fede

22

[artficlly]

the price of passage [two]

── sci-fi marvel au ✩

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

── tags ✩

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

word count: 4.5k

── main masterlist ✩ series masterlist

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

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

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

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

Regardless, you’d declined. 

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

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

There was movement, just off the trail. 

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

A spineback. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahead, the trail bent toward Caligo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bodies.

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

But the stench never came. 

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

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

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

Sand.

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

You were standing in a mass grave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How many?” you asked quietly. 

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

“My family?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her hands twisted together, knuckles white.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhaled sharply, chasing the thought away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lira?” he rasped.

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

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

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

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

For once in his life, Naven listened.

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

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

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

Lira stiffened beside you. 

“Two weeks?” you repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A faint crease formed between his brows. 

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

“Naven—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your knees hit the ground.

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

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

In. Out. In—Gods, please.

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

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

You couldn’t—

You couldn’t do this—

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

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

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

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

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

“What—?!”

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

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[floraslcve]

the world building is INSANE, love this already

[artficlly]

── lessons in lovemaking [part six]

── marvel au ✩

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

── tags ✩

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

word count: 14.6k

── authors note ✩

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

─── main masterlist ✩ series masterlist

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

Not even fucking close.

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

You’d tried—God, you’d tried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You…okay?” Sam asked skeptically. 

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

It took you hours—actual hours—of wandering the beach barefoot in the dark before you finally worked up the nerve to approach the master bedroom. Steve and Sam had tapped out early, asleep before their heads even hit their pillows. 

You were the only one still buzzing, no, not even buzzing. You were wired like you’d swallowed a live electrical cable whole.  And it wasn’t because of sharing a bed with Bucky, that ship had sailed, crashed and been rebuilt by now. You’d done that countless times now, hell, even ‘lessons’ were born out of sharing a room with Bucky. 

No, sharing a room, a bed—that was not the scary part. Not the feeling of his body pressed up against yours, pulling him into a kiss, the last whispers of a whimper escaping his lips… You weren’t afraid of any of that.

You were afraid of his questions. 

Because you knew, deep in your bones, you knew that your conversation on the porch steps wasn’t over. He’d seen through you. He’d clocked you, well and truly fucking clocked you. Read you like he’d been skimming the annotated edition of your psyche. You’d replayed it in a loop during your little barefoot pilgrimage, spiralling hard the moment you post-orgasm haze faded and your brain resumed its regularly scheduled programming of self-sabotage. 

All that was left was dread—cold, creeping dread—over everything he’d said. 

‘I think you have a problem with it.’

‘I think you’re destroying yourself.’

‘I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.’

He’d dug right into the raw nerves with gentle obviousness. They were the parts you avoided, the parts you buried. And he had the fucking audacity to press his thumb right into the bruise of who you were. And the worst part? The most terrifying bit of all? He probably hadn’t even meant to. 

You considered disappearing into the ocean and letting the tide decide your fate. You considered sleeping on the sand at the base of the beachouse porch. You even considered the war crime of waking up Captain America himself and stealing the couch. 

But in the end, only one strategy seemed remotely viable. 

You were going to fuck James Buchanan Barnes so hard he’d forget he ever asked those questions. 

Erase his memory through sheer, physical devastation.

Biblical smiting via coitus.

God willing, if you couldn’t outrun your problem, you could at least fuck them senseless. 

At least that was the plan, until you actually stepped into the bedroom and everything within you stalled. 

Bucky turned immediately, reacting to the soft click of the door. A part of you wondered if it was fake surprise, if the super soldier had heard the subtle shift of sand as you had paced the beach, or even the faint tremor of your footsteps as you climbed the porch steps. The bedside lamp cast a warm halo over him, outlining every line of his bare chest and the long slope of his spine. His hair was messy, pushed back like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. He held a shirt in one hand, fingers curled tight around the fabric. 

He went still.

His eyes darted over you—your wind-swept hair, flushed face, your shoes still clenched in your grip after carrying them for what felt like miles along the coastline. His expression shifted to barely contained concern in an instant. 

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Absolutely not. You were holding yourself together with the emotional equivalent of scotch tape. All confidence, all the riled-up feelings you’d manifested in your hours of pacing in the dark, fizzled out in an instant. Coward. You were a fucking coward. It was like the exact moment you set eyes on him, all you could feel was the sinking feeling of terror. 

“Yeah,” you replied, unconvincingly. “Just… took a walk.”

“You took a three-hour walk,” he corrected immediately. “In the dark. Barefoot.”

His pointed stare dropped to the boots dangling from your hand.

“You say that like it’s weird.”

“It is weird.”

“I didn’t want to get sand in them.” You muttered with a huff, tossing them to the side. They hit the dresser with a thump, the mirror rattling on impact. 

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you with that signature look, stupid big puppy-dog eyes that made you melt—only now it made your throat tighten. You crossed your arms, suddenly very aware of every dip and curve of his exposed muscle, every line of his veins, the way the light caught on his scars. But he saw everything on your face, no matter how much you tried to hide it. Your hesitation, the nerves, the battle you were losing. You knew he could see through you. You were beginning to think he always could. That no matter how many walls or barriers you put up, it wouldn’t even matter. 

His hand raised, fingers dragging through his dark hair. “Did I do something wrong—? I mean, in the kitchen earlier, did I hurt you—?”

Suddenly, you could see yourself reflected in him. As clearly as a fucking mirror. 

“No.” You uttered, but the worry in his tone hit you hard enough that your feet moved before you could think straight. You crossed the room and pressed your hand to his chest. His skin was warm, grounding in a way that both soothed and terrified you. “You didn’t hurt me. You could never—I felt good, fuck, I felt more than good I just—”

His head dropped, nose nuzzling the top of your head, audibly inhaling your seaswept scent. “Then why did you leave after dinner? You bolted like you’d been spooked off or—?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, hand sliding over his shoulder as you pulled yourself flush against his frame, brow pressing against his shoulder where metal fused with flesh. “I’m just in my own head—not about that. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“Thinking about what?”

You didn’t reply. 

He sighed, and his hand slid to your chin, gently lifting your face. “Doll,” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, “you gonna tell me what’s actually bothering you?”

You were shaking before you even realised it. Not visibly, but inside. A tremor under the ribs, a tightening behind your sternum. You were dangerously close to either spilling everything or shutting down. 

You blinked up at him, shuddering lightly as his thumb swept over your bottom lip. “No,” you whispered.

A frustrated sound left him, “c’mon sweetheart—” he groaned.

You rose onto your toes, brushing your lips lightly over his jaw, just enough to make him exhale. 

“Sit,” you instructed. 

He blinked. “What?”

Your pulse hammered, and thoughts tangled. You didn’t want to talk about any of it. Didn’t want to feel it. Didn’t want to let the truth crack you open. So you reached for the only distraction that ever worked. 

You stepped back, eyes tracking him deliberately, hunger simmering through your voice. If you couldn’t quiet your mind… you’d quiet his instead. 

“Sit. On the bed,” you repeated, firmer this time. 

Confusion flickered across his face, but he followed your instruction regardless. His knees bent as he reached the bed, mattress sinking slightly as he perched on the edge. His thighs spread, and his hands settled on either side of him. He looked up at you, unprepared for whatever you were about to do—but he wanted it anyway. 

You stood between his knees, the heat and tension radiating between you. You were spiralling again, thinking of everything he’d said. Every truth you didn’t want to face, every wound you never stitched, every punishment you’d ever given yourself for the sins you couldn’t even begin to articulate. 

You sank to your knees on the floor before him. 

A breath left him in a stunned, broken sound—half awe, half need. You shuffled closer, hands sliding up his thighs, slow and deliberate. His reaction was immediate, his thighs tensing under your palms, eyes going wide and dark all at once. And for a moment—just a moment—the storm inside you went quiet. 

His thighs spread wider instinctively, a hand stroking your cheek before slowly sliding into your hair. Heat licked down your spine. His pupils were blown wide, the lamplight catching the blue. He looked borderline ruined already. 

You kissed up his thigh, lips soft, tongue darting out just enough to taste the salt and heat. His breath stuttered. There was something addictive about watching him unravel—how someone so solid, so controlled, came undone in front of you like you were the only thing he couldn’t guard himself against. 

When you reached his waistband, he hissed through his teeth. “Steve and Sam will hear—” 

He made no move to stop you. 

“Then we’ll just have to be quiet, hm?” You murmured and palmed him through his boxer shorts, feeling the hard, heavy shape of him straining against the thin fabric. His eyes fluttered shut for just a second, like he needed the strength not to melt—his head dropped back, throat bared. 

“You’re already hard,” you whispered, breath fanning across his knee. “You get this worked up from me just looking at you?” 

You traced the waistband of his boxers with your lips, dragging your tongue along the seam. Heat pooled low in your belly as his grip on your hair tightened. He inhaled sharply, a stifled gasp, and your eyes flicked up at him. The shiver running through his body made your stomach tighten with need. 

He tugged your head slightly back so you had to look up at him, and a wicked smile graced your lips. 

“Pacing the beach for hours…” he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip, “and this is what you come back wanting?”

His thumb slid into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. You left out a muffled moan, lips closing around the flesh as you sucked on the digit, tongue stroking a flat stripe across the calloused pad. 

He inhaled sharply, chest rising. “Jesus Christ, doll…okay.”

It didn’t take a genius to realise he had no fucking clue what to do with you. 

“Sweetheart…” Saliva dripped from your lips down your chin as he retracted his thumb, smudging the moisture across your cheek as he swept your hair behind your ear, “you’re sure?”

You nodded. It was barely a movement, just enough for him to feel it where his fingers cupped the base of your skull. 

“Need words,” he whispered.

“Yes.” You hummed, one of your hands on his thighs tapping out the familiar triple beat. “The same as always. Now show me.”

Bucky stared down at you like you’d rewritten his universe, and then you felt the three taps against your skull. “Same as always,” he repeated. 

You hooked your fingers under the waistband of his shorts, and he lifted his hips obediently as you pulled them down. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, smearing precum against his stomach. 

You leaned in close, cheek brushing the inside of his thigh, your breath ghosting over him. 

His cock twitched, head tipping back in silent anticipation. 

“Look at me,” you whispered. “I want you to watch me.”

His eyes snapped down to you instantly. 

You licked a slow stripe from base to tip, savouring the way he jolted, muscles jumping under your palms. His hand gripped the edge of the mattress, metal fingers denting the frame. You stroked him once, then placed an open-mouthed kiss right on his flushed tip.

“Fuck—” His whole body jerked, the curse slipping through clenched teeth. 

You worked him lazily, teasing at first, letting anticipation coil tight. His breathing got heavier, uneven, every exhale brushing the top of your head like he was trying not to grind his hips up. 

When you took him into your mouth, he inhaled so sharply that you thought he might choke on air, a slow shaking groan escaping him. Your lips stretched around him, the thick weight of him pressing heavily against your tongue. Your throat fluttered around his shaft, and he whimpered. 

Hollowing your cheek, you sank lower, flattening your tongue against his underside, loving the way he trembled for you. You hummed around him, tongue flicking and swirling, lips sliding down in long, slow strokes. Your hand moved in tandem with your mouth, squeezing and stroking, kneading him with careful pressure. 

“Oh god…” he rasped.

“Shhh…” You cooed against him, tongue teasing the lip, lips sliding over every sensitive ridge. 

You worked your mouth on him, deeper now. Your throat tightened, eyes watered, the obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. Every time you rasped around him, his grip tightened just a little, hips jerking reflexively. He was big, almost too big, but you forced yourself to breathe through your nose, forcing yourself to take more. 

“Gotta be quiet,” he panted almost as a reminder to himself, fighting to keep his voice down. “Steve’s—fuck—Steve’s in the other room—”

You pushed yourself lower, so low that your nose brushed his stomach, your nails digging into his thighs. He moaned, low and strangled, fingers flexing at the base of your skull. 

“Jesus, doll,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You—you’re too good—”

You smiled, lips curving around him, teeth grazing gently in that perfect, teasing rhythm that had him arching into you. Your tongue swept over his sensitive length, fingers curling at the base as you worked him deeper, coaxing, teasing, tasting every shudder he gave. The sounds he made—the quiet, choked whimpers—sent a thrill straight through you, a little gasp of your own escaping despite the need to stay quiet. 

“Fuck…” he rasped. You held him with your mouth, tongue swirling, lips sucking with teasing pressure, letting him hover on the edge. His breath hitched in small, stifled gasps, little whines that made your thighs rub together. 

His hips rocked on instinct, chasing the sensation, completely undone. He hit the back of your throat again, again, again—until tears blurred your vision and spit dripped down your chin, your breath broken and wet around him. 

You kept going, letting the rhythm find you. The more he quivered, the more the tight ache bloomed between your legs. You moaned around him, and his reaction was immediate. His breath fractured, hips jerking despite how desperately he tried to keep them still. 

“Doll, I’m… I’m close—if you keep—oh god—”

You didn’t stop. 

A strangled groan tore from him—quickly swallowed as he remembered Steve and Sam were sleeping on the other side of the walls. He pressed his forearm over his mouth, biting back the noise as his hips rolled up involuntarily. 

Your throat burned, jaw aching, saliva pooling, but his hand stroked your scalp, shushing softly as you kept up the pace. He was still looking at you, sweat beading his brow, eyes lost in a daze. 

The next sound he made was pure desperation as you bobbed your head rhythmically, steady but rougher than before, his breath breaking with every slide of your mouth—

“Can’t—can’t hold it—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He shuddered violently, his hips bucking, a strangled sound caught in his throat as his fists tangled in the sheets. His release came slow, drawn out, every pulse of the thick, hot ropes of cum filling your mouth, and you swallowed it down, choking a little on the heat and slick, but didn't stop, didn’t let a drop go to waste. Your lips stayed pressed to him, tongue taunting the tip as he trembled, body twitching, groaning quietly, hands buried in your hair. 

“Jesus… fuck… you—” he groaned, forehead falling against yours, breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. “You’re… so good…”

You hummed around him, lips brushing his shaft, tongue flicking, hands moving to soothe and steady him as his pulse slowed, blue eyes dark with the aftershocks of pleasure. 

When you finally pulled away, a thin string connected you before snapping. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, breathing hard, and he watched you swallow the last of his cum down. 

Not just watched, he tracked every moment of your throat like he was hypnotised by it, chest rising in sharp, uneven breaths, hands still trembling where they gripped your scalp. You remained kneeling before him with quiet, obedient hunger. 

The moment you looked up at him through your lashes, something inside him snapped. 

“Fuck—” he whispered, voice wrecked.

He slid off the edge of the bed so suddenly that you barely had time to inhale. His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud, and then suddenly he was in front of you. His hands cupped your face, dragging you forward into a desperate, sloppy kiss. 

No hesitation, no caution, just heat. A messy, desperate slide of lips against lips, his breath mingling with yours in fast, uneven bursts. His nose bumped yours, his mouth chasing you, almost clumsy in its urgency. 

You leaned into him, fingers curling in his hair at the nape of his neck. His breathing stuttered when your mouth opened for him, letting him slot his tongue against yours. His body shuddered, a little whimper escaping him before he could swallow it down. 

You felt it—literally felt the tremor run through his shoulders, down his arms, into the hands holding you so carefully. Your balance wavered, and the two of you tipped. You didn’t even realise you were falling until your hand slipped on the carpet. Your mouth was still fused to his, his hand tightening instinctively at your waist. 

Bucky landed half on top of you, vibranium arm braced above your head. “Fuck—sorry—” he panted against your mouth. His knee nudged between your thighs, not quite intentional but not accidental either. 

You cut him off with another kiss, your lips crashing into his before he could finish apologising. His breath stuttered, hips jerking forward in a helpless, unintentional grind that pulled a quiet moan from the back of your throat. 

That made him kiss you harder, deeper—his mouth warm and urgent, chest to chest. You drowned in the heat of him hovering above you. His hand slid down, over your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, following the curve of your body by memory. His palm cupped your hip, and his weight leaned into you with a soft grunt, pressing you deeper into the carpet—

You weren’t in the Red Room

You knew that.

You knew it. 

But your body remembered before your mind did, that ice-cold creeping dread settling over your flushed skin. For a split second, the room blurred, your heart slammed against your ribs, breath clawing up your throat—

No. Not now—

“Hey—” Bucky froze, pulling back a fraction. “You okay?”

His hand hovered near your cheek, hesitant, painfully gentle. You hadn’t even realised you had grown still beneath him, limbs locked, nails digging into his arm where you were already reaching to squeeze out that triple beat—

A flicker of guilt crossed his eyes. “Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean to crowd you, I just—”

You didn't let him finish. 

You surged up, crashing your mouth to his, swallowing his apology whole. His breath caught in surprise, then melted into your again—eager, needy, grateful. You pushed the fear down your throat, hooking your leg around his hip and pushed your hands to his chest. 

Twisting your torso and, in one smooth, instinctual motion, you flipped both of you. Bucky’s breath punched out of him as his back hit the carpet, but he didn’t fight it. Any words that had been forming whoosed out of him in a shocked grunt, eyes blown wide as he stared up at you. 

You climbed over him, thighs bracketing his hips, your palms pressed flat against his ribs. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, breathlessly. 

You leant over, kissing the corners of his mouth. “I’m fine,” you murmured against his lips.

Your tongue slid over his bottom lip, teeth catching the tender, swollen flesh. Bucky’s hands gripped your thighs like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. A whine tore through you as you rolled your hips down just slightly, barely giving yourself friction. 

The panic ebbed, and his warmth spread through you like a tide, and control settled back into your spine. 

“Okay,” he whispered, voice strained as you pressed another kiss to his jaw. “Okay.”

His head fell back against the carpet, a low, wrecked groan catching in his throat. “God, sweetheart… whatever you want.”

You dragged your lips to his jaw, then down his throat, sucking just enough to make him gasp and tilt his head back, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising strength. 

“Good,” you whispered, biting at his pulse point before soothing it with your tongue. He was breathing like he’d sprinted a mile. Half moans, half sighs, every sound spilling directly into your mouth.

But slowly—so slowly you barely noticed—the frantic edge softened. Your lips slowed. The kisses calmed. Your breaths synced. Fast, then slower, then slower still, like your bodies had decided for you when enough was enough.

Bucky’s hands loosened on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles into your skin. Your forehead dropped to his, breaths mingling, noses brushing in a lazy, exhausted nuzzle.

You didn’t move for a long moment.

His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers stroking your hair in slow, grounding sweeps. “I lost you for a sec there—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You cut over him, a flash of guilt warming your cheeks as you clocked your own snappy tone. 

He didn’t reply straight away, but you could feel the cogs turning in his brain. 

You eased down, resting your head against his chest. You could hear the faint thump of his heartbeat growing steadier by the second. His arms wrapped around you automatically, and the two of you lay tangled on the carpet, legs intertwined. 

“Sometimes…” Bucky began, and you tilted your head to look up at him. “Sometimes I want to know what’s going on in that head of yours, hm?”

The tip of a vibranium finger tapped your temple. 

You let your eyes flutter shut. 

You should’ve known it was only a matter of time before Natasha figured out the true nature of your situation with Bucky. Even worse: Yelena had apparently found whatever secret combination of pressure points—begging, bribery, psychological warfare—was required to squeeze the information out of her, too. 

Secrets didn’t stay secret long in the Avengers Tower. You’d learnt that the hard way, because shortly after your impromptu mission with Bucky, Steve and Sam, someone had obviously run their mouth. Or, more likely, had been tortured for information by the two sisters sent from hell. 

All it took was one gloating smirk from Natasha during one of your torturous morning trainings and a low, breathless ‘so, lessons, huh?’ hissed into your ear during a rather brutal takedown. The wind leaving your lungs had absolutely nothing to do with Natasha serving you with her usual: eat the fucking mat, bitch. 

If you’d thought the teasing from Steve and Sam was bad, you were delusional. They’d tried to keep their shit together over breakfast before your flight home—tried being the keyword. Both of them kept exchanging knowing looks. Neither of them addressed the giant neon sign hovering above the table that read, something sexual definitely happened. 

You didn’t know what they’d heard, if anything at all. But Steve’s abysmal track record of not knocking had stayed strong, giving him front-row seats to Bucky starfished in the sheets, dead asleep, your limbs tangled. He froze, blinked, muttered something about Bucky never sleeping that deeply unless he was sharing a bed with him, and then fled the room as if he’d just witnessed a homicide. 

Steve hadn’t been able to make eye contact with you for a week. 

But, even that humiliation didn’t compare to Natasha and Yelena. They were ruthless, and—much to your dismay—they were beginning to get a knack for knowing exactly how to get under your skin.  

Which is how you ended up here, weeks later, composure slipping. Your knees were pulled up to your chest as you perched on your bathroom counter, laser-focused on applying glitter to your eyelids with the precision of a bomb technician. You hesitated, pulling the brush away as you blinked, watching the gold catch the light. Too much glitter for Karpin’s club? Maybe. Maybe not enough…not quite tacky enough, that was for sure.

You moved in for the kill, pressing in more before you could think better of it. 

“So,” Natasha drawled from behind you, lazy as a cat stretching into mischief, “is he a good student?”

You didn’t look at her reflection. You could feel the smirk.

“Do you think he takes notes?” Yelena chimed in, giggling as she deepened her voice into a terrible imitation of Bucky’s dry drawl. “Hold on—stop sucking my cock for a second. I need to write this down—”

You grimaced as Yelena performed some stiff, robotic scribbling in the air.

The two of them had volunteered—completely unhelpfully—to ‘assist’ you getting ready for tonight’s mission. Assist being code for standing around, digging for information while you did the actual work, styling your hair and blending your eyeshadow. If anything, their impromptu gossip session was making you jittery. They pretended to care as you did all the work, perfectly styling your hair and applying makeup. Because if they weren’t teasing, they were interrogating. And if they weren’t interrogating, they were doing both simultaneously. There was almost always an ulterior motive. 

“I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath.

“Charts? Diagrams?” Natasha sang lightly.

“You two are fucking cunts, you know that, right?” You grumbled, tongue rolling over your teeth as irritation simmered hot beneath your ribs.

Both sisters made an exaggerated oh-hoooo! sound in unison as you slammed your makeup brush on the counter.

“Oh, calm down,” Yelena snorted. “It is just a little fun. I always forget you are so serious.”

There was all of about three seconds of silence as you began to apply your mascara when you felt it—Yelena was already shaking with restrained laughter, practically vibrating with another jab.

“Okay, but…” she started, and you could already feel the dread crawling up your spine, and mentally prepared yourself for the bullshit that was about to slip past her lips. “…do you use a pointing stick?”

You closed your eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Suffered.

Yelena turned to Natasha, doubling down. “You know the one I mean? The big stick and they whack you over the hand when you are naughty in school—”

You felt your eyes roll back into your head as you sighed in defeat, Natasha bursting out with such a loud bout of laughter that she had to grip onto the side of your bathtub to stop herself from doubling over. 

“Do you put a little teacher outfit on?” Yelena continued relentlessly, lowering her voice in a mocking impression of you. “Bucky, today we are covering foreplay—pay attention—!”

Natasha was wheezing. Actual, medical-grade wheezing. She sounded moments away from cardiac arrest.

“I hate both of you,” you declared flatly.

You could already see Yelena winding up for the kill, lips twitching with another wicked remark, when movement in the mirror caught your eye. A broad figure darkened the bathroom doorway, cutting clean through the sisters’ laughter. Whatever Yelena had been about to say stalled on her tongue, and Natasha’s smirk twitched into something more unreadable.

Your stomach plummeted. God, how long had he been standing there?

But if Bucky had heard anything, he wasn’t showing it. His expression was carved from stone—cold, unreadable, terrifyingly calm.

“Speak of the devil,” Natasha drawled, straightening and turning to face him.

You met his eyes in the mirror and instantly regretted it. He looked… unfairly good. The sleek black suit hugged the breadth of his shoulders and tapered in at the waist, every inch tailored to perfection. The fabric pressed sharply and cleanly against every line of muscle. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, pushed back in a way that left his jawline on full display.

You looked away before you could embarrass yourself, swallowing hard, lashes fluttering as your focus darted back to the counter. The act of tearing your gaze from him felt like peeling your own skin off.

"I won't be long." you mumbled, quickly sweeping your brushes and powders back into your makeup bag. You fished out a rather bold and obscene shade of lipstick to top off your look for the evening, uncapping it with a flick. 

“The others are waiting downstairs,” Bucky said, voice low and pointed. 

Not aimed at you.

Aimed at them.

Natasha exhaled through her nose, catching the unspoken warning. For once in her life, she read the room and rose from her perch on the edge of the tub. “We’ll go keep them company.”

It took an elbow to the ribs for Yelena to budge, following the redhead with a grumble and a muffled laugh under her breath, but they left. Finally. It was only as you heard the door click shut that you sucked in a breath for the first time in what felt like hours, the sound shaky in the echo of the tiled room. 

“They still giving you grief?” Bucky asked, stepping inside.

You let out a humourless laugh. “Grief is a polite way of putting it.” 

You finally abandoned your post by the mirror, hopping down from the counter, the cold tiles slapping against your bare feet.

A lot had changed in the weeks since the beach house. The secret about you and Bucky was hardly a secret anymore; idle gossip whispered in the hallways whenever agents didn’t think you were listening. Nothing concrete, nothing official. But everyone had their theories: if you weren’t dating, then clearly you were fucking; if you weren’t fucking, then clearly you were lying about it.

But, idle gossip hadn’t been your priority. You’d spent more nights than you cared to admit tangled in Bucky’s sheets, keeping him blissed-out enough that he didn’t have the time or the brain function to ponder the questions and observations you knew were simmering beneath the surface. 

Your only focus was on the progress of the Karpin mission. 

The Karpin buyer had finally taken the bait. He was going to be at the club, supposedly to meet with Karpin, who was none the wiser that his communication had been hijacked. You weren't even sure if Karpin was in the country; the last time you had seen him, he had been muttering about private yachts in Greece. 

But the trap was set nevertheless.

And you—lucky you—were the bait.

And the plan, at least on paper, was simple: seduce and stall. It was a set-up, a sting operation. Get close to the buyer, keep him there until the team infiltrated the club and took out any potential threats. You’d pretend to be one of the club’s girls, just another party favour, and continue the persona you’d so carefully built over months of intel missions. 

Bucky would be posted nearby, disguised as a security guard. When he gave the signal through the coms, the op would go loud. You still weren’t sure why he had volunteered to be a part of your cover, nor why anyone had agreed to let him play that part. The clubs were sensory hell—loud music, flashing lights, strangers pressing in from all sides, slick and skin… maybe he wanted to keep you in arm’s reach. Maybe he didn’t trust the plan. Maybe he didn’t trust other people with you if things went sideways.

S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t been able to get a full ID on the buyer. The messages had been encrypted, and the timeline of price negotiation meetings was too vague to piece together and pull intel on. There was always a chance it was a trap. Always that risk that you were familiar with—it wouldn’t be the first time you had to bullshit your way through an undercover disaster when your cover was blown. 

Maybe Bucky was showing his first streak of protectiveness because everyone knew you were going in essentially unarmed—nothing put a wire tucked somewhere discreet, a knife strapped to your thigh. No one would trust a stripper with a gun strapped to her thigh, for gods sake, and it was near impossible to conceal such a weapon in the outfits you had to wear. Your true weapon was your wit at this rate. 

There would be no guns, no do-overs, no margin for error. 

You were, quite literally, bringing a knife to a gun fight.

You turned to Bucky then, studying his face, trying to read all the things he wasn’t saying.  “You sure you want to do this?” you asked quietly.

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of exhale that said he was tired of being asked. You’d asked a dozen times. The team had too.

"Yes."

“The club’s going to be packed,” you reminded him. “Everyone’s either drunk or high—”

“I know.”

“It’s not too late to back out.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. His voice was quieter this time, but resolute.

“I know,” he repeated. “And I’m sure.”

A knot tightened in your chest, but you forced motion into your limbs, brushing past him, the hem of your robe whispering against your calves as you padded barefoot out of the bathroom and into your walk-in wardrobe. He followed, of course. Hovering. 

“They’re gonna talk, you know,” you muttered over your shoulder. Bucky lingered by the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame as you sifted through hangers with far more aggression than garment bags deserved.

“Who?” he asked.

You pulled out your poison of choice—black, form-fitting, unapologetically indecent. It hugged the curves of your body like a second skin, the hem scandalously short and the neckline a deliberate plunge into sin. One glance at it and you knew: this was bait.

“Who do you think?” you scoffed, tossing the dress onto the ottoman behind you, ignoring the way Bucky’s breath hitched just seeing the fabric move.“The team. Downstairs. I’m sure Natasha and Yelena are already crafting a narrative about how you stopped by for a quickie before the mission.”

“Quickie?” 

“A quick fuck,” you clarified sweetly, glancing over your shoulder.

He made a strangled sound, and you grinned, delighted. 

“Oh, come on,” you teased as your fingers toyed with the tie of your robe. “You can’t be blushing over words like that. People at the club are going to say and do much worse.”

With a careless tug, the robe slipped off your shoulders and pooled at your feet.

He went very still.

You stepped out of it, bare-skinned except for a matching set of barely-there underwear—delicate lace and thin straps that left very little to the imagination. 

You knew exactly what kind of character you were slipping into. 

Bucky had turned every shade of pink, poker face cracked down the middle as he blinked, struggling to keep his gaze polite. Struggling and failing. 

You bent, unhurried, stepping into the dress. The fabric clung to your thighs, your hips, your ribs—hugging your body like it was sewn on.  

You faced him with a smirk. “Zip me up?”

From the way his pupils had blown, you estimated he was around 5 seconds away from actually jumping your bones. 

He didn’t answer in English. Or any language you recognised. Just a guttural little sound, like instinct had severed his connection to coherent thought. He moved like instinct had hijacked his body, stepping into your space before thought could catch up. You swept your hair over one shoulder, baring the length of your spine. His breath stuttered. Then his fingers were on you in an instant. They skated down the dip of your back, tracing the curve of your waist, lingering like he was memorising every notch of your spine before he even touched the zipper. When his thumb brushed the start of the seam, you swear you felt the ghost of his lips follow, even though he hadn’t moved.

He drew the zipper upward in a slow, deliberate pull. The dress hugged you as it closed, and his knuckles dragged along your bare skin the whole way up, sending a shiver rolling through your body. You exhaled a shaky breath, chest rising as his fingers wandered—light, exploring—along your shoulder blades, dipping into the hollow just below your neck.

“I know I keep saying this,” you murmured, your voice betraying the tremor running through you, “but there’s no reason for you to force yourself into this mission.”

His touch froze for a heartbeat.

“It’s going to be… a lot,” you continued. “Hot, sticky, dirty. People won’t just look—they’ll want to touch you. Touch me. Over clothes, under clothes. Half the club is basically a glorified sex club disguised as a nightclub. You know that, right?” 

You heard him swallow thickly behind you. 

“They’ll say filthy shit, grab you without asking—” You turned, meeting his gaze through your lashes. “I know you. I know how this stuff gets under your skin.” 

“Or it might even…” You let the words drip slowly, “make you jealous?”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes told you everything. His gaze darkened, jaw ticking, and his hand—still at your back—curled just slightly, tension pulling through his fingers.

“These kinds of places, they’re messy. Not a blood and guts type of messy, I mean bodily fluids in the bathroom kind of messy—” His gaze burned into you, throat bobbing. You went on, unable to stop yourself now. “People fucking in corners, doing lines off strangers—”

“I want to do this.” He interrupted quietly but firmly. 

You wavered, chewing your lip, “Just…if it gets too much, it’s okay to tap out. Safe word, signal, whatever. We go. No questions asked—”

"I want to do this." He reiterated.

“…Okay,” you whispered. Hands up, mock-surrender. “Okay.”

You almost kissed him. God, you nearly did. Something about the earnestness in his eyes, the desire simmering right beneath it, pulled you forward like a riptide. But one glance at your lipstick in the mirror reminded you of the absolute clownery you’d invite if you walked out with it smeared across both your faces. Natasha would never let you live it down.

So instead, you just smiled, fingers grazing his knuckles as you brushed past him again.

Peeling him out of that suit piece by piece would have to wait.

Later. Much later.

 

The club swallowed you whole the moment you crossed the threshold. 

Heat rolled off the crowd in suffocating waves, thick with perfume, sweat, spirits and that faint chemical tang of designer drugs. The bass wasn’t heard so much as felt, vibrating through the walls, the floor, your ribs. From above, strobes painted the sea of bodies in fractured slashes of colour, red, violet, electric blue. Every surface had a sheen to it—slick palms, damp skin, mouths pressed to necks, hands slipping where they shouldn’t. The crowd didn’t move so much as writhe, one heavy mass of groping limbs and open mouths. 

You had slipped into your role instantly, posture loose and fluid. The regulars recognised you, eyes lighting up, faces turning your way as though you were a beacon in the dark, their bodies leaning close enough that hot breath damped your cheek. 

Behind you, Bucky weaved his way through the crowd. He blended in as well as he could, suit and tie, forged security tag, and expressed boredom in a way that mimicked the real club bouncers. Unlike them, his gaze never left you. He tracked every inch of your path, every hand that skimmed too close, every drunk body that staggered into your route. 

And the crowd noticed him too, thinly veiled lust behind dilated pupils. 

You had to try your best not to look back at him, not to appear too concerned as hands dragged over his chest, fingers curling around his bicep as hungry club-goers tried to pull him further into the depths. 

All you could do was push deeper into the throng. 

A sweaty man bumped into you, hands braced on your hips to steady himself, his laughter loud and slurred. You played it off with a breathy giggle and a light shove, slipping sideways through a knot of dancers.

The further you pushed, the denser the crush became. Someone tugged your arm, another your waist. A wandering hand slid across the back of your thigh, up towards your ass. 

You threw a look over your shoulder.

Bucky had freed himself from the grasp of a pack of women wearing bachelorette sashes, and just from one look at his expression, you could tell he was hanging by a thread. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought you heard his teeth grind. His eyes had gone glacial, pupils narrowed to pinpricks, focused on a man whose hand was cupping your tit. He took one deliberate step forward, cutting through the crowd with a lethal expression.

You raised a hand—don’t—but it was too late. 

The drunken man yanked you closer, slurring something into your ear as his grip tightened.

Bucky closed the distance in a heartbeat. One hand clamped down on the man’s wrist—the left—gloved fingers locking with deadly strength. The man yelped as vibranium likely came close to shattering bone, but the music swallowed his cry.  

“Hands,” Bucky growled, voice loud enough to be heard even over the music, “off.”

You gripped Bucky’s right bicep, nails digging into the suit fabric in warning. Only then did he release the squirming drunkard.

The man staggered back, ripping his wrist away and rubbing it. “It’s a fuckin’ club man—she came onto me—”

“Try again,” Bucky warned, stepping into his space. 

You quickly slid yourself between them, smoothing a hand up Bucky’s arm, squeezing him in a second, silent reminder. Stop it. Pull it together. Just enough to drag him out of his blind rage. 

“Hey,” you breathed, leaning close under the pretence of whispering something provocative into the drunk man’s ear. “I’m working in a private room tonight. Book earlier next time, baby.”

The guy blinked, the promise enough to soothe his bruised ego. He stumbled off into the crowd, muttering, already forgetting you.

But Bucky… Bucky didn’t move.

You turned toward him, your hand still on his bicep. His heart was pounding so hard you could feel it through his shirt. His breaths were short, barely contained.

“Buck,” you whispered, voice soft enough that only he could hear. “Eyes on me. Not them.”

He didn’t answer, but his jaw eased a fraction.

“You can’t lose it here,” you murmured, thumb brushing the inside of his elbow. “Look at me.”

His gaze finally met yours.

Cold, furious, protective to the point of recklessness. But at least he was now present.

You smiled—your club girl smile, sweet and sinful—and gave his wrist a tiny squeeze, a subtle command disguised as flirtation.

“Good,” you whispered, and then you turned, guiding him with your body through the last of the crush.

The music shifted as you approached the stairwell, the pounding bass thinning into a muffled throb as the air cooled. Guards at the bottom nodded at you, familiar in the easy, sleazy way that came from months of intel work.

“Thought you were off tonight,” one of them drawled, eyes tracing you from head to toe with unashamed hunger.

“Special client,” you said with a saccharine smile. “You know how it is.”

The guard’s gaze slid past you to Bucky—big, silent, glowering like a storm cloud in a suit—and the smile dropped right off his face. “Must be a big fish if he’s got his own security.”

Bucky only crossed his arms, muscles shifting under the fabric, making the guard subtly reposition his stance. And that was the problem. New guys didn’t just show up on nights like this without months of groundwork, flirting with staff, getting friendly with bartenders, collecting gossip, and making himself known. Anyone new skulking around on a night this important would’ve been shoved right back out onto barricade duty.

If he’d tried to come in as a newbie, he would’ve barely made it past the main dancefloor, let alone into the back rooms.

So tonight, he wasn’t a new hire. He wasn’t even American. He was the foreign muscle of your newly arrived, invisible, allegedly very powerful Russian client. The plan hinged on the fact that no one at this club had ever met the man. Not the guards, not the management, not the dancers—he only existed in encrypted messages run through middlemen like the Brandon kid.

Once you reached the buyer, Bucky would flip identities, sliding seamlessly into the role of one of Karpin’s men.

“Don’t worry,” you said lightly, giving Bucky’s tie a playful tug, like he was your expensive accessory rather than a weapon. “He’s Russian like the rest. Doesn’t speak a word of English. You can say anything in front of him, he wouldn’t have a clue.”

Bucky looked down at you with perfectly timed irritation, flicking your hand away as if you were a nuisance. A little act, a little disdain, the kind that fit the character.

“Kinda creepy,” the guard muttered, but he stepped aside and lifted the velvet rope anyway.

You swept past him with a wink and the faint click of your heels, Bucky trailing close enough that you could feel his presence at your spine.

Upstairs, the VIP corridor stretched long and narrow, lit by moody pinks and blues that smeared across the polished floors. The throb of the main floor softened into a heavy pulse through the walls, the riot of voices reduced to a distant roar enough to hear the occasional laugh or moan behind a closed door. The air here smelled of perfume, expensive vodka, and the faint acrid bite of cleaning agents used between clients.

Girls lounged along the walls and alcoves, draped in lace or leather, sequins or mesh. Some perched on velvet benches, others leaned on doorframes, all of them eyeing Bucky with a mixture of curiosity and unabashed desire as he followed behind you.

“Hey, baby,” one of the dancers crooned, sliding a manicured hand through her curls. “Didn’t realise you were working tonight.”

“I got a call,” you said with a smirk, adjusting the hem of your dress like you’d rushed to get ready. “Another one of them fancy Russians.”

“Figures,” she laughed, though her gaze snapped right back to Bucky, drinking him in with slow, predatory appreciation. “And who,” she purred, “is this handsome man?”

Bucky didn’t react, remaining perfectly still behind you, barely even breathing.

“Security,” you said with a shrug, tilting your head toward him. “One of the client’s boys. Doesn’t speak English. Only Russian. Apparently, watching me strip to check for wires was very necessary.”

“Oh,” she giggled, suddenly even more interested.

You turned your head just enough to murmur up at Bucky, words switching into Russian. “Careful, they’re watching.”

His jaw twitched—barely—but he replied low and guttural. “I don’t want her touching me.” 

You didn’t have the luxury of soothing him. The dancer didn’t notice the strain in both your voices. She was too busy practically undressing him with her eyes. And that should’ve been funny, or flattering, or at least unsurprising. But instead, jealousy flared sharp and mean under your ribs, quick as a spark on dry tinder. Ridiculous. Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Still, you used it.

“Play along,” you instructed. 

And he did—God help you, he did.

When you turned back to the dancer, you caught Bucky shifting his weight, leaning just slightly toward her as though he were interested. His gaze tracked her legs, deliberate and slow, and it was such a good performance you felt rage punch you dead-centre.

“Didn’t realise you spoke Russian too, honey.” Though the dancer wasn’t even looking at you anymore, instead her cheeks warmed under Bucky’s stare. She tucked a curl behind her ear, eyelashes batting. 

“Mm-hm. My grandmother was Russian.” A blatant lie, but you delivered it with such effortless confidence that it slid into the air like truth. “Picked up bits and pieces.”

“Never pegged you for bilingual.”

“Multitalented,” you teased, brushing imaginary lint from your dress. She was not in any shape or form paying attention to you, not with Bucky filling the room.

“So, what is he saying?” she asked, giggling.

You laid a light hand on Bucky’s chest as if mediating the conversation, then answered with the sweetest, most effortless lie: “He thinks you’re pretty.”

Her smile turned dazzling.

Bucky dipped his chin in a stiff little nod, just enough to look eager, not enough to look too polite. It worked. Too well. She practically preened.

That jealousy flared again, stupid and hot.

You swallowed it and weaponised it.

“Well,” you drawled, looping a strand of hair behind your ear, letting the movement frame your throat, your smile, everything he wasn’t supposed to react to, “if I finish early with this very important client…”

Your gaze slid to Bucky, lingering just long enough for the dancer to follow your line of sight. “…you could always come find him. See if you can squeeze out a few tips—” Your fingers brushed Bucky’s tie, the barest tease. “—or maybe a good time out of him.”

The dancer practically purred. Resentment coiled, even though this was your idea, even though this was supposed to be the act.

You cleared your throat, letting the moment loiter just enough to burn, then stepped back.

“Russians,” you added airily, “they always leave big tips.”

She burst into delighted giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. The sight made you nauseous enough you had to turn around, busying yourself with examining one of the expensive, frosted bottles of vodka in the bottle cart. 

The smallest incline of your head was all it took to have Bucky back at your side, away from the grasp of the dancer. A soldier stepping into place. Your soldier.

“Duty calls,” you told the girl, voice honey-sweet again. “We’ll catch up later.”

“Don’t keep me waiting,” she teased.

“Oh, we won’t,” you shot back with a grin you didn’t feel.

You let the corridor swallow you both as you stepped deeper into the VIP wing, only speaking once the other girls were out of earshot. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He said it too quickly. Too clipped. You knew him well enough by now to hear the truth snagged under the word

You could feel it. His stride matched yours, but his posture gave him away: shoulders squared too hard, jaw clenched tight, his breath a shade too heavy. You could feel the vibration of his agitation pulsing off him. He was one bad interaction away from snapping someone’s neck.

You slowed, letting your hand brush his forearm. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, glancing back at him. “I didn’t mean to push you—”

“I’m fine.”

“We can stop, no questions asked—”

“I said I’m fine.” His tone made you jolt a little, a barely constrained strain at the edges. “I just—I didn’t—”

“Expect it to be like this?” you finished for him gently.

“No.” He shook his head once, sucking in a sharp breath. “Expect it to be so hard to watch how these people treat you. How they look at you. Touch you like—”

“I know.” You stepped closer, hand smoothing down his arm. “Just a little longer and it’s—”

A door down the hall swung open with a hollow thud. A businessman stumbled out, wasted, belt half-unbuckled, followed by a cloud of overpriced cologne. Even with the smallest glance at him over Bucky’s shoulder, you…

You recognised him.

One of the regulars, a buddy of Karpin, a dirty bank guy who helped with the money laundering. Loved to snort coke off anything with tits, who would definitely question why you were here if Karpin was off on his yacht in Mykonos— 

Your instincts clicked into place. 

Without hesitation, you grabbed Bucky’s chest and shoved him lightly back against the wall, your body shielding his startled expression. This wasn’t the time for loose ends; for this plan to work, everyone needed to believe you were here on Karpin’s order. You rose onto your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, urgent and low. “Play along, feel me up—”

His reaction was immediate, too quick to be a conscious thought; you hadn’t even finished your sentence.

One heartbeat, the businessman was approaching, the next, Bucky’s hands were on your hips, steering you with a sureness that stole your breath. This was not the Bucky you had taunted all those months ago, the Bucky who could hardly look at you without combusting. He was a changed man, and you couldn’t help but wonder—breathlessly, dreamily—if the effect you’d had on him was truly this significant. He spun you into the shadowed corner of the hallway, pressing you back against the wall. You barely had time to inhale before his leg shoved between yours, pushing them apart. He hooked a gloved hand around your knee, hiking one of your legs up around his waist, locking it in place while your heel dug instinctively into the hard plane of his lower back. 

Your pulse stuttered, heat flooding through you as he caught both of your wrists in one large hand and pinned them high above your head, your back arching helplessly into him.

Then—god—the way he dipped his head.

His face found the hollow of your throat, breath hot, lips grazing a line up the column of your neck. His mouth crashed against your jawline, then your ear, open-mouthed, hot. To anyone walking by, you looked like a woman being thoroughly—and willingly—ravished. 

You couldn’t help it, even biting your bottom lip, a whine slipped through. It wasn’t even an act. Neither was the way you squirmed as leather-covered fingers traced up your thigh with practised intimacy, gripping your ass possessively through the thin black fabric of your dress. 

Your breath left you in a shuddering sigh, and the businessman walked past without blinking an eye. Bucky didn’t lift his face until the footsteps faded, didn’t release his grip until he was sure you were alone. But when he did, his head tilted back as he looked down at you in an unmistakable expression of bliss. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. Dark enough that, for a second, you caught your own reflection in them, flushed and stunned.

“You with me?” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes were still stormy, but his voice was steady.

“Always.”

It took you a beat too long to remember how to move, to remember that you were, in fact, still on a mission. It was like that with Bucky, too easy to get lost in the press of his body, the heat of his mouth, the faint, dangerous curve of a smile still tugging at his lips. His hand still lingered at your hips as you pulled away, helping you smooth your dress. 

You let out a laugh then, a soft, unbelieving giggle. Somewhere, some poor S.H.I.E.L.D. intern was going to have to scrub through the audio feed of that entire exchange, and the thought was just enough to clear your head. Mostly. Bucky’s mouth not being pressed to your throat helped, too. You straightened, rolling your shoulders back as the haze finally lifted. Just like that, you both snapped back into place, postures shifting, expressions settling, masks sliding on. Professionals again.

“Ready to catch this bastard?” 

His answer came without hesitation. “Lead the way.”

The door to the private room loomed ahead, only a few doors down from what could’ve been your ruin if you’d let lust get the better of you. You reached for the handle, already swaying into character, hips loose, smile sultry. This part was familiar, easy. The role slid onto you like a second skin. 

The steady pulse of music should’ve helped you find your rhythm. 

It didn’t. 

Because the moment you pushed through the doorway moments after Bucky had comm’d that both of you were going dark, the moment you set eyes on this mysterious buyer that had been taunting and evading shield for months, if not years… something inside you stalled. 

Red neon strips of light bled over the leather couches and a glass table, light catching on a half-melted bucket of ice. The man on the couch—he was relaxed in the way only powerful men ever managed: one ankle propped over his knee, arms spread along the backrest like he owned the entire damn building. He was watching you with the lazy, indulgent smugness of someone who thought the world existed to entertain him. 

You knew that posture, that predatory gaze.

You knew that man.

Not immediately. Not in the sharp, cinematic flash of a nightmare. It hit slower, first a sickening roll in your stomach, your pulse skipping a beat, then the prickling cold of goosebumps along the back of your neck. Ice poured down your spine, throat tightening, the horrible, solid click of a memory sliding into place—

You knew him. 

Your steps faltered, heels rooted in place.

He looked older. Grayer at the temples. Softer around the jaw. But his eyes, flat and sharklike, were exactly as you remembered. 

It was like that first painful, gasping breath after being underwater too long. You remembered—

Not his name, you’d never been granted that kind of respect. Kozlov? Korolev… Krasnov? It was all hazy now, the cloud of nights spent slung over couches, stretched out on beds, bruised knees on concrete floors, mouth open and waiting—

You remembered him hovering at Dreykov’s side. You remembered he whispered to Dreykov behind closed doors. You remembered the way he smirked during ‘evaluations’, during ‘re-educations’. You remembered the man who stood in the observation rooms reserved for board members, sipping dark liquor while the whip cracked down—

The Red Room was no more, the board was no more. You had to remind yourself, in that moment, you had to cling to that truth. But of course—of course—a man as sick as Korolev or Krasnov or whatever the fuck his name was would want his hands on super soldier serum. Of course, this entire criminal web looped back to the same rotting core. 

Your heart thudded hard enough that you felt it in your teeth. 

Beside you, Bucky halted. His hand brushed the middle of your back, barely a ghost of contact.

But it snapped you back into your body all the same.

Move.

Your body obeyed, and you let it. You allowed yourself to fall backwards into the familiar numbness, into the place where thinking hurt less. In that moment, you were no longer standing in a club under neon lights—you were a component slotted neatly back into the Red Room’s machinery. Another swallow, pliant and empty. Another girl reduced to a function, another offering laid at the altar of power. 

It was easier to let the old programming spool back up, to flatten yourself into obedience and silence. You had learned long ago that submission was a kind of prayer, one that kept the punishment brief. Freedom was a dangerous faith. Hope was heresy. Because forgetting was kinder than remembering, forgetting meant no grief for what you’d gained and might lose again. 

When the devil met your gaze and spoke your name, surrender felt like the only language left. You told yourself it would hurt less this way, that yielding might make the end sweet, the pain brief. Because when hell remembered you, resistance felt like vanity. And sometimes the softest lie you could tell yourself is that if you stepped willingly into the fire, it might choose to be merciful.

You slid a smile onto your face, sugary-sweet and lacquered on thick.

“Good evening,” you purred, letting the Russian drip warm from your tongue. Your hips resumed their usual sway, legs steady despite the lingering tremor. 

“Hello, beautiful,” he drawled, licking his lips. 

Beautiful. 

That made bile tickle the back of your throat.

You slid close, coat of disgust and terror tucked behind an easy smirk. When your legs threatened to shake, you leaned into the movement as though it were deliberate seduction. When your skin crawled, you let it fuel the slow trail of your fingers over his shoulders, directing his gaze exactly where you wanted it. 

And then, because it was what was expected—

You settled yourself neatly onto his lap. 

It took everything within you, every ounce of your steel will, not to flinch. 

A thousand memories pried at the seams of your mind—cold tile, latex gloves, the smell of antiseptic and blood, a thumb tilting your chin up—

He couldn’t know. He couldn’t. 

His thigh was solid beneath you. His hand immediately found the bare skin near the hem of your dress, fingers inching without permission. The feeling raised a quiver along your arms, but you forced the reaction into a breathy exhale, tilting your head as if you enjoyed it.

Bucky moved to his post by the door, every muscle tight beneath his suit. His eyes flicked between the two of you, professional mask on his face, but a storm gathering behind it. If he noticed you drowning, he didn’t show it. If the sight of you perched on another man's lap uncoiled anything inside him, he buried it deep.

You rose onto your knees, draping an arm over the back of the couch, leaning into the man just enough to keep up the illusion. Your voice was velvet when you spoke again, even as your stomach roiled. 

“Karpin will be here soon,” you hummed, low and sultry. “He asked me to make the wait… more enjoyable.”

The buyer’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “How generous of him,” he murmured. 

Generous.

Right. 

His breath smelled of whiskey and cigars. You swallowed the urge to spit in his face. But before you could respond, his attention shifted to the corner of the room, to Bucky, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Who is he?”

Bucky stepped forward just enough to be seen clearly, chin lifted, shoulders squared. 

“Security,” he replied smoothly. 

There was a tense beast, and then Bucky added with a respectful nod, though somewhat reluctantly, “I work for Karpin. He values your partnership greatly, so he sent me for your protection.”

The buyer grunted, accepting it without question. 

His focus dragged back to you, perched on his lap. “Show me your worth then, beautiful.”

You rolled your hips once, slow and deliberate, letting your body melt into the rhythm of the club below. His hands gripped your hips greedily, kneading. 

Your skin crawled, but your body moved like water. 

Just long enough, you just needed to keep his attention on you long enough for the others to infiltrate… Bucky had already given them the go-ahead; they were likely already closing in from the surrounding alleyways. 

You tossed your head back, hair cascading down your back in soft waves, light catching the glitter on your lids as you fluttered your lashes, biting down on your lip in faux pleasure. Your palms ran down his chest, the fabric smooth beneath your fingertips. His breath hitched in satisfaction, and you let your hips grind down again, the kind of movement that made men forget their names. 

Across the room, Bucky stood rigid. You could see him clearly reflected in the mirrored wall behind the couch. His jaw flexed. His eyes tracked your every moment, every movement of the target’s hands when they drifted too close. Every inch of space you surrendered in the name of the mission. 

He couldn’t move, couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t even glare too directly. 

Instead, he was stuck, left to watch helplessly.

Your body arched backwards, offering the buyer a clear view of your tits as you guided his hands up your thighs, up past your ribcage, until he was squeezing the soft mounds. You smirked at him, leaning closer to murmur into his ear, Russian like velvet. “What is your name?”

You traced a finger along the buyer’s jaw, caressing the bare skin. Your eyes flicked to Bucky’s reflection through the mirror for half a second—a tether. 

The buyer’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. 

“Klimov,” He replied. His hand was in your hair now, fingers sweeping through the strands as you continued to move, slow grind after slow grind. “But, you should know that, shouldn’t you, little swallow?” 

It knifed straight down your spine, stealing warmth from your limbs, turning them heavy and unresponsive. Shock landed so cleanly it robbed you of the seconds you needed to react. Your lungs seized before you could draw a full breath, ribcage locking as fear—

Kilmov’s fist tangled in your hair, and he yanked back hard.

Your spine slammed against his chest, a strangled cry catching in your throat as his forearm locked across your windpipe, sealing you into a crushing chokehold. Your heels scraped uselessly against the floor as you struggled for purchase, nails clawing at his arm as panic tore through you.

“Bucky, don’t—” You wheezed, but he was already moving. The gun was in his hand in a blink, drawn from inside his jacket. His stance was perfect, a predatory calm, barrel aimed squarely at the buyer’s skull.

Kilmov only laughed, a grotesque, triumphant sound vibrating against your back. 

“You know,” he rasped, tightening his grip until your pulse fluttered wildly under his arm, “maybe this pathetic little plan of yours would’ve worked if I didn’t recognise her.”

The bile you’d swallowed earlier surged back with vicious force, burning hot at the back of your throat. If you’d been able to breathe, if you weren’t being crushed under his arm, you might have vomited all over him.

Recognise her. 

There was a look that flashed across Bucky’s face, beyond the anger, beyond the desire to protect, and you could only describe it as horror.

Pure, unfiltered horror. 

Kilmov leaned in, his breath slithering across your cheek. His lips dragged wetly along your skin, smearing sweat and ruined makeup as he pressed his mouth close to your ear.

“I know this swallow, hm?” he purred, squeezing your throat for emphasis. “I had the privilege of helping train the little whore, and what a pleasure that was. I always liked trying to predict the sounds she would make.”

He hissed a low laugh. Bucky was trembling with barely contained rage. He was rigid, knuckles squeezed so tightly around the gun, you were surprised the handle hadn’t warped from the pressure. 

“I know she’s trying to gut me for information,” Kilmov growled, and he ground his face against yours, teeth grazing the corner of your jaw. “So tell me, beautiful, who do you work for these days? F.B.I? C.I.A? K.G.B?”

His tone dipped, amused.

“Who am I kidding?” he scoffed. “It’s S.H.I.E.L.D., isn’t it? Following in that Romanov bitch’s footsteps.”

Bucky’s grip on the gun tightened as the buyer’s fingers pressed harder, not just on your hair but along your waist, tracing the curve of your hip through the dress. He chuckled darkly in mock sympathy, tongue flicking over his lips.

“It would make sense,” he said, his grin spreading. “Gloved man who speaks my mother tongue… You must be the infamous Winter Soldier?”

The gun cocked. For a breathless moment, you were certain Bucky would pull the trigger anyway—line of fire be damned. But you were still between them. Still blocking the shot. Kilmov chuckled, delighted, tightening his chokehold until stars burst behind your eyes.

“Looks like I was right,” he gloated. “Only S.H.I.E.L.D. would be stupid enough to try something like this in the open. I suppose they didn’t expect me to recognise their little whore—”

Your vision blurred, edges bleeding together. Pain, humiliation, rage—it all burned too hot. You couldn’t let him keep talking. Couldn’t let Bucky hear what came next. Because once the truth was out there, once those stories you’d tried so hard to keep hidden were given life… You didn’t know if you could ever look Bucky in the eyes again. 

“You know, Soldier,” Kilmov went on, dragging his hand down to squeeze your breast through the dress. Bucky jumped slightly at that word, that title. Soldier—Soldat. “I’ve known her a long time. You can imagine the kind of training a swallow goes through to become something so… accommodating.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“I wonder,” he murmured, “do you think she remembers how I taste? I certainly remember how she did. Back in the glory days, Dreykov used to hand the swallows out like party favours.”

You struggled, but it was useless, stars dancing behind your eyes—

“Too easy, I would tell him.” He went on, smug. “Programmed to want it.”

Your fingers twitched toward your thigh.

You had to stop this. You had to stop this before it was too late, before any last form of autonomy of your own story, your own trauma was stolen from you—

“Sometimes,” Kilmov continued with a chuckle, revelling in Bucky’s furious expression. “Dreykov would mess with the programming… just so we could hear them screa—”

Your hand flashed to your thigh, fingers ripping the knife free from its hidden sheath with a desperate grip. For a fraction of a second, an eternity stretched thin, you saw it. The blade catching the red wash of neon, polished steel flaring crimson as you brought it down in a brutal, committed arc, aiming where you knew his femoral artery lay—

But he had expected it.

Kilmov’s fist came out of nowhere, a savage backhand that connected with a sickening crack. Your knife flew from your grip, clattering across the floor.  White-hot pain detonated across your face, so bright it obliterated thought entirely. Your vision burst into sparks, the world lurching violently sideways as blood flooded your nose and mouth in an instant, metallic and choking. You gasped reflexively—and inhaled it, going down hard.

Your knees buckled first, then your palms slapped the floor, skidding across something sticky as your body collapsed forward. The impact rattled your teeth. Your breath came in broken, panicked pulls, lungs burning as your vision doubled and swam. Blood poured freely now, running hot over your lips, down your chin, dripping onto the floor beneath you. The taste of iron was everywhere, sliding down your throat no matter how hard you swallowed.

Your head rang, a shrill, high-pitched whine drowning out everything else.

Above you, Kilmov loomed.

You barely registered him straightening, barely saw his hand dip inside his jacket as he reached for the pistol tucked there. Calm now, methodical, already preparing to finish what Dreykov had started years ago.

You didn’t even have time to scream.

A gunshot shattered the room, and you flinched, unsure if the bullet was destined for you—

That was, until Kilmov’s head came apart.

There was no warning—no drawn-out moment, no dramatic pause—just an explosive, wet rupture. Bone and blood burst outward in a violent spray, painting the mirror behind him in a grotesque arc of red. The glass shattered with a deafening crash as the bullet punched through, shards raining down alongside chunks of skull and matter that slapped wetly against the couch.

His body folded.

He collapsed beside you in a boneless heap. Blood poured freely now, pooling fast, spreading across the floor until it seeped around your fingers, warm and slick. You stared, stunned, as it touched your skin.

Your ears were ringing violently, the echo of the shot bouncing inside your skull. The room tilted. You tried to push yourself up, but your hands slid uselessly in the crimson smear, palms slippery. Your breath tore in and out of you, ragged and sharp, adrenaline clawing painfully at your ribs

Bucky’s shoes appeared in your blurred field of vision, then his knees hit the floor.  He cupped your face, thumbs smearing away blood that just kept coming, no matter how much he wiped.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice shaking despite the steel in his eyes. “Hey, look at me. Look at me.”

You did, but you couldn’t help the venom that tore through you—survival instinct lashing out, looking for something to bite. 

“Why did you do that?” You snapped. The sound of your own voice startled you with how ugly it sounded. “We needed him!”

It landed like a physical blow. You watched it hit him in real time, saw his shoulders stiffen, his hands falter before they dropped away from your face entirely. Remorse already blanketed you, smothering what little breath you had left. You knew the answer, you knew why he pulled the trigger—Kilmov was going to kill you, well and truly put a bullet in the back of your skull, and now you were punishing Bucky for it? But it was too late now, the words were already out, the snarl and teeth bared already perceived. Bucky withdrew, kneeling back on his heels. 

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” He muttered. “What's done is done.”

He turned, already moving, already gone somewhere cold and procedural. Guilt churned violently in your gut, mixing with the nausea already roiling there as he reached for his comms. His hands were steady, frighteningly so, muscle memory taking over where emotion had been shut down.

“Mission aborted, we need extraction now,” he said into the mic, voice flat. “I repeat, we need extraction. Over.”

“We need to do something about this body—” you mumbled, side-eyeing the corpse beside you, already feeling panic claw up your throat as your breath came in ragged pants.

“We don’t have the time.” He couldn’t even look you in the eyes as he spoke. 

“Bucky—” You begged.

He was adjusting his suit jacket now, already tucking the gun away, already resetting himself as you remained on the floor beneath him, shaking uncontrollably.

“Bucky, we can’t just leave—” Your voice broke. It cracked wide open, splitting something deep in your chest as a sob slipped out before you could stop it. You sucked in a shuddering breath, mortified and humiliated as your vision blurred completely. 

You were crying. 

You were crying in front of him. 

Down on all fours. Covered in blood—covered in literal brains. 

His head snapped toward you then, as if the sound startled him. Rage flared across his face, and as he stepped toward you, you realised his hands were shaking.

“We need to go,” he said. And for the first time since the shot rang out, his voice wasn’t steady at all.

His hand locked around your wrist, and he hauled you upright, already moving, already dragging you back the way you’d come. You registered it distantly as you tore through the back hallways, busting through the doors into the main club. It swallowed you whole, lights too bright, music too loud, bodies pressing in. 

You were bleeding openly, sobbing uncontrollably as you blindly followed Bucky into the sea of bodies. Heads turned, faces twisted in confusion as blood streaked down your mouth and chin. Fresh tears blurred your vision, spilling without permission, chest hitching. 

“Keep moving,” Bucky growled back at you, not unkind but urgent. 

He didn’t slow, didn’t let go. He carved a path through the crowd with the sheer force of presence, shoulder-checking men who protested, ignoring the shouted complaints, the startled gasps. A dancer you vaguely recognised reached for you instinctively, eyes wide.

“Oh my god—are you—?”

Bucky swerved around her, pulling you close to his side, his arm briefly bracing your back when your knees threatened to fold. You stumbled, the bass from the speakers pounding through your skull. The club blurred into fragments, flashing neon, spilt drinks, laughter, and someone shouting for security. Your tears kept coming, streaking through the blood and makeup on your face as you fought to keep your feet under you.

Bucky, knowing he couldn’t just drag you through the front door, pivoted, pulling you behind the main dance stage, bursting into the dancers’ prep area.

Chaos erupted.

Girls shrieked, scrambling to cover themselves, grabbing robes and towels as Bucky charged through like a freight train. Someone screamed your name—not your real name, your cover name—another voice yelling what the fuck happened, but you were already past them, tugged through mirrors and makeup lights and the sting of hairspray in the air.

Your heel caught on the threshold as you hit the back door—

You went down hard, the impact jarring straight through your bones, pain flaring white-hot in your knee and ankle. You barely had time to register it before Bucky swore and hauled you back upright by sheer force. One shoe stayed behind, lost in the process as Bucky continued to tug you along, limping. He didn’t slow. The door banged open and cold night air slammed into your face, stealing your breath as you stumbled into the alley, one foot bare against damp grit and broken glass. The sounds of the city, cars honking, distant sirens, and chatter engulfed you as the bass of the club became distant. 

The others were waiting near the end of the alley. Sam hovered near the corner that led to the main street, half-hidden, eyes scanning for the extraction vans. Tony paced like a caged animal, hands raking through his hair, jaw clenched tight. Steve stood rigid beside Natasha, tension radiating off him in quiet, coiled lines as he muttered.

They turned as one—and froze.

For half a second, the alley went dead silent.

You were a wreck. Blood streaked down your face unchecked, your nose still pouring, tears cutting tracks through smeared makeup you hadn’t meant to cry away. Your dress hung wrong on your body, one strap twisted, hem riding up, one heel gone, your knee scraped raw and bleeding. You were shaking so hard you could hear your teeth chatter.

If anyone spoke to you, if anyone gasped your name in concern or horror, you didn’t hear it. Bucky let go of your wrist abruptly, jaw ticking as he stalked toward Tony just as the billionaire exploded.

“What the fuck was that?” Tony barked, arms thrown wide. “You were in there five seconds—we didn’t even breach—”

The world tilted.

You took two unsteady steps before the vertigo slammed into you full force, a violent lurch that made the alley roll and warp like a ship in heavy seas. You caught yourself against the brick wall, palm scraping rough stone as your vision blurred and narrowed. The bass from the club still echoed faintly, blending with the ringing in your ears.

Somewhere nearby, voices rose—Tony swearing, Bucky’s snarling back in response, Steve trying to cut between them—but it all sounded distant, distorted, like it was happening several rooms away. Your breath hitched, sobs clawing their way out of your chest as the panic began to coil tight and merciless.

The nausea surged.

It started low, a sickening churn that rolled up through your gut. Acid pooled at the back of your throat. You lurched forward instinctively, hands outstretched, trying to reach him, trying to reach Bucky. Your Bucky. Embarrassment burned sharp and relentless as you stumbled, your thoughts spiralling faster than you could grab hold of them.

Why had you snapped at him? Why had you allowed the fear to seize you? You were furious—at yourself, at the world, at this whole fucked up situation that had dragged you back into something you had fought so hard to bury. You had tried to change and tried to be better. Tried to be more than what they had made you.

But standing here, bleeding and shaking, it felt like it had all been a lie.

When you searched for the source of the sickness clawing through you, only one thing answered: shame. Bucky, who had looked at you like you were something good. Something worth protecting. Bucky, who had trusted you, who had been lulled into the false security of thinking he truly knew you… He could see you for who you truly were now. For what you truly were. 

You were weak. 

Pathetic. 

Selfish. 

Afraid.

“He’s dead!” Bucky shouted somewhere in front of you, his voice slicing through the static buzzing in your ears. “I shot him. And I’d do it fuckin’ again if I had to—”

“You shot him?” Tony snapped back, incredulous. “You shot the one person we needed alive? Barnes, can you even hear yourself, you absolute fucking idiot—”

Steve stepped in immediately, blocking the men with his body as tensions and hackles rose. “That’s enough. Save it for the debrief.”

Tony was laughing bitterly, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this, I genuinely can’t believe what a royal fuck-up you are—”

Your stomach clenched violently.

You barely had time to turn before it hit.

You doubled over beside the dumpsters, retching hard, your body folding in on itself as bile burned up your throat and spilt from your mouth. The force of it made your head swim, your vision flashing black as blood poured freely from your nose, splattering dark against the concrete below. Your throat burned, your eyes watered, your whole body convulsed as another heave tore through you.

“Jesus—” Tony muttered. “Is she drunk? What the fuck is happening? Have I died and gone to hell—?”

Natasha was there instantly, crouching close, hands gentle but insistent as she tried to steady you, to brush your hair back from your face. “Hey—hey, it’s okay. You’re in shock—”

“Don’t,” you snarled, panic detonating through your chest. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

The alley went dead silent.

Tony cut off mid-rant, mouth still open, disbelief flashing across his face. Sam froze where he stood between Bucky and Tony, hands half-raised, eyes snapping to you. Even Steve stilled, the tension in his posture shifting like even he was startled by your outburst. 

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at Bucky to see his reaction.

Natasha flinched as if you had struck her.

Real hurt crossed her face before she masked it. She withdrew slowly, deliberately, palms lifting in a wordless show of surrender, eyes never leaving yours.

“I—” The word tried to form, shame crashing into you a split second too late. You didn’t mean—

But your body didn’t give you the chance.

You retched again, but nothing came this time. Your body spasmed uselessly, dry heaving, throat raw and aching as you gagged against empty air. One hand braced against the brick wall, knuckles whitening, while the other pressed uselessly to your stomach.

The vertigo surged as the adrenaline finally burned out of your system. Sounds became distant, muffled, like you were underwater. Behind you, voices overlapped—Sam stepping between Bucky and Tony, Steve pleading for calm—but it all blurred into noise.

All you could do was squeeze your eyes shut and let the panic take you, heart hammering wildly as the world spun and spun and spun—

You folded in on yourself.

Arms wrapped tight around your ribs like you could hold yourself together if you squeezed hard enough, you curled forward, forehead nearly touching your knees as another sob finally broke loose. It tore out of you ugly and unrestrained, a sound you didn’t recognise as your own. Your shoulders hitched violently, breath stuttering, lungs refusing to cooperate as panic fully sank its claws in. The alley felt too narrow, the walls pressing inward, the smell of garbage and blood and cold night air clogging your throat.

And the world, the world wouldn’t stop fucking spinning—

You rocked slightly where you crouched, hands clawing at your arms.

Then the alley exploded into motion.

Engines roared from the mouth of the street, headlights flooding the narrow space in blinding white. Vans screeched to a halt, tyres screaming against concrete as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents clambered out. 

You barely registered it.

Someone was shouting your name. Someone else was telling you to get up, to move. The noise pressed in on you from all sides, compounding the panic until your chest felt like it was caving in. You shook harder, teeth chattering uncontrollably, breath coming in shallow, broken pulls that didn’t feel like they were doing anything at all.

“I—I can’t—” The words came out strangled, barely audible beneath your sobbing. Your legs felt useless, locked in place, disconnected from your brain.

Then Bucky was there.

He strode straight through the chaos and scooped you up like you weighed nothing. One arm braced under your knees, the other solid and immovable around your back. The sudden change in position made your stomach lurch, but the moment your body left the ground, instinct took over.

You buried your face into his chest.

The scent of him cut through the fog just enough to anchor you. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead against his collarbone as if you could will the spinning to stop, as if hiding there might make the world quiet again.

“I got her,” Bucky said curtly as he climbed into the van. “Go.”

The doors slammed shut behind you, metal ringing loud and final as the engine revved. The van careened forward hard, tyres shrieking as it peeled away from the alley, the city lights streaking past the narrow windows.

Bucky sat with you in his lap, one arm locked securely around your back, the other bracing you against his chest as you shook violently. Your teeth clattered so hard your jaw ached. You clutched at his jacket with trembling fingers, breath hitching over and over as sobs continued to tear free.

He cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, careful not to tug. His other hand slid up and down your spine in slow, steady, deliberate strokes.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, close to your ear. “I’ve got you.”

You felt him press his cheek lightly against the top of your head, shielding you from the stares, from the noise, from everything.“It’s okay,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re safe. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-archive and turn on post notifications! <3

[artficlly-archive]

we're so back

[floraslcve]

the fact that i was re-reading ‘show me again’ when i saw the notification 🤭 missed your work !! this series is getting better at every chapter, it’s INSANE. the way you create characters and write dialogue omg where do i even begin… !! lovelovelove. speaking of ‘show me again’ i was wondering if you will write a second chapter, ofc i’m not pressuring or anything, just curious if it was in the cards for you ♡ sending love and keep up the good work, you’re great

[floraslcve]

can’t wait to know what personality won this year (spotify wrapped)

[floraslcve]

the holy trinity.

[floraslcve]

natalie portman and christian bale on set of ‘knight of cups’ (2015) by terrence malick

these pictures live rent free in my head

[floraslcve]

kirsten dunst and jason schwartzman on the set of marie antoinette (2006)