branches. A glittery pink bike on the lawn along with a replica of Mjolnir next to it.
Sam parks his truck and they both step out cautiously. Bucky looks around, wondering how the woman who used to scream at the sight of a spider could live here, all alone.
As they come closer to the front door, they hear rustling from the tree house.
Bucky nudges his friend’s shoulder. “There’s someone over here.”
Sam’s head whips just enough to see a pair of binoculars looking at them from the wooden window.
“Hello?” He calls out but there’s no answer.
“Do you live here?” Bucky asks, only to be slapped on the chest by his friend.
“You can’t ask that! It’s creepy!”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “How else am I supposed to get an answer if I don’t ask a question?”
But there's no response from the person inside the tree house. Instead, there's clanking and banging and before they even realize it, there's a little girl pointing a bow and arrow directly at them.
"State your name! Now!" She tries to look menacing but her outfit is too much for the two men to handle. Sky blue rain boots with a purple tutu, a Def Leppard t-shirt and heart shaped sunglasses.
"Oh my god." Sam immediately melts. "Aren't you the cutest little thing I've ever seen."
But the little girl doesn't fall for the Captain's words, she points the arrow directly at Sam. "Don't make me repeat my question, I know how to use this."
"Do you live with an adult? Your aunt, maybe?" Bucky's throat dries up as he asks the question. He knew you had siblings before you went into the crazy line of work that were the Avengers, and he begged that the little girl before him was theirs.
Bucky spent hours thinking about you on the way here. He'd been dreaming of seeing you again, thinking of what must have changed and what stayed the same. But he never thought there was a possibility you had moved on.
"Is your-" Bucky clears his throat. "Is your dad home?"
Sam eyes his partner. "Smooth."
The little girl walks backwards until her back bumps into the cabin's front door. "I'll call my daddy."
Bucky's heart stops. After years, he was still thinking of you whenever his eyes closed, and you, you were completely over him. Started a family with someone else.
"I'm sorry, Buck." Sam pats his back, immediately noticing the shift in his friend's eyes.
"S'okay." Bucky mutters, grinding his combat boot into the ground. "I'm not here for her, I'm here to assemble the team."
"I know, but-"
"I said I'm fine." Bucky snaps, running a hand through his shorter hair.
You'd begged him, for years, to cut his hair.
"I love your long hair," you'd once murmured against his lips. "But I also love how you looked during the Howling Commandos era."
"Era? You're making me sound more old than I am." Bucky smiled against your lips.
"I'm just saying, you could shorten it." Whenever you looked into his eyes, it made him feel like he was the only thing in the world.
"I thought you liked pulling my hair." Bucky flipped you on the bed, taking in your bubbling laughter.
The creaking sound of the cabin door brought him back to now. Bucky sucks in air, preparing to meet the man who is apparently so incredible that you decided to drop everything to be with him.
He has to be at last six feet. Well I'm 6 foot 1, on a good day. Bucky responds to his own thoughts. And he must be jacked. Not as jacked as me, I'm the fucking Winter Soldier for fucks sake! He must love her. Well I, I've loved her every day since I met her.
It feels like it takes hours for this mystery man to come out. The door opens slowly, only to reveal... You.
Bucky's knees buckle as your eyes meet his. You hadn't changed a lick, and if he didn't know better, he'd think that you were still his. Bucky's hands ball into fists at his side, needing a physical reminder to not reach out and hold you. Beg for your kisses. Tell you he doesn't care that you left, just as long as you take him back.
"Sam? Bucky?" Your voice trembles. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"
The little girl pokes her head from behind your legs. "Mommy!"
"Mommy?" Sam and Bucky shriek at the same time.
"Attack them! Take them down!" Your daughter laughs.
"Young lady!" You scold.
But the little girl interrupts you, raising a chubby hand to stop your words. "I've already told you my name is Tashi Romanoff."
"Tashi, please, go upstairs and play. I need to talk to them for a moment. In private." You enunciate your last two words, knowing they were her least favorite words in the world.
"Fine," she huffs, turning on her heels. But not before taking off her rain boots and heart shaped sunglasses to reveal a pair of striking eyes. Clear blue with a steel ring surrounding her iris. Bucky's brows furrow as he catches a glimpse of Tashi's eyes, almost the same exact shade as the one he sports.
"W-wai-She's-" Bucky stutters out, not being able to comprehend what just happened.
"Tashi, huh?" Sam raises his eyebrows.
"Yeah, she’s going through a phase where she refuses to be called by her name," you close the door behind you. "Auntie Nat came to visit us during the blip and she just latched on to her."
"W-was her dad blipped?" Bucky tries to act normal but his heart is beating out of his chest.
"Her dad isn't in the picture." You cross your arms. "She was a surprise."
"So-uh-so that means." Bucky points between him and the house. Not being able to get the words out. "There's no way that."
"She's not yours, Barnes." You roll your eyes at your ex boyfriend.
"But she-her eyes." He blinks.
"There are a lot of guys with blue eyes out there." You let out a light laugh. It was strangely easy for you to slip into how things were, teasing and sharing laughs was the base of your relationship with Bucky. But now, so much time has passed, and you're definitely not the same person you were back then.
"What are you guys doing here?" You look down at the floor as you ask the question.
"Someone out there has created a mind controlling substance that puts everyone in danger. And we need to stop him. We found his lab and we got some of the vials but we need your help taking him down." Sam says but you're shaking your head before he even has time to finish. "I want to form a group. The world needs us again."
"Look, Sam, I appreciate you going through all the trouble to find me but, as you can see, I have other priorities now." You look back into the house through the window to find your daughter peeking through the window.
"But-" Bucky speaks up but you stop him.
"You guys can stay the night if you'd like," you say, looking at the darkening sky. "But I'm not going back. There's a reason I left that life."
Bucky bites his tongue to stop himself from asking you what that reason was.
"Thanks for letting us stay." Sam smiles as he passes the threshold of your home.
You never thought this day would come. Seeing your daughter run around your back yard with one of your best friends.
“She’s beautiful.” Bucky comes to stand next to you, but you only hum in agreement. Words seemingly disappeared from your mind the second his scent wafted closer to you. Sandalwood and fire, clean linens with a dash of something else. So masculine, so protective. So incredibly, Bucky.
“How old is she?” He asks.
“Don’t do this to yourself.” You take a deep breath in, letting him coat your lungs.
“I just want to know.” Bucky tries to act innocently. He dissects every trait he can tell comes from you, but the rest, they look awfully similar to him. Tashi’s nose has the same bump as his and her eyes crinkle just like Bucky’s when she smiles.
“Faking was never your forte.” You smile. “She’s not your daughter Bucky.”
“Bucky.” He repeats his name like it hurts him to say. “You never used to call me that.”
“Well, I used to call you baby but I wouldn’t want Tashi to start asking questions about who my other baby is.”
Bucky lets out a laugh, it’s a low grumble that shakes his ribs. It’s been so long since he felt this peace. “I missed this,” he lets the words slip out.
“I missed this too.” You say, barely above a whisper, stopping yourself before you say that you missed him. But you did.
Every day since you left, you thought of Bucky. Of the way he used to hold you so tenderly and the kisses he gave you at night. Of how he said I love you and made it sound like the only words that existed.
But all those memories were of the past, your life before Tashi came in. And you should keep them like that.
-----
The moonlight is the only thing that illuminates Bucky as he wanders around the cabin. He didn't mean to lurk but he'd woken up from a nightmare.
Your home was different than he imagined. A lot more stuffed animals and toys and less trinkets from your past life. There were a couple of pictures here and there but they were mostly of Tashi and you.
"What are you doing up?" Bucky jumps up at the sound of her squeaky voice.
Tashi looks up at him with those goddamned eyes. They looked so much like his, it was concerning.
"I-I couldn't sleep." Bucky rubs the back of his neck.
"Do you have nightmares?" She asks so innocently. If only she knew the things he dreamed of. "I have them too."
"You do?" Bucky whispers, making her nod her little head.
"Mommy usually helps be back to sleep but I don't want to wake her up." Tashi brings a finger to her mouth, motioning for the Sergeant to keep quiet. "Don't tell her I woke up, promise?"
"Promise." Bucky brings out his pinky, wrapping it around her little finger. "I'll let you in on a little secret of mine."
Tashi's blue eyes widen, urging him to go on.
"You may not know about me but, there was a time your Mommy helped me with my nightmares." Bucky smiles at the memory.
"I know about you, silly goose." Tashi covers her giggles with her hand.
"You do?"
She nods, holding her hand out and taking him to her playroom. Sitting Bucky in an incredibly small chair. "You're the boy from my book!"
Tashi places in his hands a hand sewn felt book. The characters were a bit wonky but Bucky could immediately spot himself in the fabric.
"You're the boy with the heart of gold and the arm of steel." She says, proudly pointing to the book.
"The boy with the heart of gold and the arm of steel would save anyone, especially the people he loved," Bucky read his description on the book. "People around the world misjudged him, but that didn't stop him from being good. He proved them all wrong."
"Your secret is safe with me." Bucky lets out a watery smile, setting the book down on the floor. "How about you go up to your room and I can tell you a story about your mom."
"Really?" Tashi jumps up.
"Only if you promise to try and go to sleep again." Bucky raises his eyebrow, trying to appear strong but the little girl already had him wrapped around her finger.
"Under one condition," Tashi crosses her arms. "I can go outside and get my Natasha figurine."
Bucky bites down on his lip. "It's quite late to go outside."
"Please?" She pouts. "It'll only take a second."
God she looks so much like you.
"Fine." Bucky gives in. "But I'll be watching by the door, can't let you go outside all alone."
The super soldier walks behind the little girl, watching as she runs outside and sifts through the grass.
Bucky should have known something was wrong, he should have heard them lurking in the bushes. But he was too distracted by her, too distracted by the idea that this could have been his life. That in some multiverse, Tashi was his daughter and he could've retired next to the love of his life.
But he didn't. And it was too late once he realized what was happening.
Tens of agents dressed in black closed in on the cabin, running onto the property. Tashi was the first thing they grabbed.
He heard her yell out his name, but it happened in slow motion.
"No!" Bucky screamed, running towards the man who kidnapped her. "Let her go!"
Tashi's red splotched eyes was the last thing Bucky saw before they crammed her into a black van and left down the only road. His feet burned as he ran behind them, but not even Bucky was able to catch up to them.
Once he came back to the cabin, Sam and you were running around trying to understand what happened.
"I'm sorry." Bucky lets the tears run down his face. "I couldn't stop them."
You dropped to the floor with a sob.
Bucky's knees finally gave out. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry- We're going to get her back, I promise that I'll get her back."
Authors note: hi hiiii omg I went a little bit overboard with this one. It's been a looooong time since I wrote something this long. I hope y'all like it! Xx
marvel au
bucky x blackwidow!reader
You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, clothed ejaculation, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey depressed, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 8.6k
A/N: hey guys, i'm literally so nervous posting this... it's been sitting in my drafts for like a month now and i finally worked up the courage to post after spending a couple hours editing :( i'm literally scheduling this to post at like 3am my time so i'm not awake when it goes live i'm so anxious bahaha. the start of this part is a bit slow, pls hold on because theres some light smut and angst at the end. i have plans for further parts that'll look more into the other avengers finding out and the development between bucky and readers relationship and their shared healing. sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist | series masterlist
It was only on rare occasions that the full team of Avengers (and co.) were in the same room. A momentous historical moment, in fact, normally reserved for two particular occasions:
The world was ending (in some gloriously diabolical way that usually involved aliens, interdimensional warlords, or some ancient, forgotten god with a vendetta) or
Tony Stark was throwing another one of his famously exclusive penthouse parties (which, despite being ‘exclusive,’ still managed to include half of New York—most of whom showed up just to gawk at the Avengers like a travelling circus act sent to entertain them personally.)
Today, it seemed, was neither of those occasions. Thor and the rest of the Asgardians—Bruce Banner included, oddly enough—were busy rebuilding after the destruction of Asgard. Wanda and Vision were off playing happy family elsewhere, and Clint was busy with his own quickly expanding family. The others, agents, specialists, the people whose names you never bothered to remember, were preoccupied with their own missions. Which left you here, filed neatly into the elusive extra category. Not quite an Avenger. Too valuable to be let loose, too unpredictable to be fully trusted.
You leant back in your chair, only half-listening to the conversation beside you. The skin around your thumbnail was raw. You picked at it absentmindedly, peeling back the edge where it had already started to flake, a sting flaring along the nail. You were thinking—too much, maybe—so you let them talk, let yourself disappear as they debated which bar had the strongest drinks and the least pathetic men.
The three of you were early. By some miracle, morning training had ended ahead of schedule. Natasha had wiped the floor with you, to the point where it probably would’ve been more productive to stay on the mat rather than waste your energy hauling yourself back up.
“What do you think?” It took you a second to realise Yelena was talking to you, elbows propped on the table, chin resting in her hand. She was watching you expectantly, sharp eyes narrowed.
You didn’t look up. “I’m not coming.”
She sighed dramatically. “You never hang out with us.” She leant back in her chair with an exaggerated huff, muttering under her breath, “So mysterious and cool. You think you’re better than us?”
Natasha watched on amused, the redhead poised as always. “She doesn’t want to drink in front of us in case she spills her secrets.”
You scoffed. “What secrets?”
“I don’t know.” Natasha leant forward, watching you a little too closely now, like she was gauging your reaction. “How about how that mission went with Barnes?”
Ever since the gala mission, the two had been trying to get you alone, a few drinks in, hoping for something—a slip, an offhanded remark, anything that would confirm whatever hunches they had. You knew what they were fishing for. They weren’t subtle.
You just weren’t playing.
Neither you nor Bucky had said a word about it.
That, apparently, was suspicious.
“She is right, you know. Neither of you will say a word about it. I’m beginning to think something happened—” Yelena cut over her sister with a grin.
“Nothing happened,” you interrupted smoothly, finally lifting your eyes from the wreckage of your thumbnail. “You keep asking, but you’re not going to uncover some dirty secret. Sorry to disappoint."
“Then why the silence? No one would care if you fucked him, you could just plead innocence, overcome by playing the perfect, doting wife—”
You shot her a look, one withering enough to turn bone to dust and ego to rubble.
“I mean… maybe people would care, but I wouldn’t judge you! Super soldier, metal arm… so hot, or whatever.” Yelena prattled on, and you ignored her, exhaling through your nose.
"I think he’s just mortified that people assume something did happen. He’s got enough brooding energy as it is." You muttered.
“I just don’t believe nothing happened, trapped in that hotel room together for a week. Apparently, you were convincing enough to keep the targets off your scent, and we all know Barnes’ acting is as stiff as a cadaver on ice—”
Your face twisted into a look of exasperation before you could control yourself, straightening in your seat. “God, you two really are like vultures, picking around for the slightest bit of gossip—”
“Wow, defensive—”
“Isn’t that the joy in life? Digging for gossip?” Natasha cut back in with a sharp smirk.
“You two are insufferable!” You interrupted, slapping your palms onto your thighs. "I think I’ll keep my secrets. I’ll leave the both of you to continue plotting this fantastical mystery you’ve created in your minds—”
“It’s only fun because you get so worked up about it,” Natasha cut back with a grin you could only describe as predatory. “Plus, I do love watching Rogers squirm listening to all the theories."
“You know,” Yelena mused, swirling the thought around before letting it slip, “I don’t think Steve is as innocent as we think he is. I’m pretty sure I heard him and Sharon—”
She cut herself off just as the door swung open, and the rest of the team filtered in.
You schooled your reaction, easily slipping back into the picture of nonchalance. Bucky’s blue eyes flickered towards yours for a split second before darting away. It had been two weeks since your first ‘lesson’. Two weeks of carefully measured distance, of subtle glances that never lasted too long, of conversations that stayed just professional enough to not raise questions.
Bucky had been doing well—shockingly well, actually. He was receptive to your touch, followed your guidance with careful precision, and was beginning to trust you, bit by bit. You hadn’t gone much further than heated make-out sessions that usually ended with him finishing in his pants, but you weren’t in a rush. You were still feeling out his comfort zones, making sure he never felt cornered or overwhelmed. There wasn’t exactly a handbook for this kind of arrangement.
You slumped in your seat even further, shaking off the feeling. It was fine. No one knew.
Still, the way Bucky avoided looking in your direction made something prickle under your skin.
You were certain the super soldier would combust on the spot if any of his coworkers caught wind of what the two of you had been up to. Hell, he turned red enough just having you perched in his lap during lessons, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. And yet, during meetings, training, or any moment the two of you were forced into the same orbit, you couldn’t help but wonder—did he think about those moments? Did his mind drift back to the ghost of your touch the same way yours did?
You weren’t usually the sentimental type. Nostalgia was a luxury, a foolish indulgence you had long since trained yourself out of. But there was something about him—his quiet hesitance, his wary but willing surrender—that stuck with you. It was a service, nothing more. A transaction in which you gained no tangible benefit, so why did you linger on it? Why did the thought of his gaze meeting yours send a sharp thrill through your chest? Was it because he treated you like a person instead of a tool? Because he understood pieces of you no one else even tried to?
He wasn’t like the others. Never cruel, never greedy. He never reached for more than you offered, never treated you like something to be taken. Maybe that was why you kept coming back. Maybe, for once, you liked the control. Liked the feeling of choosing, of being wanted on your own terms. Of knowing that, for once, you weren’t a marionette dancing on someone else’s strings.
You swallowed the thought down and let your gaze flicker to him. Bucky sat curled in on himself, as if trying to shrink into nothing despite the broadness of his frame. He looked like a wounded animal—no, worse. He looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes had deepened, his hair unwashed and slightly greasy at the roots. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t taking care of himself. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure that out.
He stared blankly at the grain of the wooden table, shoulders hunched between Steve and Sam, who were deep in conversation about something you didn’t care enough to eavesdrop on. And for reasons you weren’t ready to name, that quiet, hollow stillness of his sat uneasily in your chest.
You had… concerns for Bucky after what he had confessed to you. But you weren’t sure what to do with those concerns. Or those confessions. You held them close to your chest, unwilling to betray his trust, but understanding instead. You knew it was probably irresponsible of you to sit on them, but you didn’t want to overstep. Besides, Steve and Sam didn’t know you. You’d had maybe three conversations with each of them, most of them mission-related. To them, you were just Natasha and Yelena’s friend—Red Room collateral. You weren’t social, you weren’t a part of their circle, and you sure as hell weren’t someone they trusted.
And if they knew about your arrangement with Bucky… well, you didn’t want to think about what conclusions they’d draw—
“Hi!”
The sudden, chirpy voice nearly startled you out of your seat.
Kate Bishop had arrived—loud, bright, and effortlessly excitable, like a golden retriever in human form. She had that kind of energy that made you suspicious. No one was that happy all the time. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, messy strands framing her face. She was dressed in casual, slightly dishevelled layers, looking like she had just come from sparring but didn’t have the same dead-in-the-eyes exhaustion you did after a training session.
“I’m Kate!” she announced, beaming at you like you were about to be best friends. She pushed her hand out. “Kate Bishop.”
You blinked at her, ignoring her outstretched offer. “I know.”
Her grin didn’t waver, and she coolly withdrew her hand.
“You’re Clint and Yelena’s pet project.” You spoke again, your tone perhaps a little more hostile than necessary.
“It’s apprentice, actually.” Yelena cut in before Kate could argue. “You know, you’re starting to hurt my feelings. Stark has an apprentice, so why are you always giving me shit—”
“Oh yes, Stark’s pet project.” You gave an exaggerated sigh. “What was his name? Paxton, Peyton, or was it Parker?”
“Did I ask for your opinion, K.G.B. Barbie?” Tony Stark’s voice cut in lazily as he walked past, sitting at the head of the table like he owned the place—which, unfortunately for you, he did. As usual, he didn’t look pleased to see you, and the scent of entitlement wafted off of him in waves.
You met his gaze evenly. "No, but I was under the impression that unsolicited opinions were your love language, considering the amount your hand out.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “Remind me why we let you sit at the big kids’ table again?”
"You don’t." You glanced at Stark, unimpressed. "But I was invited, shockingly enough. Or are you reckless enough to ignore Fury’s instructions now?"
There it was. That smirk. He smirked at you, and you knew in your heart he had the foulest, most cutting rebuke to lay upon you. He hadn’t even opened his mouth, and you were already grinding your teeth in frustration as you stared back at him, eyes locked onto his smug face—
Kate cleared her throat, stepping in before you and Stark could escalate any further. “So, what do you do?”
Stark held his tongue, so in return, you slid your gaze back over to a nervous Kate. And in that moment, you knew you couldn’t help yourself. Natasha had already shot you a warning look, but the redhead's trained patience for the playboy Stark had unfortunately never extended to you.
"Infiltration, espionage, recon." You shrugged, expression carefully neutral. "I gather information, and then the big boys get to swoop in, throw a few punches, and take all the credit. Isn’t that right, Stark?"
Maybe you had woken up grouchier than usual—not that you could even call the few hours of restless tossing and turning sleep. Or perhaps it was the fact that you’d spent the morning eating the training mat, then had to suffer through Natasha and Yelena’s constant interrogations that had soured your mood. Either way, you weren’t exactly in the best headspace to deal with him.
Truthfully, you thought Stark was a prick, and unfortunately, you had never been exactly shy about that opinion. You and Stark had just never really clicked. Not in the way he had with the others, not in the way Natasha had seamlessly folded herself into the team, or the way Yelena had bulldozed her way in, loud and brash. You existed somewhere in between, tolerated but always lingering on the outside. It wasn’t that you didn’t get along with them. You could banter with Sam, hold an easy conversation with Steve when necessary and trade dry humour with Clint in a way that made you feel almost at home. Even Stark, for all his grating personality, wasn’t always intolerable. But there was always something between you and them—an unspoken distance, a careful line you never crossed. They didn’t entirely trust you yet, and you never gave them a reason to try.
Not because you didn’t want to.
But because trust had never been a luxury you could afford.
Your job was reading people—analysing, dissecting, and manipulating. You understood them better than they understood themselves, saw the cracks in their foundations and knew precisely where to apply pressure. It made you valuable. Indispensable even, but it also made people wary. The team knew what you were, even if they didn’t know the full extent of what you had been. But deep down, you knew they were smart enough to assemble the pieces.
So you kept yourself at arm’s length. You wanted to believe you could have that feeling—belonging. But wanting and trusting were two very different things that you did not dare confuse.
Kate’s eyes lit up. “That’s so cool.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Stark interjected, leaning against the desk. “She’s just a pretty face we send in to distract while the rest of us do the actual work.”
There it was.
Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t rise to the bait. This was your hubris. You could already hear Natasha’s scolding—You really shouldn’t egg him on like that. The two of you are as bad as each other, always trying to get under each other's skin. A bunch of alleycats fighting it’s ridiculous—
Somewhere across the table, Bucky’s eyes had shot up. The movement startled you, and your eyes met briefly. It was milliseconds, maybe not even that, but as soon as you registered your brief exchange, Bucky shied away like a spooked animal.
And when you looked back at Kate, Natasha and Yelena, you found that Natasha had been watching the whole thing. She didn’t speak, didn’t even react. There wasn’t the slightest twitch in her brow or twinge in her lips. She stared like some kind of omnipotent god, and deep down, you knew. You knew she knew.
Maybe she didn’t know the full extent, but the way she stared… it made you shudder.
Fuck.
Kate, however, frowned, turning back to you. “That’s not true, right?”
“Of course not,” you deadpanned, not letting the dread pooling in your stomach let you miss a beat. “I do much more than look pretty. Sometimes I get to torture people—”
Kate’s face pale, then through several stages of grief, trying to figure out if you were joking.
You weren’t about to help her.
“Relax, Kate Bishop, she is messing with you,” Yelena said with an amused grin, though it was tight. A silent warning behind her eyes told you to keep your mouth shut.
Kate still looked mildly concerned, but she shook it off quickly. “Okay, but—so you can fight?”
“Of course.”
“Not as well as me,” Yelena cut in before you could elaborate, grinning smugly. “Don’t worry, Kate. You’re being trained by the best of the best. Me? I am the best. You know this.”
You rolled your eyes, and Kate beamed. That girl was too fucking cute for her own good.
The door swung open before anyone could respond to Yelena. Fury stepped inside, long coat sweeping behind him, his boots heavy against the floor. His usual expression—somewhere between perpetually pissed off and quietly judgmental—was firmly in place beneath the shadow of his eyepatch.
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Fury said, his voice edged with dry amusement, though his gaze flicked between you all with razor-sharp scrutiny.
"No, sir," Steve said, back straightening. Natasha, ever composed, merely leaned back in her chair. Stark didn’t even spare a glance.
“First off, I’d like to extend my deepest, most heartfelt gratitude for your attendance,” Fury began, spreading his arms in a broad, insincere gesture, his tone so dry it could have turned the room to dust. “I know how much of a hardship it is, taking an hour out of your busy lives to sit in a comfortable chair and listen to me talk.”
Sam snorted. Yelena smirked. Bucky, as usual, remained unreadable.
Fury’s eye landed on you and Bucky before he tossed a slim tablet onto the table, the display already flashing with the text of a mission report you hardly cared to examine in detail.
“Congratulations are in order. The gala infiltration went exceptionally well despite the odds stacked against you.”
You dipped your head in acknowledgement, catching movement out of the corner of your eye—Sam begrudgingly sliding Fury what seemed to be a twenty-dollar bill. Asshole.
Fury tapped the screen embedded in the table, replacing the mission debrief with a new set of images. An aerial view of a club, snippets of surveillance footage, a grainy close-up of a man slipping out of a side entrance, bodyguards in tow.
“And thanks to that intel recovered,” Fury continued, “we now have a location on our next target. Dmitry Karpin. Friend to H.Y.D.R.A. Dealt in smuggling high-profile weapons in and out of Soviet countries for a time, but now he’s taken to smuggling drugs. Serums, to be specific.”
Across the table, Bucky had gone still. Tension coiled in his shoulders, his hands resting stiffly on the surface, knuckles taut. H.Y.D.R.A. Serum. The words alone were enough to suffocate the room when Bucky or Steve were around. You didn’t let your eyes linger on him long nor allow your frown to deepen.
Fury didn’t acknowledge the shift—maybe he was used to it by now, or perhaps he just didn’t care. His voice remained steady, rolling over the tension in the room as if he were reciting lines from a well-rehearsed script. Karpin’s security detail. The club’s weak points. Entry and exit strategies. The words blurred together, dissolving into background noise beneath the low hum of static in your head. It was hard to focus when you could feel Bucky sitting across from you, motionless, barely even breathing, his whole body locked up like a loaded fucking gun. And the worst part? He probably thought he was doing a good job hiding it.
You didn’t stare, didn’t let your concern show. Instead, you leant back in your chair, tilting your head just enough to feign disinterest. “So, just another fun-filled evening of chatting up sweaty old men for me? Sounds like a dream.” Your voice came out dry, with just enough sarcasm to mask any wobbles.
Fury didn’t spare you a glance. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” he said, tapping the screen again. More grainy footage. More blueprints. The details kept coming, but you barely registered them.
You picked at your thumbnail hard enough that the cuticle began to bleed.
Eventually, the meeting drew to a close. Chairs scraped against the floor as the team rose, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out. You stood, ready to follow, but—
“You two, stick around,” Fury instructed.
You hesitated, glancing at him, then at Bucky, who had also stalled mid-step. Natasha and Yelena exchanged a knowing look, their amusement not at all subtle. You ignored their barely concealed grins as they disappeared through the door.
Fury exhaled, hands bracing against the table as he surveyed the two of you.
“I’ll be honest,” he said finally. “I wasn’t convinced it would work when I paired you two. Thought maybe you’d kill each other before you got anything done.”
Bucky scoffed quietly, gaze flicking away.
“But you proved me wrong.” His good eye narrowed as he continued. “The mission was a success. You handled yourselves well.”
A beat of silence. Then, just as flatly, “I want to know if you’d be open to working together again. Similar style of operation.”
Your eyes slid over to Bucky, gauging his reaction. You didn’t want to appear too eager or give any more credence to the stories Yelena and Natasha were spinning, but most of all, you didn’t want to put words into Bucky’s mouth. You weren’t in the business of pressuring him in or out of the bedroom.
Bucky was quiet as if silently working through some thoughts before deciding. Finally, he offered a dismissive “Sure.”
You nodded slowly, offering Fury a nonchalant shrug. “I’m fine with that.”
Fury’s lips twitched. Not quite a smirk.
“Well, that’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard all day,” he deadpanned before shaking his head. “Damn, you two are depressing. Sitting there all broody, staring at me like I shot your goddamn dog.”
Neither you nor Bucky reacted, which was met by a low chuckle from Fury. “Regardless, I appreciate the hard work. You made me a nice chunk of money winning some bets.”
Your brow furrowed. “You bet on us?”
Fury raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Course I did. Had to make it interesting. Half the team thought you’d get caught or kill each other before the first day was up.”
You blinked. “...Who bet against us?”
“Stark.” Fury’s lips twitched again. “He didn’t think you’d make it past security.”
Of course he did. Prick.
—
"Alright, I’m in position."
You blinked. Bucky sat there like he was awaiting orders, his posture rigid as if he were about to breach enemy lines. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure where to put them like touching you required the same level of strategic planning as a high-stakes extraction mission.
You stared, straddling his hips, your fingers ghosting over his collarbone, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin. He didn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere just past your shoulder as if making direct contact might detonate something neither of you were ready for. For a split second, you half expected him to press a finger to an earpiece and murmur something about securing the perimeter.
In the dim glow of his bedroom, he looked every bit like a man being held hostage rather than one about to receive a very generous favour.
Lately… something felt off. The signs had been subtle at first, the way he always seemed a beat too calculated, his hands found the same places every time, and he would grow still like he was waiting for a command.
And now, looking at him, so wound-up he might actually vibrate, it finally clicked.
Every touch and kiss was executed with the precision of a soldier running a drill rather than a man lost in the moment. It was methodical. He was analysing a strategy rather than experiencing pleasure. You half expected to glance down and see him taking notes—touch here, kiss there, don’t forget to do this. The thought horrified you, but if you were honest… it also amused you.
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
“…Bucky, are you seriously treating this like a mission?”
He stiffened beneath you, his reaction just a fraction too quick, too defensive.
“What’d you mean?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge. He was already on guard, bracing for imaginary discipline.
“The way you’re…” You trailed off, head inclining as you studied him. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn tight, the creased skin between them betraying him entirely. One could mistake him for a soldier behind enemy lines, waiting for the crack of a rifle. There were dark smudges under his eyes, no worse than usual. You knew he didn’t sleep well. Nightmares haunted him and left him running on fumes more often than not. You recognised the signs, and it was like you were looking into a mirror.
“It’s like you have a mental checklist,” you murmured, watching for his reaction. “Like every move you make is planned like you’re running through a strategy in your head instead of just… feeling it.”
Bucky remained silent, his lips pressing into a firm line.
Gently, you squeezed his shoulder, fingertips pressing into hard muscle. He was tense—too tense. “You’re not clearing a building, Bucky. You’re not scanning for threats. You’re here with me. Just relax a little, won’t you?”
“I am relaxed.” He bit the words out, though neither his voice nor expression were even remotely convincing.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I appreciate the attempt to lie, but when I can feel the fucking tension in your body, it’s a little, well, very obvious.” Your hands traced along his shoulders, fingers kneading into the tight knots beneath the fabric of his shirt. His muscles were rock-solid, never fully uncoiled. His body had forgotten how to rest.
“See?” You gave a pointed squeeze. “This is not ‘relaxed,’ Bucky. This is as solid as a goddamn steel beam.”
Bucky scoffed a tiny huff of air through his nose. “Those are my muscles. I work out. Don’t you?”
You gasped in mock delight, lips parting in exaggerated shock. “Oh my God. Did you just make a joke? Bucky, was that a joke?”
Something flickered in his expression for the first time, a sliver of amusement breaking through the ever-present brooding. He finally met your gaze, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners, and the sight sent a flicker of warmth through your chest.
You grinned. “Well, isn’t that a first? Guess I should mark the calendar.”
His smirk was brief, fleeting—but it was there.
You softened, your voice dropping just a little. “But seriously, you need to loosen up.” Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, slow and deliberate.“Attraction, desire… sex. It’s messy, it’s unplanned. It’s not a mission. This isn’t the army.”
You didn’t dare say the following words in your mind aloud.
This isn’t H.Y.D.R.A.
But you knew that was where his thoughts drifted, that unspoken trouble that plagued you both. Your fingers ghosted along the silver chain at his throat, the faint jingle of his dog tags barely audible under the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t have to follow orders. You can just be.”
“I know.” The words came low, rough, frayed at the edges. You could feel yourself losing him, his eyes growing foggy as if pulled away to a place you couldn’t quite reach to drag him out from.
“I just…” Another breath, deeper this time, as though steadying himself. “They used me. For so long, they used me as a weapon. I don’t know if I can ever be anything different than that. I don’t want to lose control—what happens if I lose—”
“Hey.” Your hands framed his face now, thumbs brushing against the sharp angles of his cheekbones, anchoring him. “Hey, look at me.”
His eyes lifted, hesitant, guarded.
“You are more than that.” The words were gentle but unwavering, as steady as your hands on him. “We are more than that, okay? You’re Bucky. Just Bucky. And you are in control. Say it.”
His fingers curled against your thighs, knuckles pressing into the cotton fabric of your shorts. He was quiet momentarily as though testing the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“I’m in control.”
“You’re in control.” You echoed, smoothing your thumb over the faint stubble on his cheek. “And you still want to do this?”
His breath was slow, deliberate. “Yes.”
Your fingers had drifted higher, threading into his hair, the strands silky and cool beneath your touch. You swept a loose lock from his forehead, letting your fingertips linger against his temple. “And if you don’t want this at any point, what do you say?”
“Stop.”
“And what will happen if you say that?”
“You’ll stop. We’ll stop.”
“Good.” You praised him, your smile widening as you felt him squirm beneath you. There was a subtle hitch in his breath as your hands began to trail lower, palms smoothing down to his chest. The pulse at his throat fluttered beneath your fingertips, quick and uneven, betraying the calm he was trying to hold onto. You leant closer, your breath warm against his skin as you pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple. Then lower—to the sharp line of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, and finally to the hollow of his throat. A shudder ran through him, his grip on your hips tightening just a fraction. “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” He uttered after a thick, audible swallow.
You pulled back just enough to study him, to see how his lips parted slightly as though chasing the warmth of your touch. A quiet, almost reluctant noise rumbled in his chest, just shy of a whine. You traced your fingers along his jaw before tilting your head, considering him. “I want to try something.” You hummed to him. “You can say no if it’s too much, but I think it might help you.”
His brows furrowed. “Yeah?”
“I want to blindfold you—”
“You want to what?” He went rigid beneath you, every muscle tightening again as if you’d flipped a switch and snapped him back into defence mode.
“Hold on, just let me finish.” You held up your hand, hoping to counteract his immediate, instinctive reaction.
He huffed, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the response, but said nothing.
“I want to blindfold you,” you repeated, slower this time, words deliberate. “And I want to kiss you. And touch you. I want you to focus on feeling good rather than anticipating something bad. I want you to just… be here with me. Not thinking about what comes next, not waiting for an attack. Just focusing on feeling. That’s all.”
His expression was cautious before turning to contemplation—as though weighing the idea against everything instinct told him.
“You can say no,” you reminded him gently.
“No, I—” He hesitated, his fingers twitching against your hips.
You shifted back just a little, offering him the space to decide. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do it.”
“No, I—shit—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I mean—no, I want to. Yes. I want to try that.”
Your gaze searched his. “You’re sure?”
His lips pressed together, and then he nodded once, firmly. “Yes.”
You grinned, pressing a sloppy, lingering kiss to his temple before slipping off his lap with ease and rolling onto the bed beside him. “Do you have something we could use?”
“Uh, I don’t—”
“Like a tie, maybe? You wear suits, right? Or does Stark demand them back the second you step foot in the compound?”
Bucky let out a huff, eyes narrowing. “I don’t want to talk about Stark right now.”
You shot him a knowing look, but before you could tease him further, your gaze flickered downward—and you smirked. Even through the soft material of his sweatpants, you could see he was already half-hard. “Sure.”
A faint flush crept up his neck, staining his ears and cheeks pink. He cleared his throat, voice rough. “Top drawer. In the wardrobe.”
You were on your feet before he could finish, slipping into his walk-in wardrobe. Every apartment in the compound had one, though Bucky’s was noticeably bare. His clothes were monochrome, muted shades of grey, navy, and black. No bursts of colour. No sign of impulse. It was not a lack of wealth. You knew that for sure. No, this was intentional—a desire to blend in, to disappear.
You’d always known he was the type who preferred the shadows, slipping between crowds unnoticed. No wonder he hated the tailored suits Stark and Fury forced him into—arm issues aside. For some reason, S.H.I.E.L.D. were determined to parade him around. Look, the Winter Soldier. He’s a good boy now. He plays nice. Nothing to fear anymore. You were unsure how he felt about such displays, but you were sure it wasn’t too far off from how you felt about it. You had once been in his shoes, though more in the eye candy territory. A doll to dress up and play with, to smile and play the part.
Powerful men enjoyed degrading that which they knew to be dangerous, enjoyed playing with fire, and enjoyed the illusion of control.
Shaking off the thought, you pulled open the top drawer, sifting through a few neatly folded ties. You selected a smooth black silk, running the cool fabric over your palm before returning to the bedroom.
Bucky was still seated at the edge of the bed, stiff as a board. His hands curled into fists atop his thighs, knuckles taut. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
You slowed, holding the tie between your fingers like approaching a spooked animal. Visible to inspect and assess. No threat.
“Yes?” you asked, giving him another chance to change his mind.
His jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod. “Yes.”
You smiled softly. “Just breathe, yeah? Like we always do.” You inhaled deeply through your nose, then exhaled slowly and steadily through your mouth.
After a beat, Bucky mirrored you, chest rising and falling with measured breaths.
You moved behind him, settling onto the bed. He sat still, poised for an attack. Carefully, you draped the silk tie over his eyes, looping it around his head and securing it with a loose knot. It wasn’t tight—one purposeful tug and it would slip free.
You could feel the tension radiating from him. Even blindfolded, he was hyper-aware, attuned to every rustle of the sheets, every shift of your weight. His breathing had turned shallower, the serum sharpening every sound, every sensation.
“If you need to stop for any reason, just say so.”
He jolted slightly at your voice, caught off guard in the quiet. “O-okay.” His voice wavered, and then he cursed low under his breath in Russian.
You grinned. Some habits died hard.
“I’m going to touch you now.” You crept closer, lifting onto your knees behind him. “Just focus on me and how it feels. Nothing else. Can you do that?”
He gave a slow, hesitant nod.
You started at his shoulders, palms skimming over firm muscle, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Every dip and ridge, every knot of tension. Your hands slid to his collarbone, then across the joint where flesh met metal, mapping out the contrast between warm skin and the smooth, cold vibranium.
He was solid beneath your touch, every muscle taut and solid as it stretched across the bone.
You had noticed the way his shoulders gave him grief. The slight tilt of his frame and the way his left arm always sat heavier. It was incorrect weight distribution; the metal limb was too heavy compared to its flesh counterpart. S.H.I.E.L.D had surely offered him physical therapy—massages, treatment plans—but you doubted he had ever taken them up on it. He didn’t like to be touched by strangers. Too wary. Too untrusting.
“Can I take off your shirt?” you asked softly.
He stilled.
“I don’t—” His voice was lower now, rougher. “My scars. They’re not—”
“I don’t care about that.”
He swallowed hard. “You don’t?”
“No,” you said firmly. “Why would I?”
Without a word, his hand reached behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt. He yanked it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing the fabric to the floor. You adjusted the blindfold where it had shifted, then let your gaze drift over the broad expanse of his back.
His shoulders were massive, sculpted with muscle. The scars on his left shoulder were brutal—jagged lines of gnarled tissue where the vibranium met flesh. It might have been seamless after the amputation. Painless even. But it had been H.Y.D.R.A who had ruined him, left scars so deep even the Wakandans couldn’t erase.
And H.Y.D.R.A didn’t care for comfort. They cared for necessity. Likely, you suspected, they had wanted him to suffer.
An endless reminder of their ownership.
You swallowed, then placed your hands on his shoulders again, thumbs pressing gently into the base of his neck. You started slow, careful, massaging along the muscle, working your way down. His skin was warm beneath your palms, the mass taut and unyielding at first, like stone beneath your fingers. But you took your time, applying gradual pressure, thumbs circling into the knots built over time.
Beneath your hands, Bucky let out a low, guttural sound—a half-growl, half-sigh of approval. His head dipped forward slightly, chin brushing his chest, an unspoken invitation to continue.
You kept going, kneading deep into the knots in his shoulders, feeling the tension resist before you coaxed it loose. With each press and roll of your fingers, the stiffness unravelled like a cord being undone, thread by thread. You worked methodically, digging your thumbs along the curve where his neck met his shoulders, pressing firmly enough to elicit another low, unconscious groan from him.
You bit back a smile as you felt him lean into you just a little.
Trailing downward, you traced the slope of his shoulder blades, following the ridges of tendons and old wounds. The scars on his left side were tougher, the tissue uneven where flesh met metal, but you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers brushed the seam between the vibranium and skin, then continued downward, thumbs pressing slow, firm circles along the fuse.
Bucky shuddered.
His breath hitched as you dug into the deep-seated strain along his spine. A sharp inhale, a low exhale—he was losing himself to the sensation, surrendering to your touch. You didn’t rush. You worked him slowly, thoroughly, feeling him yield with each measured stroke. When you reached the dip of his lower back, you flattened your hands, smoothing over the tightness that lingered. He was warm now, his skin melting like wax beneath your fingers.
Satisfied, you finally pulled back, smoothing your hands along his spine one last time before shifting your position.
Rising onto your knees, you moved around him, hands trailing over his shoulders as you slid into his lap. His breath stuttered, but he didn’t pull away. You settled against him, straddling his lap, your arms draping lazily over his shoulders. The blindfold was still secure, and he looked… calmer now. Less wound up, his jaw no longer locked so tightly.
“You okay?” You murmured.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Good,” you hummed, tilting your head, lips just inches from his ear. “I think you needed that.”
Bucky exhaled a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh, but he didn’t deny it.
Your fingers trailed up the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly against the short hairs, and you felt him shiver beneath you. You leaned in, lips brushing over his cheekbone, just at the edge of the blindfold, before trailing downward. You kissed along his jaw, soft and teasing, pressing your lips into the warm skin beneath his ear, down the column of his throat.
His hands fidgeted at his sides, tightening around the sheets. Then, as if giving in to some internal battle, they rose—hesitant but desperate. His fingers found your waist, sliding over the curve of your hips before gripping tight.
You grinned against his skin.
“There you go,” you murmured, voice a breath of silk against his throat.
A sharp exhale left him, his fingers tightening, pressing you closer, holding you in place. You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up before pressing your lips to his.
Bucky groaned into the kiss.
It was soft at first, your mouth moving against his, teasing, coaxing him deeper. But it wasn’t long before he cracked. The tension he had held onto for so long—his control, his restraint—it frayed at the edges with every pass of your lips against his. You pressed closer, shifting in his lap, and the moment your hips rolled against him, his breath stuttered.
A broken sound escaped him, part groan, part whimper.
You did it again just to hear it.
His hands flexed against your sides, his hold firm, frantic, but he didn’t stop you. He only breathed harder, his forehead falling against yours as you peppered kisses along his lips, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
Then you moved again, grinding against him slowly, carefully, and Bucky outright whimpered.
He made no effort to stop you—no attempt to control the rhythm, no resistance left in him. His mind was no longer caught in the tangle of right and wrong, of what he should or shouldn’t do.
He only felt.
Only responded.
You kissed him again, deeper, fiercer this time, and he met you with equal hunger.
Bucky’s hands roamed, sliding up your back. Then, his vibranium hand found your face, cradling it between cool, unyielding metal, and you shivered at the contrast—the bite of cold against your flushed skin, the sheer strength in his hold, barely restrained.
He kissed you like he was starving.
You sighed into his mouth, rolling your hips down to meet his, and he groaned—deep and guttural as his body jerked beneath you. He was fully hard now, the evidence pressing against you through his sweatpants, and you couldn't help the soft, breathy giggle that escaped between kisses.
Bucky growled, his grip tightening, his body chasing yours as you rocked against him.
Your hand trailed down, slipping between your bodies, fingers teasing along the waistband of his sweatpants. You could feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitched as your fingertips ghosted lower—
Then he flinched, catching your wrist in a shaky grip.
“Too much,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but the strain was evident.
Immediately, you withdrew, pulling your hand away without hesitation. “I’m sorry. Do you want to stop—”
“No.” he replied quickly, breathlessly.
You cupped his jaw, kissing him slowly, tenderly, as he shuddered beneath you. His hands flexed where they held you, his body still trembling with need, but he didn’t pull away. You kept your movements soft and gentle, pressing your forehead against his, letting him breathe as you kissed him repeatedly.
“Is this better?” you checked in between kisses, voice warm, reassuring.
“Yes.” He muttered against your lips.
You kissed him deeper, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip and into his mouth.
His body convulsed beneath you, hips twitching up to meet yours, his breath turning shallow and erratic. You could feel the tremors coursing through him, his muscles tensed, his restraint crumbling with every slow, dragging roll of your hips.
Then, with a choked groan, he stiffened.
A broken moan tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering beneath you. His breath hitched, then stilled, his head falling back onto the bed as he panted heavily, completely spent.
You smiled, watching his chest rise and fall, his body finally wholly relaxed.
You let him catch his breath, your hands smoothing over his chest in slow, soothing strokes. His eyes were still covered, the black silk of the tie snug against his skin, and for a moment, you just watched him—his expression relaxed in a way it so rarely was, his lips parted as he inhaled deep, steadying himself.
Reaching up, you brushed your fingers over his jaw before carefully undoing the knot at the back of his head. The tie slipped away with ease, and his eyes fluttered open, blinking as he adjusted to the room's dim light. His pupils were blown, irises hazy, but there was something else. Softness. An openness you didn’t often see.
“Hey,” you whispered.
His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Hey.”
You leant down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before shifting off of him, allowing him to breathe. He hesitated momentarily before sitting up, his movements slow, almost reluctant. His sweatpants were clinging damply to his skin, and he grimaced slightly before rubbing a hand over his face.
“I should, uh—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back.”
You nodded, watching as he climbed off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. The soft sound of running water followed soon after. You stayed where you were, fingers idly playing with the silk tie as you listened, giving him the space to clean up and gather himself.
When he returned, his sweatpants had been swapped for a fresh pair, the fabric hanging loose around his hips. His hair was damp in uneven patches where he’d raked wet fingers through it, a lazy attempt at tidying up. He lingered in the doorway, weight shifting from one foot to the other, eyes flickering over you like he wasn’t sure what to do next.
You patted the empty space beside you. “Come here.”
His shoulders loosened just a fraction before he climbed back onto the bed, settling beside you with a quiet sigh. He was warm—solid and steady. Without thinking, you nestled closer, resting your head against his chest. His arm came around you automatically, like muscle memory, pulling you in and holding you there.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then, barely above a whisper, you asked, “Did you like it?”
Bucky exhaled a deep, slow breath. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice lower than usual, like he wasn’t used to saying it. “I did.”
You smiled, tracing absentminded circles against his chest. “What did you like about it?”
He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.
“It made it easier,” he murmured. “Not seeing. I could just… feel. Focus on what was happening instead of everything else.” His thumb brushed lightly against your side. “Didn’t have to worry about if I was doing something wrong.”
You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. “Bucky, you’ve never done anything wrong.”
“I know,” he said, but his voice was tight, a shadow crossing his expression. “It’s just—” He stopped, mouth pressing into a thin line.
You reached up, smoothing a hand over his cheek. “Talk to me.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I’m scared of it sometimes.”
Your brows furrowed. “Scared of what?”
“Pleasure.”
His fingers tightened slightly against your side like he was bracing himself, but he didn’t look away from you.
“I was taught…” He inhaled sharply. “That it could only be taken. Taken from me. That it was never given freely.” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “That it wasn’t mine to have.”
Slowly, carefully, you sat up, shifting so you were fully facing him. He looked at you, expression guarded, but there was something vulnerable beneath it, something fragile in the way he held himself.
You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Those people, the ones who taught you that, they were trying to hurt you, degrade you,” you told him firmly. “Pleasure is to be shared equally. It’s something you deserve.” You squeezed his hand, your voice softening.
His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came.
“I want you to know that you don’t have to do anything to earn it,” you whispered.
He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand tightening. His voice was barely above a breath when he said, “I don’t know if I know how.”
You smiled softly. “That’s okay. We have time.”
You lifted his hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles before settling back down beside him. His warmth seeped into you, but the ache in your chest remained—persistent, lingering. It had nothing to do with exhaustion, the tension in your muscles, or even the way your body still hummed with remnants of touch. No, this ache came from somewhere deeper, from the thoughts unravelling in your mind like a loose thread tugged too far, too fast as you contemplated his confession.
You had always been a giver. That was your role, your purpose. You gave and gave until there was nothing left. Until you were hollow inside. And yet, the world kept asking for more. You wondered if, over time, it had chipped away at your soul, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.
The words left your lips before you could stop them, before you had the chance to weigh whether you truly wanted to say them aloud.
“Do you ever feel like you’re not… whole?”
Bucky turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing in the low light, lids heavy as he blinked his dark lashes. He didn’t press or demand, didn’t look at you as if he needed clarification. He just waited, silently, like he knew you weren’t finished.
So you kept going.
“Like with every mission, every fight, every demand, you lose something? A tiny piece of yourself, given away without even realising it?” Your voice dropped lower. Bucky was still beside you, completely still, only his breath tickling your cheek with each slow rise and fall of his chest.
“I don’t even know if I’m still the person I was when I was born or if I’ve just been rebuilt from borrowed parts. Pieces given to me, made for me, shaped to fit what I was supposed to become.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Or maybe… what they wanted me to become.”
The words were bitter on your tongue, and yet they kept coming.
“And I think… maybe I’m afraid that if I ever showed the real me, the world would reject me. That they’d be disgusted by my soul. By everything I have done.”
A shaky breath left your lips, your voice barely more than a whisper now.
“Because sometimes… sometimes I think the only way people will keep me around is if I give them something in return.”
Silence.
You turned your head toward him, searching his face, waiting for something—anything—that would tell you what he was thinking. You hoped for a look, a breath, a word to ground you. But as your gaze swept over him, you realised his breathing had evened out, his lashes fluttering softly against his cheeks. The sharp furrow of his brow had smoothed, his lips slightly parted in a way that spoke of exhaustion finally pulling him under.
Asleep.
Your words had been lost to him.
You weren’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment.
Maybe it was for the best. He needed the rest, the peace of slumber more than you did. Even now, in the soft glow of the room, dark circles remained etched beneath his eyes.
You let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling momentarily before carefully slipping out of bed. You moved with quiet precision, gathering your things without making a sound. When you reached the door, you hesitated, glancing back.
For a second, a small, selfish part of you wished he had—wished he had heard you, had held you, had given you something, anything, to quiet the storm inside your chest. But he hadn’t.
And maybe that meant you could take the words back.
Tuck them away for another time.
Or hold onto them forever, maybe all you had needed was to say them aloud, even if only silence itself was listening.
Bucky didn’t stir from his slumber, not even when the door clicked shut behind you.
---
taglist: @civilbucky @buckysbbydoll @rosegarbage @fleurenoir @oikarma @blackstabbath6 @kcbug1128 @ellesbellswrites @thaynarajejheje @wunder-blunder @oceanaroma @dyscalculiaaa @murdocklvrr @pursuedbyamemoryy @fantasyheroine @chronicallybubbly @nikkinss @maryevm
@doilooklikeagiveafrack (sorry if it didn't tag anyone properly)
A/N: So sorry for the delay in posting! Work has been crazy, but I hope this long-ish chapter makes up for it. You should read the prologue for this to make sense! Also! Thank you to everyone who enjoyed the prologue! I love to share this with you guys, and feel a little burst of energy with every like and reblog<3
Warnings: Mention of minor character death, descriptions of grief, brief mention of battle
Word Count: 4.4k
Prologue
Chapter 1.
Your bedroom has been busy since the first rays of dawn splashed across the castle. Maids and your mother all but forced you into a large bath filled with oils and perfumes, and then scrubbed your scalp until the soap ran out. You had been in bed and left alone for the last three days. Almost everyone in the castle seemingly gave you a break before the start of the festivities. The only person who didn’t follow the implicit directions was your brother, Tony.
He burst into your room with food on the third day, opened the curtains to let the light in, and then refused to stop poking your cheeks and closed eyelids until he saw you eat something. He grinned back at your glare when you finally gave him the attention he wanted and bit into an apple, “I know you want to help everyone, but you can’t do that if you hurt yourself before you get there,” he softly knocked your bicep as he passed you an apple.
“How wise, you sound almost like a king,” you said under your breath, picking at the loose thread of a quilt.
“Almost. For now, I’ll settle being your brother,” he laid back eating the blueberries he said were for you. He only spent a few hours with you that morning, but managed to get you out of your bed and onto your reading nook. “Progress,” he called it.
“My lady, does it sit well? Or is it too loose?” Clara, your lady’s maid now asks you as she tightens a thin tiara into your hair. You wince at the next pull she makes not letting out a complaint, but she catches your reflection in the mirror.
“Just like your mother, you are. If you need a gentler hand, tell me,” the plump woman loosens some of the braid and fixes a pin. She has worked with you since you were ten. She’d sit and twist your hair around silk ribbons every evening, while you spoke on and on about your day’s activities and adventures. One story cutting to another, and never ending either.
“It was just that braid that hurt. Otherwise, my scalp feels fine,” you lie only a little. She doesn’t believe you, but before she can prod further, another voice interrupts.
“Clara! I need your help!” Lyssa, another maid, shouts out of view and with a gasp, “Please hurry!”
“She’s new,” Clara grumbles. Once she’s out of the room, you loosen some of the braids without messing up the work they’ve put in. Brushing out some of your hair you hear their quiet bickering in the dressing room behind you.
“Look at what happened to the sleeve! Maybe a seamstress can come? I know how to sew too,” Lyssa rushes her whispered words.
“Lyssa, that’s not the sleeve. It’s the neckhole,” Clara whispers back.
“Oh thank the gods. I thought I ripped it,” you can hear the relief in her voice and it does get a chuckle out of you. After a few minutes, the young maid pops out of your dressing room with her hair a frizzy blonde mess.
“We are ready for you to get dressed!”
“How are you supposed to address her?” Clara shouts after her.
“Oh! We are ready for you, my lady,” Lyssa says loud enough for Clara to hear. You give her an approving wink.
“But, it’s alright, Lyssa,” you follow her, “you don’t have to call me that.”
“She is in training, my lady,” Clara holds your clothes open for you and guides Lyssa as they help you into all of your garments. Another maid joins them with a needle and thread in hand. You feel them pulling and sewing spots of the dress your mother designed for tonight. With a few last minute adjustments and touching up your rouge, they finally let you look in a mirror.
You’re surprised by their final product. Your eyes don’t look puffy, cheeks are rosy, and the dress hugs you perfectly. It’s the usual style of ladies in your court, loose skirts with a structured bodice. The fabric is blue like an early night sky, with accents of gold trimmings and designs. Its neckline is low, and a family necklace hangs around your neck.
“Thank you! You’ve outdone yourselves!” you give them a small spin to show the whole outfit. Satisfied with your reaction, the young maids file out together, but Clara hesitates at the door. She watches as you fiddle with the skirt.
It really is a gorgeous dress. The fabric is weightless and catches the air as you move. It reminds you of the waters on the beach below the castle, of your late night adventures with Tony and Theo. Your brother always found his way to the nearest tavern, but Theo? He’d show you the tide pools. The pale moon lighting up the water, with little fish and crabs darting from one rock to another. Theo always pushed his dark auburn hair back so he could identify the animals for you, but you only paid attention to the way his dimples deepened when he got to see his favorites. You want to remember the things he’d tell you, but even in your memories the waves are deafening. You suck in a breath. You seem lost, but before you tumble further down your many thoughts, Clara calls you.
“Come now, Sweetheart, your family should be waiting,” she holds out her hand, and for the first time this week, you feel grateful to escape your room.
The halls are decorated with ropes of greenery and floral arrangements made of your country’s native flowers and fruit. The varied colors of berries and roses pop against the pale tan stones of the castle walls. The candles hardly add a glow in the evening sun, but your mother said they would be romantic.
“No alcohol until the mingling. Prince Odinson is in attendance and he can be…boisterous,” Your mother hands off final directions to her secretaries at the large wooden entry doors.
“Remember when he tried to lift a bench with four ladies on it?” you interrupt her. She jumps and holds her hand to her chest.
“Honey!” Her brown hair is pulled up into an elegant twist, showing off her long neck draped with a necklace of rubies. Her eyes have subtle crinkles as she smiles at you, “Clara, fantastic job again, really.”
“Did I look that horrible?” you ask in mock offense.
“Well, darling, you hadn’t seen the sun for a few days… or soap, or food, and probably a change of clothes. Oh! and—” your mother starts to rattle off a list but you stop her.
“Okay! I get it,” you nod, “I am okay though. I promise,” you confirm even though she didn’t ask.
“You are,”she gives you a tight hug, “I promise this evening will go quickly. You just greet and move on. Talk for a bit. Then dinner. Then bed. Nothing heavy,” she leads you into the grand room.
The large stained glass windows of the throne room project a rainbow of colors across the long and wide walkway. A burgundy carpet leads to where your father sits on a golden seat talking to your brother. An iron crown twisted and sealed in gold is welded to the top of it. For many years you’d sit on the marble steps at his feet and listen to the public bring complaints or requests. People thought it was cute when you listened intently and tried to help solve issues, some even brought you treats and trinkets.
“You look ethereal, my love,” your father gives your mother a kiss on her forehead. “You can relax now. Everything looks impeccable. Even our children. ”
“I think Princess could use a few more dunks in the tub, but that may just be me,” your brother makes a sour face at you. His royal uniform matches your father’s. A red coat with gold leafy embroidery on the collar. Shockingly, there aren’t wrinkles in his outfit from sitting at his desk or lounging about the castle. You really can’t find a snarky response because he looks so pristine. You’re about to let him have the win because even his hair is perfectly styled. But that’s where you notice it. One chunk of hair looks rougher than the rest. Almost as if it were singed.
“Aww, Tony,” you tilt your head, and touch the rough patch on his head, “did you blow something up again?”
“What?” your mother snaps.
“Tattle”, he pats his hair to keep it hidden. You laugh at him, but he grabs your arm and tickles your side, turning your laughs into involuntary gasps for help. You try to push him away, but he only tickles harder.
“Calm you two! Take your places,” your mother pushes you forward and takes her seat next to your father.
“She started it,” Tony grumbles as he stands beside her.
“I did not!” You stick your tongue out at him and stand at your father’s side.
“Enough! You’re both adults,” your father holds his hand up at you two. Your mother gives instructions about how to greet the guests, as if you haven’t had to do this your whole life. You’ll paint a smile on your lips, fake a light blush, and sound ever-so grateful to have their company here. You won’t let a tear slip down your cheek. And under no circumstances are you allowed to ask them to leave your sight so you can lay in your bed and melt into your grief. No. You’re the Princess of Eldoria, and that means something bigger than you.
“Your highness, the son of King Rupert has arrived!” An usher rushes in breathless, and takes his place at a podium. He will announce every entry. The band setting themselves up on the balcony 0ver the room will play music to fill the space between arrivals. A few servants enter with trays of hors d’oeuvres ready to help keep the crowd patient. Some members of your court find their way in ahead of the first royal arrival. They stand quietly talking among themselves with their straightened stiff postures. You think a single strong wind gust could knock them over like dominoes.
“So we begin,” your father mumbles and sits a little straighter. You take a deep breath, ignore the racing of your heart and set a gentle smile.
Guards open the doors wide, and an older man with raven black hair enters the hall. He meets your father in a handshake, bows to your mother and brother. It’s all very formal and boring and you can feel yourself mentally slipping away already.
The prince turns to greet you and Tony’s jaw drops. He’s bowing so low you’re afraid he might try to kiss your foot instead of your hand. But that’s when you notice the large bald spot at the back of his head. Somehow it’s a perfect circle, totally invisible if you see him from the front. You bow your head in return, biting your cheek to keep from laughing, and don’t dare to look at Tony, who you know is enjoying this too much.
With that opening, the many entrances proceed with princes, royal families, and even more members of your local court joining the evening affairs. The sidelines are filled with beautiful dresses, quiet rumors of newcomers, and servants passing wine and food. Your mother went rigid when they brought the wine trays out too soon but couldn’t stop them as guests took the glasses off trays. You feel your feet growing tired and glance at your brother. He’s winking at a princess from a distant kingdom and you stop yourself from audibly scoffing. The slender blonde giggles among her friends, and your brother keeps up his silent flirting by raising his eyebrows at her. You want to gag. You know he’s young, but he could stand to be a bit less obvious in front of everyone. Your father coughs, your mother whispers something to a maid, and Prince Bald Spot almost gags on the big bite of cheese he got from a servant.
Your father coughs again.
A group of young royals laugh as one tosses a grape into the mouth of another.
Your father coughs, yet again, drawing your attention. You give him a side glance.
“Watch the door,” his hand covers his mouth as he whispers and tilts his head forward. The band quiets down as the announcer clears his throat.
“His Royal Highness, Prince James Buchanan Barnes of Brooklandra, accompanied by Duke Steven Grant Rogers of York and his wife Duchess Margaret.”
It’s respectful to quiet down when a new house enters the room, but this time, not even the rustling of women’s skirts or clanking of metal from your guards can be heard. You know why. Unlike the royals in this room, relatively little is known about the heir of Brooklandra. Most know Prince James because of his father’s reputation on the battlefield. Relentless, bloody, and willing to face whole units of enemies by himself, the King of Brooklandra earned the moniker “The Lone Wolf.”
Much of what you know of Prince James comes from what your father told you after a few visits many years ago. The Prince James of that time was an adventurous and crafty boy who could be found either reading, listening to kingdom meetings, or exploring the nearby forests. You wonder if he’s still as charming as your father found him. A few more moments pass, but no amount of time could prepare you for the man that now walks into your family’s throne room.
If anyone is gasping, the sound of violins hide it. Every person is watching the tall man with broad cloaked shoulders taking heavy steps towards your father. His hair is half tied back but the loose strands fall to his shoulders. The deep brown, almost black, color is sharp against his light skin. His face is unshaven but it only highlights his strong jaw. He keeps his gaze set forward with his furrowed brows adding a layer of gloom to the frown on his plush pink lips. You imagine they’d feel like velvet. Your heart rushes knowing that he will kiss the back of your hand in a moment.
“Prince James, it is good to see you again,” your father stands and shakes his hand.
“Thank you for welcoming me and my companions into your home, King Leonardo. This is Duke Steven and his wife, Duchess Margaret,” Prince James’s frown perks up to a flat line, and you suppose that is a good sign. Despite your very thorough review of his face, you only now notice that he does not wear the formal royal uniform of Brooklandra. His tunic is more constructed, and his sword sits at the ready on his waist. It’s a real blade, made for war and not the ones for show you see in this room. He still wears his house colors of blue and silver. It’s his own take on the royal attire; honoring his house but ready for any sudden burst of violence or attack.
“Please, my family is happy to have you. This is my son Prince Anthony, and my wife Queen Anorra,” your father gestures to each. Prince James shakes their hands and then your father continues, “And this is my daughter, Princess Y/N.”
Prince James finally meets your eyes and your mouth involuntarily parts. His eyes are the clearest blue you’ve ever seen. They remind you of summers spent under cloudless skies and the pale sapphires in your family’s jewelry collection. Glowing.
You blush and curtsy before people catch onto your shock and you hold out your hand. You feel his, rough and calloused, take yours. You stand but after a moment, and two more pass, he still doesn’t kiss your knuckles. It’s the proper greeting for a woman of your station, yet, he only shakes your hand like you’re another man at dinner. In your peripheral, Tony straightens his posture.
“Princess Y/N,” Prince James bows his head.
“Prince James,” you bow your head too, trying not to let the awkward moment become a spectacle, but it may be too late for that. The blonde man who joins Prince James tightens his lips, and the brunette standing with him flares her nostrils.
“Your,” James pauses, “hands are soft.” He remarks. What is that? Is that supposed to be a compliment?
“Thank you?” You don’t mean for it to be a question, but you are questioning. You can hear some of the women giggling, no doubt starting a rumor based on the short interaction. His companions also greet your family and you, properly this time, and Duchess Margaret bows in deep apologies. The room goes back to normal volumes, but you can feel more eyes on you than ever.
Prince James was, unfortunately for you, the last entrance, and now you’re forced to mingle with the room of royals. Despite the hiccup, many of your suitors vye for your attention. You can’t help but notice Prince James sticks to his companions—far away from you. You wouldn’t usually care about such disinterest, but his lackluster and frankly rude greeting leaves you confused. As a man dramatically retells a hunting story to your group, you instead watch Prince James. He grimaces and rolls his eyes at Steven who then walks away to the table full of treats. The woman, Duchess Margaret, crosses her arms and speaks to the brooding prince. Without a hint, she looks up at you, and you have to snap your focus to a tapestry on one of the walls. You know she caught you, and you decide that is enough snooping. If Prince James doesn’t care to show you manners, you won’t care to know why. Easy. You lift your goblet of wine to your lips and join the others around you in laughing at the story you have not paid attention to.
“Princess Y/N, that shade of blue compliments you so well,” one of the men in your circle, Prince Henry, points out your dress.
“Thank you," you hope your short response will make him move on. It doesn't.
“The pleasure is mine. See, I have an affinity for painting so I like to observe beautiful things,” his delivery is clunky and the smirk on his face makes you want to sink into the wall. You choose to ignore him and try to move attention to someone or something else.
“Speaking of beautiful things, has anyone had the chance to see the public gardens on your way in? My great grandmother designed and cultivated them herself.”
“Your great grandmother! She was originally from the Kingdom of Asgard! Have you ever gone there?” One of the other dukes obviously did his research.
“In truth, I’ve never had the chance to leave Eldoria, but it’s warm and full of adventure here so I don’t mind.” It’s true. Eldoria is self-sustaining with flourishing wildlife, varied agriculture, and other natural resources that seem to grow easily on the large island country. Religious leaders say it is blessed by the old gods and share legends of great heroes bringing good luck to the land and its people.
“Yes it is, in my home country we…,” the nervous but well studied duke continues. Over time, more people join the circle, leave, and join again. You absently laugh and make small talk back with the people who approach you. Some men pass their charms and compliments to you. You fake a blush and look down and then to the side. You hadn’t had to flirt with anyone in awhile, but Theo did used to say you were alluring.
Tony slips you a slice of bread as you entertain the fourth story about sailing and boat racing you’ve heard this evening. All from the same prince. You mentioned you liked watching the boats at the docks and he ran with that idea.
“I saw that,” a light whisper floats past your ear, and your immediate reaction is to drop the bread from your palm. You turn to the redhead next to you, and immediately smile in relief. Now she is a warm welcome.
“Oh! Prince Gerholt, this is Princess Wanda, my absolute best friend and I haven’t seen her in months. You wouldn’t mind if we stepped away and caught up would you?” You gesture to Wanda and before he can answer, you pull her away from the thicker parts of the crowd and embrace her.
“I missed you so much,” she squeezes you just as tightly.
“How have you been?” You can’t hide the break in your voice, but Wanda takes a deep breath.
“Better, I hope you know my family still supports you and loves you,” she sounds rehearsed but you know it’s only because she needed to say it without crying.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. That I couldn’t go,” a couple of tears break past your lashes, but Wanda catches them and turns you away from facing the room.
“Theo wanted you to be safe. You can’t blame yourself,” she speaks to you like your mother and Clara do as of late, a firm voice trying to get their words past your stubborn mind, “I did bring you some things though. Things he left for you, and things I thought you’d like,” she hopes it gives you something to look forward to. You sniffle and accept a handkerchief from a servant who blocks you from view with a tray. You thank them as they return to strolling the room of hungry guests. Wanda is focused on something over your shoulder.
A cohort of ladies now surround Prince James a few feet away from you. They don’t speak to him, it’s more like speaking around him. They have to make the conversation as he doesn’t give more than four words per answer. One of the ladies touches his shoulder and laughs at something he says. He looks like he is ready to run. You wonder if it’s not just you he hates. Maybe.
“He’s handsome,” Wanda wiggles her brows and loops your arms together as you pass around the room.
“And rude,” you mumble.
“I did see a bit of that, entered right as he dropped the handshake,” she chuckles.
“I was so embarrassed!” you hiss.
“Why? Kissing the hand of a princess is a bit traditional. Maybe he’s more? Forward thinking?” she tries.
“Which I’m fine with, but the general air of annoyance and boredom would tell me otherwise.”
“Ah, so you’re upset he doesn’t like you?”
“No! I just. Did he have to do that in front of everyone? They’re already saying so much that something so little makes me look even more,” you feel your chest constrict, “rejectable.”
“Theo did not reject you.”
“No, but I never gave anyone else a chance. Which I don’t regret!” you confirm to his sister, “It just makes me easier to forget and I’m not in a position to be forgotten,” the words lay between you. Wanda remembers you and young Theo. The way he’d follow you along the hedge mazes, or when he was home would ask her if girls liked this or that. She knew what he was actually asking and told him things you did like.
“I don’t know if you’ve looked in a mirror this evening, but I need you to realize that my best friend here? She isn’t forgettable,” she soothes you. You’re about to thank her when the announcer returns to his post.
“Queen Anorra requests your attention,” he shouts over the room.
Your mother stands at the dais and waits for the room to settle, “Hello everyone, we are grateful so many of you have travelled to join us as we hold games, tournaments, and balls on Eldoria,” your mother gives a warm welcome to everyone. Inviting them to also spend time in the nearby towns, enjoy the local natural wonders, or simply relax by the beach, “It has been a long time since our last invitational, and we are ready to provide a wonderful time. So before we start with the whirlwind of exciting events, please enjoy a fantastic dinner,” she points to the walkway that leads to the large dining hall.
A number of large tables are set. Names are scribed on small placards marking the seats for specific people. Ushers act as guides, and you spot Lyssa near one of the head tables.
“Hello, my lady, this is your seat,” she pulls the chair out for you and you thank her. She scurries off, likely searching for Clara to report she helped you find your seat and addressed you correctly.
While alone you review the names on either side of you. Wanda will be on your right, she’s speaking to your parents before she joins you. On your other side, in perfectly curled cursive, Prince James’ full name mocks you. Your mother promised this would be an easy evening and now this? You do not want to have to spend the rest of your evening dealing with a brooding prince who chose to embarrass you in front of everyone. An idea takes form before you can stop yourself. You push your seat back to stand and switch the card with quite literally anyone else at the table. No one will be the wiser if you move quickly. When your heavy chair juts out behind you, someone groans.
It’s an usher, with Prince James and his companions right behind him, wide-eyed.
“Oh my! I’m so sorry, Thomas! I didn’t look before I stood. Are you alright?” you panic and hold out a hand to support him.
“It’s truly alright my lady. I’m going to move. Over there,” Thomas gasps as holds his ribs. He excuses himself as the others find their name cards without looking up at you. Thomas’s hunched figure moves through the crowd as he reaches a door to the kitchens. You feel a heat grow across your neck and face. You pray your father eats fast because you can’t escape this table or night until he gives closing remarks.
“Is that my name?” Prince James’ deep voice asks. You might just burst in your spot.
You nod, and without a word, open your hand and place the crumpled card back in its spot. Next to you.
Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU
gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader
Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, smut, p n v, unprotected sex, table sex, light fingering, hair pulling, begging, past wounds, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 5.8k
A/N: hi!! i spent all of jan doing my 50k word challenge on the daughter of rotsál first draft, but i thought i'd take these first few days of feb to update this fic! i also released a smutty/fluffy oneshot called sweatpea you should check out! my birthday and uni is coming up soon so i'm gonna try squeeze in some more work on the daughter of rotsál draft before that and maybe one more update / another one-shot but i'll see how i go! anyway, enjoy this is a spicy one! sorry for any typos - not proof read.
The shipment warehouse was a vast, hollowed-out space. Shadows stretched long beneath the dim, hanging bulbs. The scent of aged wood, alcohol, and rust lingered in the air, the faint remnants of the whiskey that passed through here on its way to buyers. Though mostly empty, clusters of wooden crates were stacked against the far walls, some sealed, others pried open to reveal their glass cargo, bottles of dark amber liquid reflecting the weak light. Scattered metal production tables dotted the floor, their surfaces scratched and stained from years of work. These were the stations where workers packed the shipments, but now, the tables sat abandoned, save for one.
At the centre of the warehouse, in front of one of the tables, three men sat bound to chairs. Rope bit into their flesh, tight enough that their fingers were already turning an ugly shade of blue. The table before them had been repurposed for something far crueller than packaging liquor. A collection of weapons lay across its surface—blades, hammers, pliers, each one arranged with careful deliberation.
By the main entrance, Steve and Sam stood guard, their figures solid and unmoving, you eyed them cautiously as you passed through the threshold. They didn’t quite meet your eye, and you wondered if they could hear the deafening pulse that roared in your ears. The cold night air filtered in through the open doors behind them, a scattering of ash decorating the stone floor.
Bucky entered beside you, his steps slow and deliberate. But you could feel the unspoken tension rolling off him in waves. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his shoulders squared rigidly, his jaw tight. The walk over from the Sootline had been silent, even if you could practically feel the heat of rage radiating off him. He didn’t seem eager to talk to you, even if his gaze would occasionally flicker to you to make sure you still followed along behind him. Maybe he feared he would find judgment in your eyes because he never held them for long.
“Bucky—” You called out softly, but the gangster shied away from your touch, the fabric of his sleeve slipping through your fingers.
He strode forward, each step heavy, his boots striking against the stone with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound echoed through the warehouse, filling it like a countdown ticking. You knew him. You had to remind yourself of that. You knew this man—the sharp edges of his cruelty, the weight of his fury, the way violence coiled beneath his skin like a second nature. You knew him intimately; you had felt the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his hands, and the steel of his will.
And yet, in this moment, he felt distant. Unreachable.
Even if he was angry, even if he had been cold and dismissive, his rage was not aimed at you. This was because of you. Because of what happened. The thought should have been comforting, a reassurance that you were not in his path and that his wrath had a different target. And yet, the knowledge did little to ease the weight pressing against your bruised ribs; it didn’t stop the breath from hitching in your throat as you took in the scene before you.
You were safe. You knew that.
But safety did nothing to silence the unease creeping through your veins.
The Iron Rats reacted the moment Bucky neared them. Two of them shrank back, their chairs creaking as they futilely tried to recoil from him. Their eyes darted between Bucky and the weapons on the table, their breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. One of them had already begun to tremble, his lips forming silent prayers, his body betraying him as he shook against the restraints.
But the third man—the one at the end—was different. He didn’t cower, didn’t flinch. He simply stared ahead, eyes hollow, his expression unreadable. It was as if he had already accepted whatever was coming and made peace with the inevitable.
“Barnes.” You snapped louder this time, voice clipped. The gangster paused his movements, not even turning to look back as he raised his hand, silencing you with a raise of his index finger.
“I was considerin’ if the bird needed to see this.” He finally broke his silence, voice low with a dangerous edge. “But I think she needs’a understand, don’t ya think?”
His hand struck forward, grasping one of the cowering men’s chins, forcing his head to look in your direction. You could tell his grip was bruising, even from a distance, the skin around his thumb growing white at the pressure. “She needs’a understand what happens to dirty fuckin’ rats that come crawling into my territory.”
Bucky released the man with a sharp shove, and the Iron Rat nearly sobbed in relief, his chair rocking back violently from the force. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Bucky barely spared him a glance. Instead, he dragged his fingers down the front of his suit jacket in one broad stroke as if ridding himself of the filth he had just touched.
Then, without looking, he reached for the table, his fingers curling around the worn handle of a butcher’s knife. The blade was thick and heavy, meant to cleave through bone as quickly as meat. As he lifted it, it scraped against the metal tabletop, the sound sharp and grating—final.
Bucky turned to you, his fingers curling around the handle, weighing it in his grip like an executioner deliberating his next stroke. His gaze pinned you in place.
“Left or right, doll?”
The question landed like a punch to the gut.
“What?” You stammered back in response.
“Left or right?” His voice was eerily steady, too casual for the brutality hanging in the air. It was as if he were asking you to pick a wine for dinner, not deciding which limb would be lost. Your throat tightened. The Iron Rats were barely breathing, one whimpering, his chair creaking under his tremors.
You forced your voice to work. “Barnes, don’t you think we’ve caused enough damage?”
You knew you'd made a mistake the second the words left your lips.
Bucky’s head snapped towards you, his jaw ticking, something dark and dangerous flickering behind his eyes. The shift in him was immediate, electric. He abandoned the bound man without hesitation, closing the space between you in a few sharp strides. Your pulse stuttered.
He was on you in seconds, looming, his presence suffocating. You turned your head instinctively as his breath fanned hot across your cheek, but there was no escaping him.
“No.”
The single word was like a hammer shattering stone.
“We ‘aven’t caused nearly enough damage after what they did.” His voice, low and venomous, left no room for argument. His free hand clenched at his side, fingers twitching with barely contained rage. “You think I’m gonna let these filthy fuckin’ rats walk away after puttin’ their hands on you? Huh? After hurtin’ you right under my fuckin’ nose?”
Your breath caught, your ribs tightening under the weight of his fury. He leant in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed your ear. His words were a vow, a sentence carved in stone when he spoke next. “You’re under my protection. Mine. You’re mine. So fuckin’ choose, doll. Left or right?”
Your stomach twisted. The Iron Rats were silent, frozen, waiting for your answer as if it were their final prayer. You swallowed.
“…Right.”
The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a razor-sharp thing, all teeth and no kindness. His eyes gleamed with something feverish, something manic.
“Good girl,” he purred. The praise was smooth, almost sweet, but his grip on the knife tightened, knuckles whitening around the handle. And then he turned. The Iron Rat barely had time to process what was happening before Bucky moved.
The butcher’s knife came down in a single, brutal arc.
A sickening crack filled the warehouse as steel met flesh and bone, followed by a scream so raw, so agonised, it turned your stomach. The man convulsed against his restraints, his bound arms jerking wildly, but there was nowhere to go.
Blood splattered across the metal tabletop, dark and glistening. It pooled. Dripped and painted the concrete floor beneath him. His severed hand tumbled to the ground with a dull thud, fingers twitching uselessly in the growing puddle of red.
Bucky barely spared the carnage a glance. “You touched her,” he said coldly, voice devoid of sympathy.
“So I took your fuckin’ hand.” He tilted his head, considering the sobbing, writhing man before him. “Consider it generous that I ain’t takin’ both.”
The Iron Rat howled, his body convulsing. Tears streamed down his face, his cries dissolving into choked, incoherent pleas for mercy. Bucky wasn’t listening. He wiped the blade clean against his sleeve, smearing crimson across the dark fabric like a war trophy. Then, slowly, he turned to the second man, pointing the stained blade at him.
“Your turn.”
The second Iron Rat thrashed in his chair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes, wild with terror, darted between Bucky and the ruined stump of the first man. Blood still poured from the wound, pooling beneath the chair, seeping into the cracks of the warehouse floor. The stench of it—sharp, metallic, raw—hung thick in the air.
“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, I—I didn’t even—”
Bucky slammed a heavy hand down on his shoulder, silencing him with a violent jolt. The Iron Rat flinched, chest heaving, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. Bucky turned to you again, the knife glinting under the dim warehouse lights.
“Left or right?”
Your fingers curled into your palms, nails digging deep enough to leave crescent moons in your skin, but the sting barely registered. Your mind screamed at you, an urgent, panicked voice clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Stop this. Say something. Tell him it’s enough.
But you didn’t.
Because you knew the truth now, Bucky wouldn’t listen. Any sense of cold calculation had snapped within him, as if his father himself had possessed his body. His blood was up, his fury ran red-hot and unchecked. Reason was a foreign concept to him in this moments, swallowed whole by vengeance and violence.
Your breath felt thin as you watched him, as you remembered what was left of Varlan Crey. The Rat King, so smug, so untouchable, had been brought to his knees. Felled not by magic or blades, but by the sheer, unrelenting wrath of Bucky Barnes. He had survived, maybe by the hand of a small mercy. Or maybe just dumb luck. Because you had seen it—the flicker of real, unguarded fear in Crey’s eyes. The raw understanding that, for the first time, he had stood at the very edge of death and only barely stepped back in time.
You swallowed, throat dry as dust. “Left.”
A shuddering breath left the Iron Rat, some final, pitiful sound before—
Bucky moved.
The blade came down hard.
The crack of severed bone and the wet, visceral tear of flesh split through the warehouse. The man’s scream ripped through the air, raw and broken, his body jerking violently against the chair. Blood sprayed across the table, warm and thick, dripping onto the floor. His severed hand landed with a sickening slap, fingers twitching before they went still.
Bucky tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders, keeping him from toppling the chair over as he convulsed in agony. He wiped the blade again, slow and deliberate, his gaze flicking to the last Iron Rat—the one who hadn’t made a sound.
The man met Bucky’s eyes with an eerie, empty calm.
No trembling. No pleading. Just quiet resignation.
A slight, bitter smile played at the edges of his lips as he tilted his head, gesturing to his left hand, which was secured against the arm of the chair. A soldier offering himself to the executioner.
Bucky exhaled sharply, amused. “Good choice.”
And then he brought the knife down.
The man grunted as the blade severed flesh and bone in one clean stroke, but he didn’t scream. His body twitched, stiffening against the pain, but he bit it down. His severed hand dropped onto the table this time, fingers curling inward, as if gripping something unseen. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady stream.
Bucky studied him for a moment, almost impressed.
Then, satisfied, he tossed the knife onto the table with a dull clang. The first two Iron Rats were still crying, writhing, staring at their stumps like they could somehow undo what had been done. The third just slumped in his chair, pale and shaking, but silent.
“I think I should take an eye next, for even lookin’ at you. What’d you think, doll?” Exhaustion lay heavy in your bones as your eyes fluttered shut briefly. Bucky was upon you again, his gaze softer now, the fury still burning beneath the surface but tempered. He reached for you, his bloodied fingers grazing your arm in a touch that was meant to be comforting. “Eye for an eye, after all.”
“I don’t…” You stammered but leant into his touch by default. Steve and Sam had adverted their eyes, their expressions unreadable as they pressed their lips into a line.
“I’ll choose for ya, how’s that sound, doll?” He rubbed a bloodied thumb across your cheek. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping something in your eyes could pull him away. But his eyes settled on the faded split in your lip, and his gaze hardened. “They have to pay.”
Bucky stalked off towards the array of weapons displayed along the table once more. The knife he chose gleamed under the dim light, and Bucky tested the edge against his thumb. A single bead of red welled up but he paid it no mind. His attention was elsewhere—on the trembling man before him, the one still staring at his bleeding stump, breath hitching in raw, animalistic terror.
“Please,” the Iron Rat sobbed, voice wet, desperate. “Please, Barnes, I can’t—I—”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like the weight of their begging was nothing more than an inconvenience. His hand was steady, practiced, as he tapped the knife tip against the man’s chin, tilting his face up.
“Didn’t fuckin’ ask for pleas,” he murmured, voice eerily even. “Left or right?”
The man shuddered violently. He turned slightly, eyes flicking to you as though you could save him as if you had any say. You swallowed, your tongue thick and useless, pinned in place by the weight of Bucky’s presence and the inevitability of what came next.
When no answer came, Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
“Left it is.” The knife sank into the man’s left eye in a swift, brutal motion. A high and raw shriek tore through the room, sending a shudder through your bones.
You flinched, but only slightly. The movement barely registered.
You had seen Bucky covered in blood before, had seen him like this before—violent, efficient, merciless. Yet you had also seen him in moments far removed from this carnage.
You had watched him bleed and had pressed your hands to his wounds to keep him from slipping away. You had felt his warmth seeping between your fingers, his breath shallow but steady as he let you take care of him. He had trusted you then, let you see him vulnerable when he could have just as easily pushed you away.
He had defended you against the Rat King, standing between you and the man who had wanted to carve you apart. If it hadn’t been for him, would you have been at the mercy of the Iron Rats? Tied to a chair like the three men before you? There had been no hesitation in him then, just like there was none now. And it was all for you.
The thought made your stomach tighten, but not in fear. Not entirely.
Bucky wiped the knife clean on the Iron Rat’s pant leg, a simple, thoughtless movement, and turned to the last man. The final Iron Rat had been silent the entire time, watching the carnage with eerie detachment. Even now, as the scent of blood thickened the air and his fallen comrades moaned and sobbed, his expression barely shifted. He only blinked, slow and deliberate, as Bucky approached.
“Ya know what I’m gonna ask,” Bucky said, voice quieter this time.
A pause.
Then, a small sigh.
“Right,” the man murmured, resigned.
Something flickered in Bucky’s expression—curiosity, maybe. Approval. He didn’t make him wait. The blade sank deep, and though the Iron Rat tensed, his breath hitching sharply, he made no sound. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his cheek, but he simply slumped against the restraints, his ruined eye weeping crimson.
Bucky lingered, staring at him, head tilted slightly. Considering. Perhaps even disappointed.
Bucky only clicked his tongue before turning back to you. The shift was subtle but immediate. The hardness in his expression softened, his eyes no longer carrying the cold fury he had wielded so effortlessly moments before. His hand, still warm despite the blood smeared across his fingers, reached for you, grazing your waist.
“See, doll?” he murmured. “Now they know.”
Your breath caught.
You should have felt horror. Revulsion. But instead, as you looked at him—his jaw speckled with blood, his chest rising and falling evenly, the fire still smouldering behind his eyes—you felt something else entirely. Something that made your fingers twitch, something that made your chest tighten.
Maybe, just maybe, this was more than just lust.
You weren’t sure whether that should’ve terrified you.
But at that moment, staring up at him, your heart still pounding, you weren’t sure you cared.
—
Bucky quickly issued his orders: everyone was to leave but you. Sam and Steve moved without hesitation, grabbing a bloodied, barely conscious Iron Rat by the scruff of their necks and dragging them towards the exit. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the cold warehouse air, thick and rich, settling into your lungs with each breath.
Bucky didn’t watch them leave.
He stood with his back turned, broad shoulders taut, tension coiling through his body like a predator still primed for the kill. His suit jacket lay discarded on the blood-splattered table. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his elbows, the fabric marred with streaks of red. His hands—still wet with it—hung at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if the violence hadn’t yet left his system.
You hesitated before moving, carefully stepping past the grotesque remnants of severed hands littering the floor. You focused on him instead, on the way his body seemed stretched too tight like he was waiting for another enemy to appear from the shadows.
Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, smoothing a hand over his forearm. The muscles beneath your fingers were rigid but warm, his pulse steady despite the chaos he’d unleashed.
“You showed them your hand,” you murmured, your voice soft and testing. “What will you do now?”
Your fingers traced a slow path up his arm, featherlight over the muscle, following the curve of his shoulder. When he didn’t pull away, you grew bolder, stepping around him until you stood before him. His face was speckled with blood; the scarlet splattered across his jaw and streaked along the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes, cold and unreadable just moments ago, stirred—just barely—as they settled on you.
“They needed to be taught a lesson,” he said simply, his voice still edged with the lingering embers of rage. A repetition of the words he’d spoken before.
You sighed through your nose, your hands splaying across his chest. His shirt was warm beneath your touch, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding you. You pressed yourself flush against him, seeking—what? Comfort? Reassurance? An answer you weren’t sure you wanted?
“Yes,” you conceded, your voice quieter now, steadier. “But you’ve shown ‘em your hand.”
Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric, gripping him, holding him there with you. “You’ve told ‘em another woman is close to you—other than your sister. One that commands enough of your attention for you to do this.”
His eyes flickered with amusement. “Ya scared, doll?”
“No.” The answer was immediate, instinctive—but the certainty of it wavered, even in your own mind. Was that really the truth? “I just want to understand why you’d expose a weakness like that.”
He snorted softly, his bloodstained hands coiling around your waist, holding you there. His grip was firm and possessive but not forceful. There was no threat in his touch, only something else, something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.
For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe he would finally say something—something real. Something sweet. He always left you with vague declarations of ownership and lust.
Because he cared, he had to—right? No man would do what he had done tonight if he didn’t care. No man would make a spectacle of his violence, an open display of his wrath for the sake of a woman if she meant nothing? He had carved his rage into flesh and blood for you and left a message in the ruined bodies of those men. You mattered to him.
Didn’t you?
But when he finally spoke, his words weren’t what you wanted.
“You have your worth, spirit-raiser.”
A flicker of disappointment bloomed in your gut. You could have pulled away. Should have, maybe. But you didn’t because you needed something from him: reassurance, protection. Proof that he would stand between you and whatever enemies would inevitably come for you now that he had placed you in the centre of this war.
Perhaps tonight had been proof enough.
Conflict and confusion pressed heavily in your chest, warring with the heat between you.
Fuck Becca’s warnings.
There was something here, wasn’t there?
Your hand slid up, fingers ghosting over the rough stubble of his jaw. You cradled his face, pulling him closer. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey and blood, and for a moment, you hesitated—just a moment—before pressing your lips to his.
Bucky responded instantly, like a man starved, his eager hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity as if grounding himself in your presence. A sharp wince pricked at your ribs, but the hunger in his kiss quickly drowned it out. His lips moved against yours with fervour, rough and consuming, parting only to let his tongue sweep into your mouth, claiming and demanding. You melted into him, your body yielding beneath his, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch ignited something primal in you.
He moved with purpose, guiding you backwards. His hands were restless, roaming up your spine, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your blouse, searching, craving skin. The cool air kissed your exposed flesh as he fumbled with your buttons, the urgency in his touch making his movements clumsy. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss as your own hands wandered lower, gliding down the firm planes of his chest. The taut muscle beneath his white collared shirt flexed beneath your palms, solid and unyielding.
His breath hitched slightly as you dragged your nails over the crisp fabric, feeling the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath. You felt the shudder in his body as your fingers found the buttons of his vest, slipping them free with deliberate ease. Bucky’s hands found your breasts, moulding the soft flesh through your brassiere with a rough, needy grip, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks in slow, teasing circles. Your head tipped back, a breathy sigh escaping your lips as heat coursed through you.
The vest was discarded in a swift motion, tossed aside without care, and before you could fully react, Bucky’s strong hands lifted you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the cold metal of the production table. The chill of it sent a shiver through your body. Still, the heat between you and him was overwhelming, obliterating any thought. His body pressed between your legs, the hard line of him nestling against you through the fabric of your skirts.
His mouth devoured yours again, possessive and unrelenting, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, fleeting bite before his tongue soothed the sting. You whimpered quietly into his mouth. Clinging to him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from deep within his chest. His thumb grazed over your nipple, teasing through the lace, and your breath hitched.
The world beyond this moment ceased to exist. There was only Bucky—his touch, his breath, his desire pressed into your skin like a brand. And you welcomed it. Welcomed him.
You could already feel the hard length of him, pressing insistently against your inner thigh through the layers of fabric. His heat was unmistakable, searing even through the barrier of clothing, and a shiver rolled through you. The anticipation was unbearable. You reached for his belt, fingers nimble and eager—
But Bucky chuckled, low and deep, knocking your hands away with an easy flick of his wrist. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of hunger that drank you in as you leant back on your elbows, your body sprawled out before him. His lips were swollen, slick with the mingled taste of you both, his breath warm against your skin. Your chest heaved, one breast exposed where he had tugged it free from your brassiere, the cool air sending a shiver through you.
“Greedy, ain’t ya?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, but his touch was anything but teasing. His hand slid beneath the heavy fabric of your skirt, fingers dragging up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You barely had time to process the sensation before he grabbed the delicate waistband of your tap pants and tore them down your legs, the lace rasping against your skin as he wrenched them past your ankles and boots.
The discarded scrap of fabric landed somewhere on the warehouse floor, forgotten. His hands were already on you again, possessive, insatiable. You let out a low groan, head falling back as he trailed a digit through your wet slit, humming in delight as he found you already dripping with desire. “Don’t need an arousal potion for this, do we?”
You ignored his quip, instead wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckled at you, rewarding your eagerness by pressing one of his digits into your cunt. You clenched around him with a whimper, hips rocking as you internally begged for more friction.
“Let me hear your noises, doll.” Bucky commanded, his spare hand trailing up your thigh. You whined softly, bucking your hips once more in a silent plea. The gangster smirked down at you, pressing a second digit into you as you squirmed beneath him.
“Please, Bucky.” You mewled, pulling him closer with the legs hooked around his back. He obliged, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. You could hear the squelching of your wetness, your body shuddering with impatience at the leisurely pace.
“You want more?” He purred, teasing you with a quick flick of your clit with his thumb. You clenched around him involuntarily, a breathy gasp leaving your mouth as pleasure rocked up your spine, a new wave of electricity flooding your gut.
You pushed yourself up, hands grasping his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his shirt as you pulled your bodies flush. The heat of him seeped into you, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your mouth found the column of his throat, breath hitching as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his exposed skin. His pulse thrummed beneath your lips, quick and heavy, and you traced it with your tongue, savouring the salt of his skin.
Bucky let out a sharp exhale as you dragged your mouth along his adam’s apple, teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before sucking a bruise into his neck. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted him to brand himself into your skin the way he had branded himself into your mind.
“Please,” you breathed against his ear, voice hushed, desperate. Your tongue flicked along the shell, teasing, before you nipped at his earlobe, letting your teeth catch just enough to make him groan. “I need you inside me.”
The words sent a shudder through him, a growl vibrating deep in his chest. “Turn around, bend over the table. Now.”
Your head tilted, temple resting against the firm plane of his shoulder as you gazed up at him, your breath uneven. His fingers twitched inside you, a steady rhythm still building, each pump igniting a slow, unbearable heat in your core. A sharp gasp left your lips as pleasure twisted through you, your body tensing in response.
“My ribs—” you managed to gasp, wincing as the dull ache reminded you of your bruises.
Bucky stilled for a moment, a flicker of something soft crossing his face, a rare moment of tenderness blooming between the two of you. His breath was warm against your cheek as he considered your words, his free hand smoothing over your hip as though grounding you.
“You’ll be fine,” he murmured, low and reassuring, though the husk of his voice betrayed his restraint. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
Gentle. A rare promise from a man like him.
Then, just as quickly as he had stilled, he withdrew. A wet heat lingered in the absence of his fingers, and you shuddered, your walls clenching around nothing. A soft whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body betraying the ache of emptiness. You unhooked your legs from around his waist, knees wobbling as you moved, turning yourself around atop the table.
The cold metal kissed your stomach as you laid your front flat against it, one breast still bare from where he had pulled the fabric away. A shuddering breath left you, anticipation thick in your veins as you braced yourself against the surface, your hips lining up with the edge.
Behind you, you heard the sharp metallic clink of his belt buckle, followed by the slow rasp of leather sliding free. The head of his cock pressed against your slick opening, teasing but not quite entering. You whined into the table as his large hands stroked up the back of your thighs, gripping the flesh.
“So wet,” he muttered. His voice was thick with hunger as he pushed your skirts up, bunching the fabric around your waist, leaving you utterly exposed to him. His hands trailed down, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your ass before he spread you open, admiring the slick evidence of your need. “So good for me, huh, doll?”
A desperate whimper left you, your body shivering under his touch. You pressed your folded forearms beneath your chest, arching your back in an attempt to save your bruised ribs from the unforgiving metal table.
Then, at last, he pressed into you.
A gasp tore from your throat, your body instinctively tensing as he stretched you open. The intrusion was thick and slow, overwhelming at first, your cunt clenching down against the pressure of him. Your teeth sank into the flesh of your thumb, muffling the choked moan that threatened to spill free. Bucky cursed under his breath, withdrawing just enough before easing back in, working you open with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Ya like this, don’t ya?” His voice was low and strained, his grip tightening on your hips as he pinned you in place. The firm drag of him inside you sent sparks of heat flooding through your veins. “Like me claimin’ you? Like knowin’ I’d fuckin’ tear through them bastards just to keep ya safe?”
A broken moan left you, your body trembling against the metal. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as he set a steady rhythm, each thrust pressing you further against the table. The slick, filthy sounds of your bodies moving together filled the empty warehouse, the echo of skin meeting skin mixing with your ragged breaths.
Bucky groaned, his hands wrapping around your hips as he rocked into you harder, deeper, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. Your mind swam, the bruising grip of his fingers the only thing tethering you to reality.
“Tell me, doll.” His voice was rough, a demand wrapped in silk and sin. His hips snapped forward, driving into you so deep it left you gasping. “Tell me how much you want this.”
“Please—” The word came out in a small, needy sob, your voice trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.
Bucky growled, a deep, guttural sound. One of his hands abandoned your waist, sliding up the length of your back before tangling in your hair. His fingers twisted into the strands, yanking your head back with a sharp tug. A strangled moan burst from your lips, your back arching instinctively. Your nails scraped against the metal table, searching for purchase as he fucked into you harder, faster.
The steady, brutal rhythm of his hips grew relentless. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. A filthy symphony of desperate moans, ragged breathing, and the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into you echoed. Bucky groaned, the sound low and primal as he chased his release. His grip on your hip was vice-like, anchoring you in place as he pounded into you without mercy. You could only hope Sam and Steve weren’t lingering nearby to hear the sinful chorus of your pleasure.
A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body tensed, pleasure spiking hot and fast through your veins. Your legs trembled beneath you, knees nearly buckling as your orgasm coiled, threatening to snap.
Then he tugged your hair again, the sting mingling with the pleasure in a dizzying rush, and you came undone.
Your cunt clenched around his cock, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your body spasmed beneath him. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure flooding through you in rolling waves. Wetness dripped down your inner thighs, evidence of your release slicking his length as he fucked you through the aftershocks.
Bucky let out a deep, shuddering moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you into bliss. His grip on you tightened, his cock pulsing as he spilt inside you, filling you with hot, thick ropes of cum. He kept thrusting, his movements growing erratic, chasing the last remnants of pleasure as he wrung out every drop of ecstasy.
His fingers slowly uncurled from your hair, his grip loosening as the tension drained from his body. You collapsed against the table, breathless and spent. You lay motionless beneath him, allowing him to use you as he rode out the final waves of his release, his heavy breaths mingling with yours.
Gods, you were going to need to take an anti-pregnancy potion after this.
A/N: Hello! This is the prologue to a new Bucky series I have been thinking of and drafting. It will be full of angst, some mystery, and drama. It will be told mostly from Reader's POV, but the prologue starts with Bucky. There will be descriptions of smut, war, and grief in later chapters and I will update warnings as they come.
I am really excited to get back into writing, and hope you enjoy it!
Warnings: Character death mentioned
Prologue
Prince James lifts another haystack onto the pile and adds a target to it. The varying heights of hay piles should make good target practice for training archers. He wipes sweat from his forehead and starts discarding any faulty arrows. From afar, Duke Steve approaches in haste, his pale cheeks a rosy red.
“What now?” James says over his shoulder and continues prepping the space. He shoots one arrow high into a tree, pinning a leaf. The student who can land another arrow pinning the leaf will get a prize. It may take them weeks, but that’s what practice is for.
“Your parents request your presence. They’ve received a letter from Eldoria,” Steve finally reaches the prince. James pauses for a moment, and Steve whispers, “with the king’s signet.”
James doesn’t hesitate much after that. As some of the young teens begin arriving for practice he tells another trainer to take over. He covers his dirty outer wear with his clean tunic and begins marching to the castle.
James barely smiles at the commoners he passes on the way. He stops briefly when a baker insists he take a sample from a tray. He has to admit it is a great pastry and takes an extra piece as he strides away. James, Steve and the guards make an even quicker walk, Steve now opting to lead them down the less populated streets.
“Alright. Are they in the counsel room?” James ties his hair back. He knows his mother hates how it falls forward. She complains it conceals his “beautiful eyes.” He swears she’ll try to cut it in his sleep.
“No, your father’s study,” Steve waves to the guardsman.
“Your highness,” another guard bows as James approaches the front gates. He continues past the courtyard, the grand rooms and takes stairs two at a time. Everything blurs in the cold stone hallways of the castle, but James stops when he reaches the door with his family crest painted onto the wood.
“What's he like? Their king?” Steve startles the prince. James is thankful for his best friend. They’re good at reading each other. Even though they made it here, and James knows his parents are waiting, he’s not ready to open the door.
“He’s firm. Strategic. Incredibly smart. He knew about so many things. But, he was warm,” James in a moment remembers the King of Eldoria. He visited only a few times before James turned 14. Steve was usually away with his illnesses at that time and James was left to wander the castle grounds alone.
He remembers one night, slipping his way into the library, the candle in his hand guiding him as he avoided tables and chairs. What struck him though was the low light at the end of one of the seating areas. He thought everyone should be in bed and as he turned to slip away, a voice spoke. One he recognized from the meetings his father let him sit in on.
“You’d get along well with my son. He too likes to sneak around at night,” with a deep chuckle, “and he too is terrible at it. I practically heard you stomping your way here.”
James doesn’t know if he should pretend to not be there, or if he should step forward. Maybe he can trick the king into thinking no one is there by slipping behind a desk.
“Come on boy. Your move,” he hears the leather of a chair squeak as the king moves. No, he can’t pretend he’s invisible.
James takes steps forward and finds the king sitting at a chess board. One piece is moved and the king closes the book he was reading. He gives the young boy a smile and pushes a plate of bread and cheese forward as well. James narrows his eyes, and an idea blooms in his calculating teenage mind.
“If I win, will you not tell my parents I’ve been sneaking after bed?” James sits and moves his next piece. This makes the king fully laugh but he agrees. James doesn’t win, but he’s also never scolded by his mother that week.
Steve clears his throat and brings James to the present, “Then, everything is and will be fine. He’s a good king.” James nods, twists the doorknob, and leaves Steve in the hallway.
King George sits at his desk with his Queen. They both whisper back and forth, but immediately quiet at their son’s entrance.
“Sorry, I ran here and I didn’t think to knock,” he approaches his father’s desk and takes the seat next to his mother.
“That’s alright, darling,” she kisses his cheek and brushes a strand of hair away from his face.
“This just arrived. Your name is also on it,” King George hands over a thick envelope, “Would you open it for us, James?” He watches the boy—the young man—break the seal of the letter. The foreign king’s golden signet glimmers in the firelight reminding him that Eldoria is one of the most powerful countries and influential families.
“And? What does it say?” he asks after minutes of silence.
“I’m invited to some tournaments and they’re hosting a series of balls?” James looks at his parents, confused. He looks to the back of the page to see intricate designs and an outline of the powerful island country.
“Oh, George,” Winnefred holds her fisted hand to her mouth. She looks paler than before, and she seems to shiver slightly.
“What?” James asks his parents again as they argue with their eyes. His mother lets out a huff that seems to win his father over. With a sigh, his father runs his hands down his face, and James waits for one of them to speak.
“ A few weeks ago, we received a letter from the kingdom of Sokovia,” a pause as he contemplates how to say the next part, “Their heir, Theo Maximoff was killed by spies from Hydralifax. It was terrible. Not many came out of the ambush alive.” Before he can continue, James furrows his brows and interrupts.
“Weeks ago? Why are you just now telling me?” James knows it’s rude to interrupt his father, but this information is huge. A future king killed in his own territory? Not just killed but ambushed.
“We are still figuring out what this means for us,” his father rubs his forehead ignoring the storm brewing inside his son.
“Father, if I’m the next king, I should be there helping figure out what this means! Not kept in the dark! How else am I supposed to learn to lead?” His father snaps up from his chair and leans towards his son.
“Because it may mean war, boy! Is that the news you want to hear? Is that what you want to be a part of? I wanted to shield you from it until we were sure,” his father never raised his voice so James and Winnefred sit silent and shocked by the outburst. He doesn’t contradict his father. As his father begins pacing, James tries to piece together why this invitation to a ball has his father choosing now to share about possible war.
He thinks back on all his tutoring, his father’s lessons, the counsel sessions he’s sat in, and the strategy training he’s had. One lesson from his history tutor years ago rushes forward. A leatherbound book decorated with golden leaves and roots. He remembered it, “The Great Book of Great Houses.” He had to memorize each kingdom and family so whenever he met one he could address them properly.
He remembers the curled lettering, Eldoria: King Leonardo and Queen Anorra Stark with son Prince Anthony and Princess Y/N. Your portrait was beautiful; James didn’t know if the artist took extra liberty, but something in your eyes glimmered and drew him in. Then he remembered the dotted line by your name. A dotted line that led to the name Theo Maximoff.
The dead prince.
Your betrothed.
“If he’s dead, and Eldoria is holding a royal gathering…” James lets the sentence hang.
“Eldoria is searching for a new marriage arrangement,” his mother picks up.
“A firm alliance, for what is to come,” George completes. He watches the flames in the fireplace as his wife begins fretting over what James will have to wear, say, and do to win your attention.
James lets her pick, prod, and pull him out the door. Steve stands at attention noticing his friend’s despondent demeanor. The Queen calls for the royal tailor and some guards immediately begin moving. Before the door closes, James catches one more glimpse of Goerge, head low, and hand firmly gripping the hilt of a sword resting against the fireplace.
SUMMARY: You and Steve broke up, but life as an assassin for SHIELD goes on, no matter how grueling. little did you know, Steve was suffering too, and reality is far from how it appears.
CW: MDNI 18+, smut, breakups, protective!Steve, assassin work, mentions of blood and death, Steve is a bit of a munch (but he still tops you), happy ending
AN: inspired by "I Can Do It With A Broken Heart" by Taylor Swift from her album The Tortured Poets Department.
divider by @saradika-graphics
Steve left you on a random Tuesday afternoon. No fanfare, no warning, no discussion. He barely even looked at you when he shattered your heart.
In the two years you'd known him, and the six months you loved him, you'd never seen him so callous. He'd looked at motorcycles with more affection than he looked at you in that moment.
You didn't understand, couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. Your relationship was over, and your life felt like a held breath ever since.
He said he'd love you all his life, but for a man that's been alive for a century, six months was barely a blip. You were barely a blip.
But you couldn't dwell, couldn't break down like you wanted to, because you were one of the top assassin's at SHIELD, and missions didn't care about your feelings.
So you were sent out into the field, day after day, week after week, with a smile on your face and your shoulders thrown back, never ever missing your mark. And still, SHIELD demanded more of you.
Fortunately, you could do it with a broken heart.
“Agent L/N, report to Fury’s office for assignment,” the earpiece in your ear crackled to life, jarring you from the workout you were pretending to do.
“Another one? Seriously?” Nat said, looking up from the squat rack, sweat glistening along her hairline.
You shrugged. “The fun never stops,” you said with a half-hearted smile, and she rolled her eyes, returning to her reps.
As quick as you could, you pulled an oversized hoodie over your sports bra and retied your ponytail, which has fallen into sweaty disarray during your workout.
Normally, you'd change into your suit, but when Fury called, he didn't like to be kept waiting.
You take the elevator direct to his office, and when the doors roll open, you're greeted by Nick Fury, Sergeant Barnes, and, of course, the back of Steves head.
His hair has grown a little longer since you were together, and your fingers itched to run through it, to scratch his scalp in the way that makes his dark lashes flutter, to tug on his roots in the way that makes him groan low in his throat…
You shook yourself and slapped on a smile. “Good morning, Nick,” you chirped, sauntering into the room.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, offering as close to a smile as he could manage. “Have a seat.”
You perched on the edge of Bucky’s table, and he gave you a stiff nod in greeting . Steve didn't look up from the open file in front of him, but you could tell by the angle of his shoulders that he wasn't happy.
Nausea twisted in your stomach, your heart splintering a bit further, but you kept your expression pleasant.
“Would it kill you two to be a little more cheerful?” Fury quipped, and Bucky snorted. “Could all use a little more sunshine around here.” Fury winked at you, and you winked back.
Steve’s fingers tightened on the file, but you chalked it up to its contents.
“Little Miss Stabs-a-lot seems to be managing just fine for all of us,” Bucky said, his voice dry even though his eyes were smiling.
That's you, managing just fine.
Fury chuckled and passed you a similar file to Steves. “Your target is Lugoff Isaacson, HYDRA weapons director.”
You flipped through the file, finding a laundry-list of diabolical misdeeds, as well as a number of altercations with the two men beside you.
“Dinosaur’s couldn't hack it?” You teased, but only Nick laughed.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Isaacson lives like a hermit, and the only people allowed in his company are fellow HYDRA agents—” Nick paused, bracing his hands on the desk. “And pretty women.”
You heard Steve's teeth grind together, and Bucky glanced over at him, but you kept your eyes on your boss. “When do I leave?” You asked, already rising.
“Nick, she can't go in there with Isaacson alone,” Steve snapped, pushing the file away from him. His voice was rough and low, menacing, and it sent a chill up your spine.
“She certainly can,” Nick rebuffed. “Unless you want to go with her?”
Steve glared at Nick, so sharp it was practically lethal, but didn't say another word.
You felt like he stomped your heart beneath his boot, and were seized by the urge to fall at his feet and beg for a reason why he would do this to you. But instead, you flipped through the file, finding your orders in the back. “Flights at 2:30. I need to pack and get a blowout. I'll update when I land.” You tucked the file under your arm, blew Nick a kiss, and flitted back to the elevator, not sparing Steve a second glance.
He certainly wouldn't look back at you.
“How many is that this month?” You heard Bucky ask as the doors started to roll closed.
“15,” Fury answered, pride clear in his voice. “She's our most productive assassin to date.”
Steve's POV
“Don't give me that look, Rogers,” Fury droned, avoiding Steve's eye.
“She's not some goddamn chess piece you can just play however you want,” he bit, barely contained anger simmering underneath the surface. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his mouth shut during that meeting, to not grab you around the middle and run for the fucking hills.
The thought of Isaacson, that slimy rat laying a hand on you—it made Steve's mind bleed red with rage. He knew you could handle him, knew you'd make quick, clean work of the kill, but the things you'd have to endure to get that perfect opportunity…
He couldn't bear it.
“Thats exactly what she is,” Fury said, snatching the file from in front of Steve. “It's what you all are.”
Bucky scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, and Steve rose from his chair, bracing his hands on the table to lean into Fury’s smug face.
“I'm done playing your fucking games. And if you think I won't take her and leave, then you don't know me very well,” he growled.
Bucky got to his feet, metallic arm flexing as tensions mounted.
“Oh, I know you, Cap. I know you'll do whatever you need to do, move wherever the fuck I want you to move, so she stays on the damn board. Right?”
Steve grit his teeth. “And when we leave, whose going to come after us? Him?” He gestured to Bucky. “Nat? Thor? Quill? Whose it gonna be?”
Fury narrowed his eye.
“Because here's the thing you've never understood. Without us, there is no fucking SHIELD. You broke us up so she'd be free to your dirty work right? Without my interference?”
Fury scoffed and went to back away, but Bucky was standing directly behind him, blocking any escape route.
“She likes it—”
“It's killing her.” Steve cut him off. “When's the last time she had a day off? A vacation? A job that wasn't too hard for another agent, but too low profile to send us? Hm? Call her fucking sunshine while your burying her alive.”
“Steve,” Bucky warned, and the table cracked beneath Steve's hands.
“It ends now. Either SHIELD takes care of her, or I do.” Steve pushed off the desk and stormed out of the room, taking the stairs to get to the control room faster.
Nat was already there. “She just got to her apartment. Steve, she's—”
“I want eyes on her 24/7, and a team waiting to deploy within twenty miles of Isaacson bunker,” he ordered.
A chorus of ‘yessir’s’ answered him, and he sunk down in the vacant swivel chair, steepling his fingers as he watched the entrance to your apartment building, a SHIELD van idling just outside.
“Cap, listen.” Nat leaned against the control panel beside him. “This has to end, before she fucks up.”
“I know—”
“No, you don't. At this level of burnout, one misstep and that's it.”
“I know!” He barked, and the surveillance workers all jumped. “I'm fixing this. I just need a little more time.”
“She might not have time.” Nat pushed off the panel. “It might not be this mission, but it could be the next one, or the next. Stop being a fucking coward and fix it before it's too late.” She stormed off, leaving Steve staring at the monitors, his heart in his throat.
He was going to fix this. He had to fix this, before he lost you for good.
You hurried out of your apartment, dressed in slacks and blouse, wrapped up in a leather trenchcoat. The driver jumped out to greet you and took your bag, and you slipped into the backseat.
He flipped the camera to the car feed, a wonky fisheye from the dashboard, and saw you check your mascara in the mirror, faint smudges of black under your eyes, your nose kissed pink.
You'd been crying.
“I'm gonna fix it, baby,” he muttered to himself, wishing you could hear him somehow. “I promise.”
Reader's POV
You took out Isaacson without any issues, just smiled and tried to ignore the way he groped your thighs, ogled your tits. He made it too easy to slit his throat.
And as soon as you returned, there was another assignment, and another, and another, until you didn't even bother going home anymore. Which was well enough for you. You didn't care to sleep in the bed Steve held you in, or the couch you'd watched his favorite black and white movies on. Didn't care to eat in the kitchen where you taught him to make your mother's signature recipe, or shower in the stall he'd washed your hair in when you were sick. It was better to stay away from all the little reminders that you didn't imagine the whole thing.
You pretended to love being busy, treated every mission like a birthday gift, and pushed forward. Until, you were assigned to work at the Winter Gala.
SHIELD hosted the annual event as an excuse for the team to rub elbows with politicians, diplomats, and executives. You'd be masquerading as a guest, of course, but in reality you were on intel duty, eavesdropping on conversations and flirting trade secrets out of the most powerful people in the world.
One of the few perks of still being anonymous to the world.
You were dreading it. A night filled with romantic music, dancing, and drinks, watching Steve schmooze with women twice as wealthy and twice as powerful as you? You'd rather choke on your own dagger. But you were determined to look fabulous, a young woman in her glittering prime, and maybe you'd feel something besides emptiness.
Tony had a gorgeous ball gown sent to your apartment that probably cost more than your annual salary, and you spent three hours on your hair and makeup for the occasion, mainly because you kept crying it off. But at the last minute you steeled yourself and carpooled with Nat to Stark Tower.
She wolf whistled as you climbed into the car, looking downright stunning herself. “I know I'm not supposed to comment, but that fossil is going to lose his fucking mind.” She chuckled, tearing off down the street.
“Lose his mind?” You snorted inelegantly. “I can barely get a ‘hello’ out of him.”
Nat looked at you sidelong, the expression sharpened by her eyeliner. “And why do you think that is, babe?”
You didn't dare comment, didn't dare think about it. You'd never get through the night if you clung to a razor thin thread of hope.
The party was in full swing when you arrived, and you came in separately from Nat to forgo any suspicion. With a glass of champagne in hand, you circled the party, trying to tune out your own thoughts so you could absorb all the conversations going on around you.
But the noise completely stopped when your eyes met Steve's across the room.
He was dressed in an immaculately tailored Navy blue suit, with a crisp white shirt and brown leather loafers. His hair was styled back from his face, his beard freshly trimmed, and he was staring at you like hunter through a scope.
“Y/n, sweetheart, come with me for a moment,” Tony appeared to your left, startling you out of your reverie. “There's someone I want you to meet.” He winked, and you flashed a toothy smile, even though you felt like screaming.
“Lead the way, Mr. Stark,” you cooed, for the benefit of anyone in earshot.
Tony led you away, but you could feel Steve's eyes burning a hole in your back, tracking you through the crowd.
“Alex, this is Lydia, the daughter of a colleague of mine. You both attended Stanford!” Tony lied through his teeth to a handsome, dark haired gentleman, and you picked it up without delay.
“Oh, of course! It's such a pleasure to finally meet you!” You gushed, sliding onto the stool beside the stranger. “Tell me, what was your favorite time of year on campus?” You brushed your fingers along his forearm, noting the model of the Rolex on his wrist, the designer of his suit.
“Fall, of course. Can't beat those colors,” Alex grinned, and you fawned like it was the most ground breaking thing you'd ever heard.
Tony left you to it, and twenty minutes later you were tucked into a booth with Alex, his arm slung over your shoulders, and his phone face up and unlocked right in front of you. Oblivious to the way you scanned every message that came through.
Alex leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, and you had to swallow a shiver of revulsion. His hand came up to cup your cheek as you wracked you mind for a way out of this—
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Trevais, but I need to steal Lydia for a moment.” Nat appeared suddenly beside the table, looking smug, and Alex scowled.
“Right now? Really?” He argued.
“I'm afraid so.” Nat batted her lashes and Alex immediately caved.
“Fine, I'll see you later then?” He winked, alluding to the room key he slipped into your bag a few minutes prior.
“Perhaps.” You winked back, playing coy, and he grinned like a fool. “What's going on?” You hissed as Nat led you out of the party and down an dark, empty hall. "I was in the middle of something—"
“You'll see,” she whispered back, stopping at a door and doing a quick sweep before pulling it open and ushering you inside.
The door slammed shut behind you.
“Nat, what—”
The lights came on in the room, dim and golden to reveal the luxurious study you were standing in, all black leather and granite, shelves of books and expensive furniture.
But you barely registered any of that, because Steve Rogers was waiting for you by the window. Moonlight kissed his face, highlighting the flawless angles on his bone structure, and your mouth ran dry, your heart falling through the floor.
“Uh, is there a problem, Captain Rogers?” You asked, propping up the professional barrier despite the urge to launch yourself at him, the need to kiss him, or strangle him, pushing against the underside of your skin.
When he looked at up you, the air was sucked from the room. His eyes were stormy, fogged with sorrow, water collecting on his lower lashes.
“You really have turned espionage into an art form,” he chuckled, his voice thick with emotion. “Like you're having the time of your life.”
You stared at him, dumbfounded.
“But that's not true, is it? You're as miserable as I am.”
You shook your head. “I—I’m fine.”
He huffed a laugh, pushing off the window sill. “You put on a good act, honey. But I can tell when you're performing.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, indignation flaring in your gut. “What do you want, Steve? You haven't spoken to me in months.”
He grimaced, a look of genuine pain crossing his face. “Y/n, I—”
“You disappeared for two weeks after dumping me out of the blue. You refuse to take missions within a hundred miles of me. You won't even train at the same time." You were yelling, unable to stop once you started. You'd kept it all bottled up for so long, there was no forcing it back now. "You've barely looked at me, Steve! It's like we never happened, like I made it all up in my head!”
“Because it was killing me!” He shouted back, and you flinched, tears pricking behind your eyes. You could count on one hand the amount of times Steve Rogers raised his voice, and it was never at you.
“You left me!” You yelled, your voice cracking at the edges.
“Because I had no choice! They gave me no choice.”
Your stomach dropped. “W-what?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his composure. “Fury, SHIELD, they threatened to send you overseas if I didn't. To some desolate base in Russia.”
You couldn't believe what you were hearing. This couldn't be real. “Steve, that doesn't make sense—”
“You really think I would leave you like that? That I would just throw away what we had? I was trying—” his voice caught in his throat. “I thought I was protecting you. But they lied to me.”
You were shaking your head, backing away. You couldn’t take any more empty words, any more bullshit—
Steve rushed toward you, catching your face in his large hands before you could turn away. “Baby, listen to me,” he said, softening. “They wanted me out of the way so you would be more likely to do whatever they wanted. When we were together, we were working less, we were happier, we cared about something that wasn't SHIELD, and they couldn't stand it.”
“But Fury—”
“Is a manipulative fuck that took advantage of your broken heart.” You gasped at his language, usually reserved for sex or intense fighting. Steve lowered himself to his knees, his hands gripping the curve of your waist and shaking you. “I need you to believe me, honey. I'm begging you. I would never have done this if I knew the truth. I'm so sorry for hurting you, and I wish I could take it back. But I can't, all I can do is tell you the truth.”
“You didn't want to leave me?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course not.” He rested his forehead on your belly, drawing a shaky breath before looking up at you again, pleading with big, blue, watery eyes. “I-I love you. And I agreed because I was terrified to lose you completely but then I—I did anyways because I'm a fucking coward.”
You wiped a tear from his cheek with your thumb, the last of your trepidation falling away. “I love you too, Stevie,” you said, and he surged upwards, slamming his mouth to yours in a ruinous, bone-melting kiss.
He parted your lips with his tongue, possessing your mouth in a display of dominance you rarely saw from him. He licked along your teeth, groaning low in his throat as you dug your nails into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. He tasted like black coffee and something sweet, like he'd hit the dessert table instead of the bar, and it made your heart flip.
God, you'd missed him.
Your lungs screamed for air, an affliction super soldiers didn't contend with, and you were forced to break the kiss to breathe.
“Cameras?” You panted, craning your head back as Steve planted wet, open-mouth kisses down your jugular.
“This is Fury's personal study. No cameras,” Steve mumbled against the peak of your shoulder, his hands all over you.
You scoffed. “Of course, because he can have priv—”
“Forget about him.” Steve captured your lips again, and you nipped at his lower lip for cutting you off. He backed you against the desk, breaking the kiss to toss you up onto it.
“Forgotten,” you replied, breathless as you looked into his eyes.
“I haven't told you how beautiful you look yet, have I?” He asked, leaning back a bit to take you in, your chest heaving against the deep plunge of your dress, lips kiss-stung and eyes bright.
You shook your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder with a smirk.
“I love this color on you,” he murmured, rubbing the hem of your dress between his thumb and index finger. And your makeup—”
“Steve.” You grabbed him by the lapel and tugged him closer, bringing his face down towards yours. A flare of arousal twinged between your legs, you loved when he let you manhandle him. “I know you're trying to be a gentleman and not fuck me without some proper flirting, but it's been months. I need you.”
Steve smiled, leaning forward to lay you back on the desk. “You don't need me, honey,” he hummed, kissing down your sternum while his hands moved your dress up your legs. He looked up at you when he settled between your thighs. “You've proven that you're a force all on your own. And that's okay, you don't have to need me, as long as you want me.”
You nibbled your lower lip, processing his words. He was right, you'd proven that you could live through heartbreak, that you didn't need him to carry on. And as much as it hurt, and as much as you missed him, there was something liberating in that knowledge.
“So, do you want me?” He asked, grazing his thumb over the gusset of your panties, maddeningly light.
“Yes, I want you,” you answered, threading your fingers through his blond hair and urging him forward.
He chuckled, smiling up at you, then pulled your panties to the side with his middle finger and flattened his tongue against your slit, licking a firm stripe up your pussy. Your head fell back onto the desk when he sucked your clit between his teeth, wasting no time in his pursuit of your pleasure.
Steve, for all his propriety and politeness, loved nothing more than feasting on your pussy. He was sloppy with it, rough and self-indulgent, as if making up for the decades he went without it. He often stayed until you were overstimulated and orgasmed-out, weakly trying to push his head from between your legs while he lapped up the mess you made for him.
“Missed you so damn much,” he mumbled against your pussy, eyes fluttering closed as he drove his tongue into your entrance.
“Missed you,” you whined, your hips bucking up into his mouth as he devoured you, lashing every one of your sweet spots with expert precision.
His hands tightened on your hips while he massaged your clit with his tongue, and even that fraction of his real strength was enough to leave a dull ache. The reminder of his true strength made your head spin, your mind empty. You may not need him, but there was something thrilling about being able let go while you were with him. Trusting that he would keep you safe and you could just be.
He licked one last stripe up your pussy before pulling back, kissing his way up your body. “Baby, I need you,” he mumbled, nosing into your neck. You could feel just how badly from the ridge beneath his trousers, his hips rocking slightly into yours. “Please, can I fuck you?” He asked, unlatching his belt with a flick of his wrist, and a shiver rolled up your spine at the desperation in his voice.
“You want to fuck me?” You repeated, toying with him. You reached between your bodies and pulled out his cock, thick and long and flushed, and pumped it once, twice, smearing precum down his shaft.
He moaned, hot and breathy against your skin. “I know I hurt you, and I still have to make up for that, but I just—fuck, I need to feel you. Please, please let me make you come on my cock.”
“Just start slow,” you cooed, petting his cheek when he lifted his head in excitement. “Been awhile since I took you.” You glided his cockhead through your folds, his breath hitching when you notched it at your drooling entrance.
Gently, he eased his hips forward, sliding in one inch, then another. "Shit, honey. Have a little mercy," he panted, his muscles bulging against the fabric of his shirt, tendons in his neck flexing.
You groaned, releasing his cock to grab hold of his shoulders, nails biting into his shirt at the stretch, bright and burning.
“Gotta relax, baby. Let me in.” He gently guided you thigh up and around his waist, squeezing the fat of your haunch in reassurance. He moved a little deeper, and you both gasped when your walls clenched around him. “So goddamn tight,” he rasped, drawing his hips back a bit, assuaging some of the discomfort before easing back inside, coaxing your muscles to loosen for him.
“Fuck, Steve,” you panted when he pushed a little deeper, your eyes rolling back in your head when he grazed your g-spot.
“Almost there, doll. You can do it,” he encouraged, reaching up to hold your face. He caught your gaze, smiling a little when your eyes struggled to stay focused, lashes fluttering. “Starting to feel good?”
You nodded, pleasure spilling through you as your body accepted him inch by inch, until finally, you felt his pelvis press against yours.
“There we go,” he purred, leaning down to kiss your forehead, your cheek, giving you a few more seconds to adjust. “Good girl, takin’ all that cock.”
He ground into you, stifling a fractured moan against your shoulder when your pussy made an obscene squelching sound, dripping wet for him. You were on another planet, tingling head to toe as waves of pleasure crested. Every beat of your heart had you clenching around him, full to splitting, and you wanted more.
“Please, baby, need more,” you whined, trying to rock your hips against his, but he was too heavy for you to do much.
He braced his hands on either side of your head, sweeping his eyes down your body as you squirmed beneath him. He chuckled, the sound low and almost malicious. “Need more?"
He drew his hips back and delivered a punishing thrust, two, three, five, until you were all but screaming, unable to do anything but lay there and take everything he gave you.
"How's that for more?" He asked, his cock brutalizing your cervix and stretching you beyond your limits, molding your pussy to the shape of his cock. Ruining you with a fervor that made your head spin.
Your peak was rapidly approaching, winding tighter and tighter with every thrust until you were half-mad with desperation, clawing at his forearms by your head and leaving pink, raised lines across his flesh.
“Gonna come for me, baby? God, I missed this little pussy—feels so good,” he grated, bringing one of his hands down to circle to your clit, firm and deliberate. Exactly what he knew you needed. “That's my good girl. C'mon, I’m right there with you—” Another thrust and he sent you both flying over the edge, sparks exploding behind your eyes as the orgasm ravaged your body, flaying you open.
You grabbed onto his arm, desperate for something to ground you as you soared, his hips still thrusting erratically as he pumped you full of his release.
Crack!
The desk suddenly tilted beneath you and Steve whisked you up into his arms, still buried inside you. You clung to him in shock as the desk collapsed to floor, sending all of Fury's belongings scattered across the carpet.
"Are you alright?" He asked, searching your face.
You nodded, easing your grip on him.
Steve adjusted you, lifting and lowering you onto his cock, and you gasped, still sensitive from the lingering orgasm, and mildly shocked by his lack of reaction to what you'd just done.
“Steve, we—”
“We did,” he hummed, kissing along your neck as he caught his breath, lazily working you over his length to wallow in the last dregs of pleasure. “And if he has a problem, he can take it up with me.”
“I think he's going to have a problem,” you snickered, and Steve smiled.
“And I'll deal with it.” He eased himself out of you and set you on your feet, straightening your panties and pressing a tender kiss to your lips. You felt like you were floating in a dream, in disbelief that you had your Steve back, that he never really was gone in the first place.
“How are you going to deal with it?” You asked after righting your dress and he had tucked himself back into his trousers.
Steve pulled you back into his arms, like even that moment of separation was more than he could bear. “Depends on how much of a problem he has,” he replied, smirking. “I told you, forget about him. I'll handle it for us.”
Us. Your knees went a little weak at the word. “Yes, Captain,” you replied rising on your toes to kiss his cheek.
Thank you so much for reading!
Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. My inbox is open for requests, check my pinned post for fandoms & characters!
Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU
gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader
Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 6.2k
A/N: hi!! just wanted to say thank you all so much for the love on the last chapter and sticking with me!! i know i hadn't posted in forever with being busy with uni and all so it really made me happy that people still remembered this fic. this chapter (once again) was supposed to cover a lot more but i got carried away lol, so instead i'm posting this half and then the next half soon once i have it properly written up. anyway!! please enjoy!! sorry for any typos - not proof read.
taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love
main masterlist | series masterlist
Gertrude Crowley was a nervous woman.
It was the first thing you noticed about her; her movements were hesitant, as though she feared drawing too much attention. In the dim light, you noticed her face—worn, yes, but not aged beyond her years. Lines of worry etched her brow and framed her mouth. Her greying hair, streaked with darker remnants of its original chestnut hue, was hastily pinned beneath a weathered black scarf, frazzled tufts poking through the holes strewn throughout the fabric.
“Tea, Ms. Crowley?” You asked the woman. Despite your soft tone, the woman jumped in her seat, hand raising to her bosom as she took in a sharp breath.
“I suppose, Dear.” She squeaked in reply
You gave the older woman a reassuring smile, hoping to calm her fears. Her pale blue eyes darted away quickly, revealing a haunted expression. They glanced at you briefly, then withdrew as if frightened by what they might find. She fidgeted with her hands, the frayed edges of her gloves exposing trembling fingers.
“Tea is good for the soul, don’t you think?” You hummed to her softly, your upper half bent over your kitchen table, and you poured the steaming liquid into two cups. You hoped the woman wouldn’t comment on how the ceramic was chipped; the painted flowers faded from years of use. “Always so cold in The Warrens, it warms you up from the inside.”
Ms Crowley nodded stiffly, teacup rattling against its matching plate as she held it in trembling hands. You took a brief moment to observe her, eyes searching her appearance. Her clothing was plain but serviceable—a dark woollen cloak that hung unevenly over her frame, its hem damp and muddied from the streets. Beneath it, a simple grey dress fitted her modestly, cinched at the waist with a cracked but sturdy belt. A brass locket hung around her neck, glinting faintly when she shifted. Though practical and well-worn, her boots carried scuffs deep enough that you questioned if the dark fabric was her socks beneath.
She took a hesitant sip from her cup and looked up at you with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Thank you, dear.”
You settled into your seat, dragging your cup across the table's woodgrain. “How can I be of assistance?”
Ms Crowley hesitated, her lips thinning into a line as she contemplated a response. You wisely decided to allow her some space, and the steaming liquid cupped in your palm suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world.
The older woman stumbled over her words, once, twice, thrice before finally settling on a simple, “I..I have never met a witch before.”
You smiled down into your cup, elbows resting on the table as you slowly looked up at her through a strand of loose hair that had fallen across your forehead. “I think you will find witches are alike most people you would meet—just like any stranger you would pass on the street.”
She peered across the table—as if testing your own words against you. Her tired, pale blue eyes squinting as she examined you from head to toe. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right. And I suppose I should trust you. I ‘ave been told most witches are trustworthy.”
“We are.” You state simply, only pausing to take a sip from your cup. The warm liquid fills your belly, a soft hum escaping your throat as you tilt you head in thought. “We’re salesmen, in a way, sellin’ our wares. There will always be scam artists, a few among the many, but most of us are just makin’ ends meet.”
The older woman contemplates your words. She takes a sip, a long one, then nods in affirmation. “You’re right. I should have some faith.”
“Now, Ms. Crowley, how can I help you?” You query once again.
“Well… I don’t know how this all works…”
“Just tell me what troubles you. From the start, if possible.”
Before she could speak, the door creaked open behind you, breaking the fragile quiet that had settled over the room. The sound was faint, yet it resonated through the stillness like the tolling of a distant church bell. Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around the chipped teacup as a wave of unease swept through you. The air seemed heavier, colder—an unspoken warning curling down your spine.
“Spirit-raiser.”
That voice. Gravelly, familiar. Unwelcome. You sucked in a sharp breath, though it felt as though your ribcage had suddenly shrunk two sizes too small for your organs. The bruises still present across your abdomen ached as every muscle in your body tensed, a tangled knot of shock electrifying your nerves. But beyond that, beyond the anger and disbelief, there was a feeling far more treacherous: relief.
He returned.
Your head whipped around, posture immediately straightening as though your spine was a pole made of steel. There he was—Bucky Barnes, leaning in the doorway like he owned the place, his sharp, stormy eyes swept over you, then flicked briefly to Ms. Crowley, whose face drained of colour. The woman looked ready to bolt, her hands clutching the table's edge as if it might anchor her in place. You couldn’t blame her. A woman already so anxious over the idea of magic she had positively turned green the moment she entered your flat. Now she was face to face with the dreaded Bucky Barnes, the fucking menace of the Sootstone? Many in The Warrens likely hadn’t seen the man in person, maybe at a distance, or knew him through whispered tales. You certainly hadn’t encountered the man until he came crashing into your life, smog and all.
“Bucky,” you said, his name slipping out before you could catch it. A string of curses nearly left your tongue along with it. How bittersweet could it be that despite all the hurt you felt, you still called him by a name so familiar? Too familiar. The taste of it burned on your tongue. Your heart slammed into a furious rhythm as what could only be described as a smirk graced his lips. How could he act like he hadn’t vanished from your life without so much as a goodbye?
How could he turn up here and act like all was well and normal?
It had hurt when he had left; yes, that was to be expected. But these past few days, he had avoided you. At least, it felt like avoidance. You hadn’t heard a word from the Smog Boys since your beating at the hand of the Iron Rats, not even a whisper on the sharp winds that rolled in from the dock. Natasha would have told him. In what world would she not have told Bucky that his pet witch had missed the summons because she was trembling, bloodied and bruised on her own floor?
You had convinced yourself that maybe it was for the better, an escape from Becca’s wrath and escape from the Smog Boys…
“I’m busy.” The words escaped you before you could think.
He raised his brows in disbelief. Your toes curled in their boots, cringing at your own blunt tone. But then again, had he just expected everything to return to normal?
“I need’a favour.” He stepped further into the room, his boots thudding against the floorboards as he surveyed the space with casual indifference. His gait was smooth, gaze unbothered. A morbid part of you wished you could inspect his back and see the damage you caused. It didn’t seem to bother him or impede his movements.
Ms. Crowley made a small, frightened noise, her trembling hands going to her locket as though it might ward off his presence. “I—perhaps I should come back later…”
“What’re you doin’ here?” you demanded, the words sharper than you intended, cutting over Ms. Crowley’s muttering.
“As I said, I need’a favour.”
Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you fought to keep your composure.
“A favour?” you repeated, the words dripping with scepticism. “After everythin’, you show up here and ask for a favour?”
Ms. Crowley flinched at the tone of your voice, but you couldn’t stop now. Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest crack in his facade of nonchalance.
“Watch it,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t want to push me.”
“And you don’t want to push me neither, Barnes,” You shot back, planting your hands on the table. “You don’t get to leave without so much as a ‘thank you’ and then show up here, actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”
“You say that, spirit-raiser, but…” He sucked on his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he looked down at you, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets as he sighed through his nose. “I just spent the last four days cleanin’ up your mess.”
Your brows drew inward, confusion slipping through. The entire time you had spent in misery, licking your wounds and nursing your broken heart, he had been out there defending you?
A devilish expression crossed his face. “You really thought you could, what? Walk on over to Grimrow unnoticed while under my protection? Do you realise how long it has taken me to talk the Rat King down from marching over the Sootline and wagin’ war ‘cause of you?”
“They crossed the Sootline. They pursued me.” You rebutted, though even your voice wavered, unsure.
“Yeah.” His head tilted, eyes squinting. “You better be praisin’ whatever fuckin’ witch god you follow, 'cause that little fuck up on their end is the only reason why you’re still here playin’ good little spirit-raiser.”
You swallowed. Hard.
“They hurt me.” You confessed, voice steadying.
“Yeah, I know. Nat told me. Good thing your pretty little face has all healed up. That’s your only fuckin’ worth to me right now after all the trouble you’ve caused.” His words stung; maybe you would’ve believed them true. But you got the sense he was being harsh for the sake of venting frustrations. He wouldn’t even catch your eye as the insults rolled off his tongue.
For a moment, silence filled the room, thick with tension. You could feel Ms. Crowley’s gaze on you. Bucky’s jaw tightened, his posture stiffening as his eyes finally lifted and bore into yours. His expression was unreadable, a carefully laid mask to cover whatever real emotion raged behind his stormy blue eyes.
Then, to your surprise, Ms. Crowley’s feeble voice cut through the silence.
“I-I-I should go now—”
You whirled around.
“No,” you snapped, cutting her off before she could rise. Ms. Crowley froze, wide-eyed and trembling, her teacup rattling slightly in her unsteady hands. For a brief moment, you thought Bucky might let her stay, that he’d simply loom in the corner, his presence a warning but nothing more.
But then Bucky huffed a sharp breath, irritation flashing across his face as he shrugged out of his jacket.
“Get the fuck out,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument, his eyes sliding to meet the older woman's as you made a noise close to a whimper. “And keep your fuckin’ mouth shut about all this.”
Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, her gaze darting between the two of you. With a frightened nod, she scrambled to her feet, clutching her bag and locket close to her chest.
“Apologies. I ain’t sayin’ a thing. Not a word. I swear.” she stammered, her voice a whisper as she made a beeline for the door.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you turned to Bucky, a glare sharp enough to cut steel fixed on your face.
“You didn’t have to scare her off like that!” you snapped, grabbing the teacups and stalking toward the sink.
“A waste of fuckin’ time is what she was,” Bucky replied casually, his voice dripping with indifference.
“She was a client,” you shot back, setting the cups into the sink with more force than necessary. “A payin’ client. I need clients, Barnes.”
Bucky leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you. “You’re actin’ like I don’t pay you triple what they’re offerin’.”
You dipped your hands further into the soapy water, pressing your palms flat against the metal bottom as you sighed, momentarily closing your eyes in exasperation. “You don’t get to decide who’s worth my time. This is my place. My work. You can’t just—”
“I thought Nat was exaggeratin’,” Bucky cut over you, his voice low but carrying an edge that made your stomach churn.
You stiffened, your grip on the cup tightening. “Exaggeratin’ about what?”
“About this.”
Your eyes flew open as his hand caught your chin, tilting your face toward him with an infuriating gentleness. His thumb brushed over your jaw, skimming the faint bruise that lingered there, and his eyes narrowed as they traced the fading split in your lip. A shiver raced down your spine, and you jerked your head away, pulling free of his grasp.
“It’s nothin’,” you muttered, returning to the sink.
“Don’t look like nothin’,” he countered, his tone sharp. “Let me see the rest.”
You froze, your hands hovering over the sink. “No.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped, moving closer. His voice dropped, carrying a dangerous edge. “I need to see what they did to you.”
You shook your head, your pulse roaring in your ears. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
Bucky let out a low growl of frustration, and before you could react, his hand was on your shoulder, spinning you around to face him. His other hand went to your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt.
“Bucky, stop,” you protested, grabbing at his wrists. The soapy water made your hands slick, his skin slipping from your grasp. “This isn’t—”
“Quit fightin’ me,” he said sharply, his eyes flashing with something raw and unyielding. “I need to know.”
His words silenced you, leaving you to stare up at him in stunned disbelief. The fight drained out of you, replaced by a reluctant acceptance as you lifted your hands, a trail of water rolling down to your elbows. Your head dipped, staring down at his shoes as droplets dripped onto his boots. With a defeated sigh, you rested your palms on his chest, pressing the wet skin into his buttoned shirt until you could feel the warmth of his body. With a grunt, he tugged your blouse from where it was tucked into your shirt, ripping the fabric upward until it exposed your belly.
The air seemed to leave the room as his gaze fell on the mottled bruises that painted your abdomen, the angry purples and blues. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as his hand hovered over the worst of the damage, his fingers brushing against your side with an uncharacteristic hesitance.
You heard him swallow audibly, adam’s apple bobbing. A shiver ran down your spine as his thumb carefully ran up to your sternum, then across the band of your brassiere.
“How many ribs did you break?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
You sucked in a sharp breath as the hair across your body rose on end. Tingles blossomed across your skull as his hand swept down to the waistband of your skirt, tugging it down to inspect the damage still hidden.
“Three.”
His grunt of acknowledgement was quiet, but the tension dominating his frame was unmistakable. He stepped back abruptly, running a hand through his hair, tongue running over his bottom lip.
“Why didn’t you fight back?” The question gave you near vertigo.
“I did.” You lie through your teeth
The gangster shook his head, hands resting on his hips as he looked down at you.
“Bullshit. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I’ve felt it, doll.” Your gut clenched as he half motioned towards his back. “If you wanted to fight back, they would’ve been dead long before they touched you.”
You pause. He was right. He was entirely right. You hadn’t fought back because you were what? Dejected and defeated? Too swept up in your own pity? Living in your mother's shadow? Or was it just the shadow you had created for yourself?
“You’re punishin’ yourself, aren’t ya? Hm?”
“I’m not lyin’ Barnes—” You begin to speak, voice raising as hysteria begins to bubble within you. Why was he asking you these things? Why was he pretending to care?
“Why?” He cuts over you,
You turned away, refusing to respond. “I think you should leave now.”
He was silent for a beat. Then you heard the shuffle of clothing as he picked up his coat and swept it over his muscled shoulders. “I still need that favour.”
You sigh, an exaggerated noise as you spin to face him with a scowl. “What now? Can’t it wait?”
“You’re expected. At a meetin’.”
“Meetin’?” You echoed.
“About what happened. With the Iron Rats.”
“I thought you said you dealt with it—” You bite back, irritation flaring.
“Would you just shut your fuckin’ mouth for a second and listen?” Bucky cut over you, voice raised. You clamp your mouth shut in surprise.
“It’s the Rat King.” Bucky meets your gaze. “He wants to meet you.”
—
You would have never described Bucky Barnes as nervous, but the walk to the Sootline almost had you questioning that assumption. Bucky kept his pace steady, though you noticed the subtle clench of his jaw and the occasional twitch of his hand at his side. It wasn’t the demeanour of a nervous man—no, Bucky Barnes didn’t do nervous—but something unexplainable was simmering beneath the surface.
The streets of the Warrens were quieter than usual, the normal hum of life dampened. The sun had grown low in the sky, the usual grey fog warming to a diffused orange and pink glow. The cobblestones were slick beneath your boots, liquids you wouldn’t dare identify, leaving a sheen across the ground that reflected the faint glow of lanterns. You adjusted your coat, tucking it closer against the chill, and cast a sidelong glance at Bucky.
"Barnes, you alright?" you asked cautiously, breaking the silence. You weren’t one to pry, but the energy engulfing the gangster was strange.
“We’re late,” he muttered, his voice clipped.
You frowned, the sharpness of his tone needling at you. “Well, if you’d told me sooner than five minutes ago that I was needed—”
“And you would have come?.” His words were abrupt, cutting through your protest like a blade. “You do ‘ave a habit of ignorin’ my summons.”
Your jaw clamped shut, a heavy silence falling over the both of you. Further down the twisting, wonky street, you could see streetgoers dashing into nearby stores and homes. Above in the stacked homes that towered above the streets, faces cautiously peeked out, watching as Bucky and you marched past. You observed a group of three children ushered away by their mother, her tightly shutting the rickety window with a grim expression.
“It would be best if you kept your mouth shut during this. Only speak when spoken to. Just agree unless I say otherwise.” Bucky finally spoke, voice gruff.
“Why?” You pry, voice unsure.
“‘Cause I can’t help you if you say somethin’ stupid ‘n end up gettin’ yourself in more trouble.”
Your steps faltered, confusion flashing across your face. “Why do you suddenly care?”
His lip twitched, but he continued with his persistent gait. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You’re scarin’ me—”
“I have a reputation to uphold, spirit-raiser. Can’t have these rats thinkin’ I’ve gone weak ’cause of some bird.”
The words landed heavily, and you bit back the sting of their dismissal. “What does your reputation got to do with me?”
His stride didn’t falter, but his gaze flicked toward you, brittle and intense. “If I can’t protect you, then what’s to say I can protect the whole of The Warrens, huh? What’s to stop them from marchin’ over the Sootline?”
“So, what’s this, then? You strikin’ a deal, handin’ me over to them, actin’ like you don’t care so they don’t think you’re weak ‘cause of some bird?”
“If I wanted you dead, you’d have been dead a long time ago.” He huffed out in an empty laugh. He stopped abruptly, turning to face you. The weight of his stare rooted you in place. “No, doll, those rats… they fucked up.”
Your breath hitched in your throat as he continued, his voice low and deliberate, every word laced with venom. “I’m gonna get them to bend the fuckin’ knee. Show them whose the real fuckin’ King around here.”
—
The Sootline River separated the two territories like a jagged scar, its sluggish current carrying the city’s filth toward the sea. On either bank, the Smog Boys and Iron Rats assembled in tense lines, a mix of swagger and unease flickering across their faces. The lanterns they carried swayed, casting fragmented shadows on the water as the sun finally slipped beyond the horizon, coating the land in creeping darkness, its coffin-like suffocation only exaggerated by the smoke and ash from the Smokestacks.
Bucky stood at the river’s edge, his posture deceptively relaxed, his hands buried in his coat pockets. His gaze locked onto the figure across the river: Varlan Crey—The Rat King. Varlan was everything Bucky wasn’t—brash, loud, and lumbering, his bulk swathed in a tattered black coat with yellow stitching. His grin was wide, but his teeth were uneven, lending him the air of a predator more accustomed to snapping than scheming. His gang flanked him, a pack of diseased rats, restless and waiting for a signal.
“Barnes,” Varlan called, his voice carrying easily across the water, gravelly and full of mock cheer. “Shame we ain’t meetin’ unda different circumstances.”
“Varlan,” Bucky replied, his tone steady, almost clipped. He didn’t move a muscle, his stance radiating a nearly unbearable calm.
Varlan cocked his head, his smirk widening. “I’m guessin’ this is the bird in question?” He nodded towards you.
You froze under his scrutiny, your skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. The air seemed colder now, and your chest tightened as though the river’s chill had seeped into your bones.
Bucky gave a single, deliberate nod. “Yes.”
Varlan snorted softly. “A bird from The Warrens, crossing inta my territories ‘n causing a ruckus amongst my boys… you undastand how this looks bad, Barnes?”
Bucky didn’t flinch. His smooth and unhurried tone carried across the water like a blade. “I can. But it weren’t her that was causing the ruckus now, was it? I’m guessin’ these lies you’re tellin’ yourself are why you so recklessly declared war before examinin’ the facts.”
Varlan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. “Facts,” he repeated, shaking his head as though the word itself amused him. “You’re soundin’ more and more like them fancy wankers up in The Flower Districts, Barnes. Especially in those fine tailored suits a yours.”
A chorus of low laughter rumbled from the Iron Rats side of the bridge, the lines of men with their yellow handkerchiefs grinning amongst themselves.
“Oh, I can recommend you a tailor, Crey,” Bucky said lightly, his voice laced with faint amusement. “I know one who gives discounts for friends.”
It was now time for the Smog Boys to stir behind Bucky, muffled chuckles rippling through the crowd. A flicker of a smile ghosted across Bucky’s lips, though his gaze remained fixed on Varlan. With the subtle jab landed, Varlan bristled. His shoulders stiffened, and his smirk turned brittle. He barked a short laugh, more bark than humour.
“Well,” he said, his voice sharper now. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we?”
“Go ahead,” Bucky replied.
You glanced at him, searching for some clue about his thinking, but his expression gave away nothing. Beside you, the Smog Boys settled, hands tucked into their pockets and chests puffed out as they eyed the Iron Rats across the river. Their stillness wasn’t as practised as Bucky's. He held the type of quiet that preceded violence, the kind that made your stomach churn. As you scanned their faces, you noted how young some men were, barely out of boyhood. It might have been a cause for concern, but you knew many sought out Bucky’s leadership out of desperation. Their energy was much better placed under the guidance of someone like Bucky instead of them turning to the streets where their violence and frustration would run rampant. Regardless of their age or status, you had noticed one common theme among the Smog Boys—none were left unfed, and their clothes were always without holes. The same could not be said for other less fortunate souls who braved The Warrens alone.
“I admit,” Varlan began, dragging out the word with a performative sigh. “That I may ‘ave been… hasty. But ya can’t blame me, not with the information I was told.”
“I guess so,” Bucky replied simply.
Bucky’s lack of reaction agitated the larger man, a cross expression forming on his greasy face. Then his smirk returned, sly and serpentine. “Well, I am impressed by ya…little investigation. Touched a nerve, did it?”
A ripple of unease passed through you as Varlan Crey lifted his brows, head tilted to match his devious, wide-eyed expression. A subtle dig at Bucky’s involvement—or worse, his attachment to you? You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of both their gazes shift momentarily to you.
By some miracle, Bucky didn’t react to the provocation. Instead, his voice came low and steady. “I take it you spoke with the witch?”
You felt your face react before you could steel yourself, face scrunching in confusion. Witch? What witch was Bucky referring to? He certainly wasn’t referring to you—you had never met the Rat King before, let alone spoke with him about your misdeeds of crossing into his territories. In retrospect, with the gravity of the situation weighing upon you, it was a foolish assumption to make thinking you could walk into Grimrow unimpeded or unidentified. In recent months, it seemed everyone and anyone knew who you were before you knew them. It was as if you walked your life with a ginormous red hot brand across your forehead that simply said: Bucky Barnes!
“Spoke? Yes,” Varlan said, his voice emerging in a drawl. “Come ‘ere, girl.”
He turned slightly, and a figure emerged from the Iron Rats’ crowd.
Wanda.
Wanda.
Your chest tightened, bruising squeezing painfully. She walked forward with her usual unnerving grace, her head high, her eyes sweeping the scene before her. Her auburn locks bounced across her white dress, sheepskin draped over her shoulders to protect her from the chill. Coven garb. She was calm. Too calm. The shock of seeing her in the Church of Light clothing almost made you physically recoil. You had never seen the attire in the flesh, but you remembered how your mother had described it—white to symbolise the light and the chosen babe, the Light-bringer. Diviner.
The voices of the past echoed those names in your mind.
Light-bringer…
Your mother had always been short in her tales, too afflicted by the trauma and illness that had ruled most of her life away from the Coven. She had only spoken of the cruelty and sickness in those temple walls. The white was purity, the end of times, the rapture… but also a symbol of their devotion. The crimson blood of their self-inflicted or sometimes forced punishments showed up best on a fresh canvas.
How had Wanda inserted herself in your life so quickly? How long had Leofric and his coven of fucking madness been tailing you? And how had Bucky known to bring her? You glanced at him, desperate for a flicker of understanding, but his face remained devoid of emotion.
“It seems my friend, Barnes ‘ere, is obsessed with facts.” The Rat King spoke, pulling you from your confused daze. He wheezed out a laugh, a phlegm-filled cough quickly following as he spat the glob into the filthy churning Sootline.
“Go on then, girl. State the facts.” Varlan instructed with a bark.
Wanda folded her hands in front of her, her voice level and composed. “I invited her to Grimrow.”
A surprised murmur swept over the crowd.
“The Church of Light has been expanding its temple across the Sootline. I was honoured to become the Head Priestess for our new build—”
“Yeah, yeah, cut to the facts, girl.” Varlan cut over Wanda.
The auburn woman's eyes sparked with something that could only be described as irritation, but it was only a flicker as she expertly composed herself. “I invited her over to celebrate with me, as we have been friends since childhood.”
The word friends felt like a slap. Or even better, a well-placed stab to the abdomen. Your throat tightened as you stared at her, horrified by her ease in lying. How could she say it so smoothly? So convincingly? You tried to form words, but they caught in your throat, leaving you in silence.
“You agree,” Varlan pressed, his voice breaking through your haze, “that you were invited?”
Your lips parted, but no sound came, head spinning. Finally, you forced yourself to speak. “Yes.”
Varlan’s sly eyes narrowed, assessing you. “You say you are both friends but… the bartender and my men witnessed a fight between ya both,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “Why?”
Wanda quickly stepped in, her voice carrying a faint trace of sorrow. “I had expressed my concern. I wished she would stop workin’ for the Smog Boys out of fear for her safety.”
Varlan’s amusement flickered across his face, but you caught the subtle way his eyes darted toward Bucky. It was a jab meant to provoke. Bucky didn’t bite. He remained as unmoving as stone.
“And what do you say?” Varlan asked, turning his attention back to you.
Wanda’s eyes burned into your own, her chin lifting. You could’ve sworn you saw the ghost of a smirk across her lips as she watched you squirm. You couldn’t claim she was lying, or this elaborate fabrication would fall apart. You couldn’t gauge her motive. Was it to make you feel you owed her and the Church of Light? Was it to protect you? Plant seeds of doubt within Bucky, and make it seem like you had hidden parts of your life from him?
“She’s tellin’ the truth,” you surrender, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue.
“And do you have evidence? Of this letter sent to you to invite you?”
Your stomach dropped further, quickly scrambling to come up with a believable lie. “No… No, I burn all my old mail. I use it as kindlin’.”
“Convenient,” Varlan spat out with a slow shake of his head. “Very convenient.”
“I have evidence,” Wanda interjected smoothly, producing a rolled parchment from somewhere on her person. “It is the reply she sent me, confirmin’ the date.”
Bucky’s shoulders subtly relaxed beside you. Had he known about the lie, or was he being strung along by her games, too? Had the two spoken as well? What lies had she told him? Worst of all was the flare of jealousy in your gut—the thought of him talking with that woman, the idea of him trusting her over you—the weight of betrayal was suffocating. Wanda had gone to unimaginable lengths, forging a note in your handwriting to solidify this ruse.
“You wrote this reply?” Varlan asked, holding the parchment aloft.
“Yes.” Your tongue felt thick in your mouth.
Varlan examined the note for a long moment before nodding. “Well, seems you’re right, Barnes. My men were in the wrong. “
“So, we have an understanding now, Crey?” Bucky asked, his voice steady.
“Believe we do, Barnes,” Varlan replied. “Your woman can walk free.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his hand flexing at his side. For a moment, he didn’t respond; his cold blue eyes locked on Varlan like a wolf sizing up its prey.
“That’s it?” Bucky asked, his voice low, dangerously calm. “She walks free, and we’re supposed to call it even?”
Varlan spread his hands in a gesture of mock generosity. “What more do you want, Barnes? She crossed into my territory. I’ve agreed to let her go, no harm done. This should be the end of it.”
Bucky let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He glanced down at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before looking back at Varlan. “No harm done? Is that what ya think?”
“She’s standin’ here, ain’t she?” Varlan said, his tone oily, his confidence growing in the face of no immediate retaliation. “No blood spilt, no lastin’ damage. Consider this a…generous gesture from me.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. Without another word, he stalked toward the bridge.
The movement drew startled murmurs from both sides.
“What’s he doin’?” one of the Iron Rats hissed, his hand twitching toward his weapon.
“Hold!” Varlan snapped. “Let him come if he wants.” There was a cool confidence to his tone, a confidence that was likely misplaced.
“Barnes,” Varlan said, his voice rising as Bucky drew closer with deliberate, measured steps. “There ain’t no need for this. I’ve said the matter is settled.”
Bucky said nothing as he reached the other side. His hand slid into his coat, and when it emerged, he held a knife. The blade gleamed in the lantern light, its sharp edge catching the flickering flames.
The Iron Rats stiffened as if momentarily stunned and unable to make a move.
“Let’s be clear,” Bucky said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension like the edge of his blade. “You think you can cross me, threaten a woman under my protection, and walk away with a few pretty words? Is that what ya think, Crey?”
Varlan stepped back instinctively, his misplaced confidence crumbling as Bucky loomed over him. “Barnes, this is unnecessary—”
Bucky moved faster than anyone expected. His boot struck Varlan’s chest in a brutal kick, sending the Rat King sprawling onto his back. Gasps erupted from the Iron Rats, a few finally thawing out enough to jerk forward, but were quickly off-put their heroism by the crowd of Smog Boys inching across the bridge, blades drawn and faces like jackals.
At some point in the chaos, you had lost sight of Wanda, the witch disappearing into the shadows and fog like a ghost in the night.
Varlan scrambled backwards, his hands raised in a panicked gesture of surrender. “Wait! Barnes, wait!”
Bucky crouched over him, the knife hovering dangerously close to Varlan’s throat. “Ya think this is a game, Crey? Well, let’s fuckin’ play then, huh?” he spat.
“I—I didn’t mean for any of this!” Varlan stammered, his voice high with panic. “I swear, Barnes. Please!”
“Beg,” Bucky said, his voice cold and unrelenting.
Varlan’s face twisted with humiliation, but the knife at his throat left no room for pride. Slowly, he rose to his knees, his hands still outstretched in surrender but his entire form trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I was wrong. Please.”
“Louder,” Bucky demanded.
“I’m sorry!” Varlan cried, his voice cracking. “You can ‘ave the men, do what ya want with ‘em. Is that what you want? Please… just—”
Bucky gripped his balding head with a firm grip, directing Varlan’s watery, terrified eyes to look across the Sootline at you. You had a sudden epiphany, an understanding that Bucky had never been nervous. No. That strange energy, that twitchiness… it had been pure, unfiltered rage.
“Now, say sorry to her.” Bucky instructed, his voice near seething.
“I am sorry! I’m sorry for me actions. And my mens.” The Rat King cried out. Your gaze lifted to meet Bucky’s as he stared back across the Sootline at you. His grip on the man’s head tightened. “Please!”
“Bucky.” You finally spoke up, your voice soft as the breeze as it carried across the river.
As if your brief speech had broken a spell cast across the gangster, Bucky immediately straightened, his expression calm as he sheathed the knife. He reached out and patted Varlan’s head mockingly.
“Good little rat,” he murmured. “You know, I’m hostin’ a party soon. Maybe I’ll invite you, and you can dance and entertain me like the fuckin’ jester you are.”
Varlan’s humiliation was evident, his men exchanging uneasy glances. Bucky grinned wide, showing all his teeth.
“As for the men,” He said, his tone sharp as he turned to face the crowd of Iron Rats head-on. “The ones who crossed the border. Hand them over.”
Varlan hesitated for a moment, his pride still clinging stubbornly. But the weight of Bucky’s gaze, the threat of what he might do, was too much to bear. He nodded quickly, motioning to his men.
As if not wanting to anger the gangster further, the Iron Rats were quick to locate the three culprits and push them ahead, their expressions ashen with terror. Smog Boys emerged from the mist like spectres, grasping the men and dragging them across the bridge before they could escape and bolt back into the depths of Grimrow.
“Take them,” Varlan said hoarsely, his body sunken in defeat. “They’re yours.”
Bucky didn’t even look at them. He turned and crossed the bridge, hand grasping your forearm as he tugged you along. You frantically looked back, watching through the filthy haze as Varlan Crey stumbled back to his feet, cheeks burning, forehead slick with sweat. His men around him looked dejected, their beady eyes following you as you disappeared into the smog.
“Come,” Bucky uttered to you. “We have business to attend to.”
Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU
gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader
Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, graphic wound description, blood/gore, graphic descriptions of stitching, religious punishment (lashings), cults, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, visions, horror, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 5.7k
A/N: this was supposed to be longer but i've decided to spilt it into two parts, so sorry you just get angst but the next part will have more comfort/fluff. i'm not super happy with this chapter but i didn't intend for it to be a stand alone part, so it's a lot of doing and not much feeling/reflection lol. i just wanted to get this out because i'm going back to studying full time (as if the first degree wasn't bad enough lol) so the next few weeks might be a bit quiet. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.
taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love
main masterlist | series masterlist
There was a large, white wolf in your kitchen.
You didn’t remember descending the stairs of your small flat or your bare feet leading you into the cramped kitchen. The wooden panels felt cool against your soles, and dust glittered in the air. A short candle flickered on the dining table, illuminating the beast.
It was huge, towering over your benchtops and oven. Its shoulder would have easily reached your waist. Its stark, white fur was matted and stained, covered in ash and filth. In the dim light, you could see deep gashes beneath the pale strands of hair, dripping fresh crimson blood. The blood pooled on the floor, creeping into the cracks of the wood.
The wolf panted, taking hard, shallow breaths that rattled its considerable mass. Its pink tongue dripped pink, a mix of blood and saliva smeared along its yellowing teeth. You could’ve sworn it smiled as its lips pulled back, revealing large, pointed canines. It let out a deep, thunderous growl that vibrated through your chest and rattled your small, latticed windows.
You found yourself unable to question the absurdity of it. A wolf. In your home.
Your home had been heavily warded for weeks, if not months. After what had happened… it was the only way to keep out prying eyes and scum. Bucky’s boys would walk up the stairs, quivering as they reached for their hands to post a letter, knock on the door, or pick the lock. They would try with all their might, only to be filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. They would run, tails tucked between their legs. Not even Natasha Romanoff could make it past the threshold. The redhead who dripped with malice, who could make men sweat with fear with just a single look… too afraid to even leave the pavement.
Your feet don't touch the floorboards as you float forward, ignoring the canine's raised hackles. You look into its big, blue eyes and understand it is in pain, in danger. Your fingers spread, splaying out across its forehead as you run a hand through its matted fur. Ash catches under your nails, and blood stains your skin.
Another reason it was absurd to find such an animal in your home was because wolves were extinct. You had heard tales of these beasts in old folklore—frightening stories to tell children at night, fairytales, and such. Some speculated that these creatures might have roamed the land before the forests were cut down to make way for cities and civilization. Perhaps, out in the wilderness, deep in the forests away from Sootstone and the city of Blackstone, such animals could still exist. Maybe even across the seas, in far-off lands still being explored.
“I fear I’m in a dream, friend.” You murmur to the wolf, touch sweeping to cradle its large, bleeding head. “It’s probably best for us both to wake up.”
The wolf blinks its large, blue eyes at you. Its panting is still ragged, blood sticky across your floors. Deep in your soul, you knew it was a warning. A calling.
Someone was in danger.
It is a loud clattering downstairs that startles you awake.
The sharp clanging and dinging of pots and pans ring through your small abode, as if someone had knocked them from your dining table. In your bleariness, still tangled under your sheets, you blindly search for a candle and match.
The ruckus below continues, with chairs scraping across the floors, cabinets rattling, and a distinctly male voice muttering all types of obscenities. Your intruder seems to have impulsively walked into your home, knocking over all of your possessions.
The dream, the premonition—it must have distracted your mind. You could feel your wards were down, the peaceful bubble that had once safely cocooned your home was shattered. The remnants of its invisible wall crunched beneath your bare feet as you thundered down the stairs in your nightgown.
It must be one of Bucky’s messenger boys. The poor lad must have gotten lucky when he pried open your door and stumbled in just after the ward had fallen. You’d noticed how Bucky’s dogs worked like clockwork; at least three times a day, his boys would try to deliver you a message. You had never intended to find out what that message was. You highly doubted it was an apology, likely just another summons as if you were his pet to call and dismiss as he pleased—
As you rounded the corner into your kitchen, you were met with a sight that made your blood run cold.
Bucky Barnes, in the flesh, was bleeding and dishevelled in your kitchen.
His face was swollen and mottled with deep purple-black bruising. Dried blood crusted along his temple and brow. His hair, usually neatly slicked back, was now a tangled mess, laden with ash and filth, sticking out in all directions. Gone was his usual suit jacket; instead, he wore a simple white button-down shirt, now barely recognisable beneath the grime. It looked as though he had been dragged through a sewer, with mud and filth clinging to his skin and clothes.
Amidst the caked-on mess, fresh blood seeped from multiple wounds on his back, staining the already dirty fabric with a deep, alarming crimson. Each breath he took seemed laboured, his chest rising and falling with visible effort. He lifted his head to look at you, offering you a haunting grin. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, a puffy, dark mound overshadowing his battered face. His bottom lip was split wide open—a deep, jagged tear. Despite his condition, there was an unsettling glint in his one good eye, a spark of something unbroken within the wreckage of his body.
“Your wards were down. Didn’t think you were home.” The gangster wheezes, and his legs give out.
One of his hands reaches out to brace against your dining table, but his skin, slick with mud and grime, causes his hand to slip, and he plummets forward. In an instant, you rush to his side, grasping the man just before he crashes face-first into your hardwood floors. His weight is staggering—almost too much to bear—as you wrap your arm around his middle, muscles straining as you let out a grunt of exertion. With effort, you manage to push him back into a sitting position. Exhaustion radiates from him as he leans against you, barely able to hold himself up. Your candle has been knocked to the floor, wax dripping onto the floors.
The flame snuffs itself out, and the two of you are cast into darkness.
“What’re you doin’ here, Barnes?” You mutter demandingly. He responds with a weak chuckle, the sound rough and hollow. His head lolls to the side as he struggles to lift his chin, trying to meet your gaze. In close proximity, the stench on him becomes unbearable—an acrid mix of raw sewage, mud, and the metallic tang of blood.
“Trust me, I don’t wanna be here either, doll.” Blood gurgles in his mouth as he laughs. You scowl at him, shoving him away so he leans up against the leg of your table. You get to your feet, glancing down at your now filthy nightgown in disgust.
“You’re really that disgusted by me?” You say under your breath. Your words catch the attention of the gangster, whose amused expression falters.
“What gave you that impression?” He asks. You frown hard, wavering near his feet as you assess the best way to get the hulking man off your floor. His stocky frame, well filled out with muscle, is almost twice your size. It would be a task to lift him yourself
“Last we spoke. You called me a whore.” You remind him. You don’t meet his eye as you crouch down, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders. Wrapping one of his heavy arms around your shoulders, you place your hand on his back, feeling the heat of his blood seeping through his shirt. His weight is staggering, and you can feel every ounce of it pressing down on you.
He doesn’t reply to your claim. You can tell he is somewhat floored by your confession, surprised that you are still upset. Gritting your teeth, you start to push upwards, immediately feeling the strain in your thighs, calves, and back. His body is like dead weight, almost completely limp except for the occasional twitch of pain. Every muscle in your body protests, but you dig your heels into the floor. The gangster grunts beside you, and when you look over, you see his jaw ticking. You’re unsure if it’s from the pain or your words.
With one final, desperate push, you feel his weight start to lift. He lets out a pained groan, and the muscles in your legs quiver. Using every ounce of strength you have left, you manage to get him onto one of the dining chairs. He flops backward with a sigh, the chair creaking under his weight, and he winces in pain as his gashed back meets the hardwood. You step back, panting heavily, and take a moment to catch your breath. His emotions are hard to read under all the swelling, bruising, and blood that mar his face.
“So much for an apology.” You dare to say, words dripping with bitterness. The gangster finally peeks at you through his swollen eye with a disapproving look, his gaze hard.
“Apologisin’ is bad for business,” he says, his voice rough but earnest. “But I can admit when I am wrong. And I was wrong for sayin’ that.”
His words catch you off guard—a rare moment of humility from the hardened criminal. But the walls he’s built around himself are quick to rise again, and you can see the familiar defiance creeping back into his gaze. You don’t linger on it.
You suck in a sharp breath, angling your head as you try to process the situation. “Is one of your boys wanderin’ about nearby? I can get a message to Steve—”
“No.” He interrupts, his voice rough and strained.
“No?” You echo.
“I had a… let's say a run-in.” He replies, his tone clipped. “The street’ll be crawlin’ with ‘em, lookin’ for me. Best my boys lay low.”
“A run-in with who?” You press.
“Does it matter?”
“You’re gonna bleed to death if you stay here.” You retort, your eyes narrowing as you assess the severity of his wounds.
“You’re a witch.”
“And?” You snap back, folding your arms defensively.
“Heal me.”
You pause, head tilting in disbelief as you look down at him. “Heal—? Gods, you know I’m not a healer—”
“I never said it had to be good. Just stop the bleeding.” He presses.
“I’m not your pet witch, Barnes. You can’t summon me at your leisure.” You snip. Magic was broad in its uses, of course, but your speciality was never any type of healing magic, and Bucky knew that. You had always been one foot between the living and the dead. Your skills lay almost entirely in the territories of spirits and chaos magic. You knew how to look—how to feel—through the veil and channel it’s energy. What you did not know were healing charms, herbs, and potions.
Bucky leans forward, wincing in pain, and looks at you with a seriousness that catches you off guard. “You must know how it’ll look if my men find out that I bled to death in your home?”
“Are you threatenin’ me?” You ask, brow quirking. The gangster has a scowl across his face.
“No. I’m askin’ you.” His dark eyes peer up at you through bloodied lashes. Thick clumps of copper have hardened around the strands. “What do you want? Double your rate? Triple?”
“I’m no healer.” You repeat and let out an irritated sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you waver in place. Hesitantly, you approach the filthy man, taking his face in your hands as you delicately analyse the damage. You can feel his throat bob as he swallows hard. “Just… don’t get your hopes up.”
You withdraw your touch, the skirts of your nightgown swirling around your ankles. You blindly fumble around your kitchen, locating a match for the candle that was still discarded on the floor. “You would’ve been better off going a few streets over to Isolde Briarwood. I’ve heard her potions are the best in the lower districts.”
The gangster contemplates your words. “I needed discretion.”
Smoke fills your nostrils as you strike the match, lighting the candle once more. You frown as you look over at Bucky. He looks even worse in the dim lighting. The cold, wet filth must have been sinking into his bones. You notice how he shivers. “I suppose you’re right. Isolde has never been known for keepin’ her gob shut.”
Bucky snorts.
Your gaze sweeps over to your narrow stairs, a pang of worry in your gut. “Do you think you’ll have enough strength to climb the stairs? I have a fire goin’ up there, and I’ll need to boil some water to clean those wounds before they start to fester. I should ‘ave enough coal to last us a couple hours—”
“I’ll be fine.”
Bucky hauls himself to his feet. You gape at him as his strength seems to momentarily return. A part of you wonders if the fall had all been for show, a reason to get you to touch him, but you notice his movements are slow and laboured. Every step seems to take a monumental effort as he pulls himself up the first stair. His hand grips the bannister tightly, knuckles white.
You follow closely behind him, holding a candle in one hand, its flickering flame casting a soft, warm glow on the dimly lit staircase. Your free hand hovers near his back, ready to catch him if he stumbles. The light dances across the walls, illuminating the stains on his shirt and the sweat glistening on his brow.
"Easy now," you murmur, your voice soft yet steady.
Bucky nods, his jaw set in determination, but you can see the exhaustion in his eyes. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps, and each exhale sounds like a painful rasp. You can tell he's using every ounce of his willpower to keep moving forward.
As he reaches the fourth step, his leg buckles slightly. You immediately step closer, your hand pressing gently against his back to steady him. The contact is brief, but you can feel the heat radiating from his feverish skin. You knew your hand would be bloodied when you withdrew it.
He grunts in response, a sound that might have been a chuckle under different circumstances. His hand slips on the bannister, and for a moment, he teeters dangerously. You instinctively move to support him, your arm wrapping around his waist.
"Why is your house so damn cold?" Bucky grumbles, his voice strained.
"Coal boy didn't come," you reply, a hint of frustration in your voice. “And we both know the Warrens aren’t particularly known for holding warmth.”
"Shit, doll," he mutters, his voice thick with weariness. "If I survive this, I'll buy you a new flat."
You try not to think about the possibility of him dying in this situation or the implications of such an offer, focusing instead on the task at hand.
You can see the effort it takes for him to lift his leg and place his foot on the next step. As you reach the halfway point, he falters once more. This time, his leg gives out completely, and he collapses against you. The sudden weight nearly knocks the candle from your hand, but you manage to keep hold of it, the flame sputtering wildly.
"Whoa, easy," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "Lean on me. We’ll make it."
He nods, his head hanging low. You can feel the tremors running through his body, the sheer exhaustion that threatens to overwhelm him. With a deep breath, you adjust your grip, taking more of his weight onto yourself.
"Okay, Barnes, here we go," you say, steeling yourself for the final push.
Together, you take the last few steps, the candlelight guiding your way. Each movement is slow and measured, the stairs creaking under your combined weight. You can feel Bucky’s breath against your shoulder, hot and laboured.
Finally, you reach the top of the stairs. Bucky sags against the bannister, his body wobbling from the effort. You keep a firm grip on him, not willing to let him fall after all this.
“Here, next to the fire.” You murmur as you usher him into your room. The fireplace crackles lazily, casting a welcoming glow. Bucky lowers himself with some effort onto the rug in front of the fire, his movements slow and deliberate. The warmth of the fire seems to offer him some small comfort, and he leans back slightly, letting the heat seep into his battered body.
“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” you say, your voice soothing despite the urgency in your movements. You watch him for a moment, making sure he’s stable, before turning and rushing downstairs. Your heart races as you grab a pot, filling it with water. The stream from the tap seems to echo loudly in the silent flat. You try to steady your breath, but your fingers won’t stop trembling.
“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself, gripping the counter for support. You can’t afford to hesitate now. Taking a deep breath, you lift the pot, returning to Bucky’s side as quickly as you can.
When you reenter the room, Bucky’s eyes are closed, but his breathing is still laboured. He opens his eyes as you approach, watching you with a mix of pain and curiosity. Setting the pot on a metal stand over the fire. The flames eagerly lick at the bottom of the pot, and you watch as the water begins to heat up.
You kneel beside him, your hands still trembling slightly. “We need to get you clean first. And dry,” you explain, meeting his gaze. He nods, a grim determination in his eyes.
As you move to peel away Bucky's clothing, the reality of his injuries hits you with full force. In the brighter light of the fire, the mud, sewage, and dried blood caked onto his clothing are worse than you remember. The fabric sticks to his skin in a second, grimy layer, with the fibres melded and mashed into the lashes, which are partially visible through the torn sections. The smell is overwhelming—a nauseating mix of sweat, blood, and decay that catches in the back of your throat.
“Who did this?” You press the gangster. “I didn’t think there were many high up enough to touch you, Barnes.”
Bucky grunts, his breath hitching as you begin to peel the shirt from his back. “I have plenty of enemies, doll.”
“Like who?”
“You really want to talk business right now?” He snips. The shirt clings stubbornly, the dried blood acting as glue. Each inch you lift reveals more of his battered skin. The gashes on his back are deep, angry wounds, raw and inflamed. You have to work slowly, carefully prying the shirt away from his flesh to avoid tearing the wounds open further. Bucky’s muscles tense and twitch under your hands, his jaw clenched tight.
“I just don’t understand. How did this happen? Why were you alone… do you really have enemies powerful enough to jump you in your own streets?” You babble, the words distracting you from the nerves that were quickly climbing your throat.
“Arcana Castigatio ring a bell?” Bucky says gruffly.
“You mean The Penance Boys?” You baulk. The lashes suddenly made sense. The Penance Family were a crime family that had founded a cult based on the religion of Arcana Castigatio. They believed in purification through suffering, administering lashings to themselves and others as acts of penance. They view lashings as a necessary act to purge sin and achieve spiritual purity. “I didn’t think they had business dealings in these parts.”
“They don’t. They’ve been pushin’ their luck, pushin’ their beliefs on workers in the Smokestacks, tryna recruit them for the factories over the river.”
“Gods, Bucky,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. When you finally pull the shirt free, you see the full extent of the damage. His back is a mess of deep lashes, some oozing fresh blood, others scabbed over and encrusted with grime.
“So you went to deal with them alone?” You turn your attention to his pants, which are equally soaked through with mud, sewage, and blood. Your cheeks flush with awkwardness, but you know the filthy clothing needs to come off or the cold will never leave his bones.
“No. I took some boys with me.”
"Lift your hips a bit," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Bucky complies. You work quickly, trying to remain clinical as you peel the wet fabric away from his skin. The pants slide down his legs, revealing more bruises and scars. He’s left in just his undershorts, and you both pointedly avoid acknowledging it. “Didn’t go well, I take it?”
“Let's say I’ll have a few mothers to visit in the mornin’.”
You frown hard, swallowing dryly. “I don’t think you’ll be quite on your feet in the mornin’. You already feel like you’re developin’ a fever.”
Bucky grunts, clearly in agreement but unwilling to admit it outright. With the worst of the clothing removed, you turn your attention to the task of cleaning his wounds. You take a clean cloth and dip it into a bowl of hot water from the pot, wringing it until damp but not dripping. The heat from the water stings your fingers.
You press the cloth to his back, starting with the worst of the gashes. Bucky hisses through his teeth, his body jerking involuntarily at the touch. You work as gently as you can, but each swipe of the cloth brings fresh agony. The warm water loosens the dried blood and muck, the cloth coming away dark and filthy with each pass. The more you lift, the more you notice that the skin untouched by wounds is equally scarred, as if this lashing had not been the first occurrence.
His eyes close as you work, and his face contorts. You move methodically from one gash to the next. The wounds are deep and numerous, crisscrossing his back in a chaotic pattern. Some are long and jagged, others short but vicious.
Finally, you finish cleaning the last of his back wounds. The cloth in your hand is filthy, the water in the basin turned a murky red-brown.
“There,” you say softly, your voice laced with weariness. “That’s the worst of it.”
You stand up, stretching your aching muscles, and grab a clean bowl from the nearby shelf. You fill it with fresh water from the pot that is already over the fire. Kneeling beside him, you gently tilt his chin up to get a better look at the damage.
“I’m assumin’ the Peance Boys won’t be gettin’ away with this?” You ask, starting with his forehead, carefully dabbing at the cuts and bruises. The cloth quickly darkens with the mix of blood and dirt, but you continue, your movements precise and gentle. As you wipe away the grime, the extent of his injuries becomes more apparent. His face is a mosaic of bruises, some fresh and angry, others older and fading to a sickly yellow. His left eye is swollen nearly shut, and a deep cut runs along his cheekbone.
“You’re not wrong,” he replies, his tone rough and weary.
Bucky’s eyes open and meet yours, and for a moment, the room feels even smaller, the air between you charged with unspoken tension. His gaze is intense, a mix of pain, exhaustion, and something else you can’t quite place. You hold his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away.
“Hold still,” you whisper, trying to cover for yourself. He complies, though his muscles tense with every touch of the cloth.
“What’ll you do to them?” You ask, moving to his jawline, the cloth gliding over the rough stubble and the bruised skin beneath. His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his throat as you clean a particularly painful cut. You hum soothingly, trying to ease his discomfort.
“They’ll pay. With time. I need’ta think on it first,” he responds, his voice a low rumble. His eyes flicker dangerously.
“That would be wise. I don’t think you’re in the condition to start a war.”
When you finally reach his lips, you hesitate. His lower lip is split, swollen, and red. You dab at it gently, your hand trembling slightly. Bucky’s breath hitches, his eyes darkening. “I don’t think it’ll be a war… more like… a massacre.”
His lips twist into a bitter smile despite the pain, and you pause, absorbing his words. Unease settles in your gut as you consider the weight of his intentions. You have always known Bucky to be analytical and sadistic in his methods, his revenge was cold and calculated. The word massacre echoes in your mind, and you can't help but wonder what horrors he will unleash. His wrath won't be a simple act of retaliation; it will be a meticulously planned and bloody spectacle.
“You’re doin’ great,” you murmur, your voice barely more than a whisper, masking the unease that nearly slips through. Bucky’s eyes soften slightly, a hint of gratitude breaking through.
You finish cleaning his face, the cloth now completely stained. You sit back, taking a moment to breathe. Bucky’s face, though still battered, looks a little better, the dirt and blood no longer obscuring his features.
Dumping the cloth on the ground nearby, you rise to your feet. You’d have to do another cleaning pass later with some soap. His hair was still slick with filth, the unmarked sections of his skin stained.
Your head tilts as you observe him.
You needed to get those wounds shut as soon as possible.
“The best I can do is stitch up your back and use magic to seal it.” You explain as you wring out your fingers, wavering near the fire. “It’ll hurt. Badly. And the scars won’t be pretty.”
The gangster waves a hand at you half-heartedly, wincing as the movement pulls the torn flesh on his shoulders taut. “I’ll live.”
With hesitant steps, you dip behind him deeper into your room. You only needed two things—some strands of your hair and a needle strong enough to pierce skin. Later, you could make up a poultice or salve for his back, the wounds would be hot and inflamed once you sealed them, a paste could soothe them. You would also need to make up a remedy for his pain—a tonic of some kind. A tea would be best to shake off the cold.
You return to Bucky with your hairbrush and needle in tow. He gives you a quizzical look as you settle beside him.
“Do you want me to talk while I work, or remain silent?” You ask.
“Talk. I have a feeling that I’ll need a distraction.”
You nod and pick up the brush. A clump of your strands are woven between the bristles. With deft fingers, you isolate a single strand and pull it from the mass. “I will use my hair as thread,” you explain.
“I can channel my magic through parts of myself.” You take the strand and briefly pull the fibre through your lips, wetting the end. “I’ll stitch your wounds and use my magic to seal the skin back together.”
You thread the needle with ease, pulling your hair through the eye in one gentle tug. “The magic will flush out any infection, but the scars will be painful for some time.”
“Will it break the fever?” The gangster asks. You frown, head cocking to the side as you pull your eyes from the needle to his skin. His face is rosy and flushed with heat. A thin layer of sweat glistens in the firelight.
“No.” You sigh, twisting the needle in your grip. The curved metal glints. “I fear your fever is from the cold, not your wounds.”
“It’s partly good news, though, it will be easier to break than a fever brought on by infection.” You shift so you are positioned behind him, staring directly at the criss-crossed lashes. Blood and fluid ooze from the tender flesh.
“This’ll hurt.” You remind him.
You start with the worst of the gashes, threading your hair through the jagged edges of his torn flesh. The needle punctures his skin with a sickening pop. Bucky’s body tenses, his muscles bunching as a low growl of agony rumbles in his chest. A slew of curses leaves his lips, incoherent through his grit teeth.
The smell of blood and sweat fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of smoke from the fire. Each push of the needle is nauseating. The skin resists each stroke of the sharp metal. With each pass, you can feel how your hair grows taut, and you are careful not to allow it to snap as you drag it through the skin. The raw edges come together with an uneven, painful precision.
“I did warn you, I’m no healer.” You murmur. The gangster does not reply. His hand grips the edge of the rug, knuckles white.
You push through the process, your hands steady despite the horror of it. The strands of hair weave through his wounds, stitches wonky as they barely cinch the skin shut. Your lack of experience shows, but you decide it is not the time to comment on it.
Bucky’s low growl turns into a pained moan as you work on a particularly deep wound. His muscles twitch, and he nearly pulls away from you, but he forces himself to stay still. You coo at him soothingly, your fingers stroking across an untouched patch of skin in a silent gesture of comfort.
“Just a little more,” you whisper, your voice gentle yet strained. The tension in the room is thick, every sound is amplified by the silence between you.
You quicken your pace, your own heart pounding in your chest. The last few stitches are the hardest, Bucky’s body is writhing in agony beneath your touch. His growls turn into cries, raw and guttural. The smell of fresh blood is overpowering, and you fight the urge to gag as you finish the last stitch.
Finally, you tie off the thread, your hands shaking from the effort. The wounds are closed, but you still need to fuse them shut.
You take a deep breath, gathering your resolve for the next part of the process. The stitching is done, but now you need to seal the wounds with your magic. Holding your hands over Bucky’s back, you focus on the strands of hair threaded through his flesh. Slowly, you begin to channel your magic, feeling it surge from within you and through your fingertips.
The feeling of chaos sweeps over your skull, your scalp prickling as the electrifying feeling cascades down your spine. The strands of hair start to glow, a soft, eerie light emanating from them. Bucky tenses immediately, his muscles bunching and his back arching as the heat begins to build. The glow intensifies, with the strands heating up and melding with his skin. The smell of singed flesh fills the room, acrid and nauseating.
Bucky’s reaction is immediate and visceral. He lets out a guttural scream, the sound ripping through the quiet. His body convulses, his hands clawing at the rug beneath him. He cries out, but any words he is attempting to speak are incoherent through his agony. You grit your teeth, fingers curling as you hesitate, but you know this is the only way.
"Hold on," you murmur, your voice trembling. "Just a little longer."
The glow from the hair brightens further, the heat reaching its peak. Bucky’s screams turn into a hoarse, ragged howl, his body writhing in uncontrollable pain. It’s as if molten metal is being poured into his wounds, searing the flesh and fusing it together. The skin bubbles and sizzles, the magic knitting the torn edges with brutal efficiency.
You can feel his pain as if it were your own, each scream and shudder resonating through you. Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to stay focused. Your hands hover just above his back, fingers trembling as you pour every ounce of your will into the spell. The glow begins to fade, the heat dissipating as the wounds finally seal shut.
This magic, your magic, was not meant for healing. It was not life magic or kind magic. Your magic had never been empathetic, never gracious or soft. Your magic was death, violence, and destruction. If you pushed the blinding white heat any further, it would tear him apart entirely.
You held onto something otherworldly—a power too wicked and cruel for a mere mortal. It lay between worlds, a focus of chaos invisible to the naked eye.
It was not right to bend and force chaos to your will.
Yet you could.
Bucky collapses onto the floor, his body shivering uncontrollably. His breath comes in frantic gasps, his voice hoarse from screaming.
"It's over," you whisper, your own voice barely more than a breath. "It’s done."
Without thinking, you rush to his side, dropping to your knees. You grasp his face in your hands, feeling the heat of his fevered skin against your palms. His eyes are half-lidded and glazed with pain, but they lock onto yours. For a moment, everything else fades away—the wounds, the blood, the horror of the past hour.
Your thumb strokes gently across his jaw, then his cheek, tracing the rough stubble and the bruised skin beneath. His breath hitches at the contact, his eyes softening just a fraction. "Bucky," you murmur, his name a fragile whisper on your lips. "It’s over now."
His gaze holds yours, a fleeting tenderness passing between you, but the tenderness is short-lived. You steel yourself, pulling your hands away and standing up. The scent of burnt flesh seems to linger in the air.
“Stay still. I will make up a poultice, it should stop the burning.” You explain to the gangster.
Hey guys! I have been on tumblr for years reading fics from other authors on my main blog. I enjoy reblogging their work and felt inspired by a lot of it. So, I'm starting a writing blog!
My blog is mostly starting as a Marvel fic blog (Bucky and Steve.) But I can see myself getting into Game of Thrones.
My first fic I have started writing is a Bucky x Reader royalty AU. A separate announcement with more info coming shortly!
Virgin college Bucky x Virgin college reader (Steve’s sister)
A/N: Wanted to write something with both Bucky and the reader learning together, will probably add another part cause I love them. Please leave all the comments, reblog and like! <3
Warnings: SMUT, swearing, fluff
Word count: 4.2k hehe sorry
Also part of this AU: Tongue Twister, Date night, Tipsy
You trudged down the hall wondering why you brother had sent you an SOS text message, stating it was an immediate emergency at 12:30 AM forcing you out of the deep sleep you were in. You opened his room door, groaning at the ridiculousness that was taking place yet again this month.
Steve and his friends were in the middle of a very important Call of Duty game and given the seriousness, they had to have both hands on the controllers at all time.
Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Princess!Reader (Royal AU)
Summary: Obedience, duty, pristine smiles—raised as the princess of an oppressive kingdom, you knew nothing else. Your father signed your life away at the ripe age of five, black ink bleeding into a contract between nations, fate cemented with the flick of a quill. So when the time came to fulfill the promises you were too young to make, you expected much of the same in the land of Brookshire. But Prince James had other plans, as did the enemies looming outside the castle walls.
Warnings: Angst (a lot), misogyny, arranged marriages, made up royal politics, injury, cannon-level violence, pining and slow-burn!!!
a/n: This story is currently on hiatus.
Here is a link to my ko-fi if you are enjoying my stuff! :)
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/reader)
Most recent update : 30/11/2024
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum. Angst.
The title was taken from a Kings of Leon song of the same name, and the chapter titles are taken from bits of lyrics from Waste a Moment, Find Me, and Reverend.
A new chapter will be posted every two days.
Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!
