Hiiiii guys. So it’s been a while since I’ve been on here…oops heheh. Life has been strange lately. Got into a really bad situationship early last year and it distracted me from my writing. Killed all the joy I had in my hobbies and interests hehe but anyway…
GOOD NEWS. I have my first serious boyfriend!! Like I love this man so freaking much. He means everything in the world to me. He’s the jealous type tho (which I love) so idk how he’d feel finding all this writing. I hope when I am able to tell him he’s supportive (which I know he will be) and doesn’t freak. Cause as much as Bucky means to me he was just a creative outlet for the stories I had in my head. Easy to write about a character you know than to make one up physically. Idk. I’m going to start reviewing my old writing again and possibly make edits where there needs to be when I get the time. Anyway, I love my boyfriend so much and he means the world. Hehehehe
Summary: Forged in darkness and marked by scars, Soldat is freed by chance. Wounded and lost, he follows the hand that touched him without command.
Word Count: 6.3k.
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The days started to shorten, and James had begun venturing into the garden even when she was away at the clinic. His initial terror of exposure gradually gave way to a certain sense of comfort with the open space. She would return to find evidence of his diligence everywhere: weeds meticulously removed from between the herb rows, fallen apples gathered and sorted, the wooden fence mended where weather had loosened the posts.
Additionally, he began to speak more frequently. It still cost him, but he had a way with words now, and he made himself understood.
"You've been busy again," she said one afternoon, noting how the entire vegetable plot had been turned and prepared for winter planting. The work was thorough, precise, and far more extensive than necessary.
He nodded from where he knelt by the fire, tending the logs with the same carefulness he applied to everything else. Seeing him there, with his hair loose and sleeves rolled up from his labor, made something warm and complex tug in her heart.
"James," she continued gently, setting down her satchel. "You don't need to work from dawn to dusk. The garden is beautiful, but it's not going anywhere."
His hands stilled on the poker he'd been using to adjust the flames. She could see the tension in his shoulders at what he clearly interpreted as criticism.
"I- enjoy work," he said quietly, the words careful and measured.
"I know you do. But enjoyment and compulsion aren't the same thing." She moved closer, noting how his posture straightened unconsciously at her approach. "When did you last sit somewhere just to watch the clouds? Or read something for pleasure? Or... I don't know, find something that makes you smile without it being useful?"
He looked at her with genuine confusion, as if she'd suggested he try breathing underwater.
"Leisure," she explained, settling into the chair across from him. "Time that belongs entirely to you, with no purpose beyond whatever you choose to give it."
The concept seemed to pain him physically. His brow furrowed with the same concentration he applied to complex tasks, trying to parse meaning from her words.
"House needs-"
"The house is perfect," she interrupted gently. "More than perfect. It's so well-maintained that sometimes I wonder if I'm living in a manor rather than a cottage."
That earned her something that might have been the ghost of a smile, quickly suppressed.
"You matter beyond what you can do," she continued, watching his face carefully. "Your worth isn't measured by how useful you are."
He stared at her for a long moment, and she could see him struggling with concepts that ran counter to everything he'd been taught to believe about himself.
"Try," she said finally. "Just try to find one thing each day that you do simply because it pleases you. Not because it needs to be done, not because it helps anyone else. Just because you want to."
He nodded slowly, though she could see he had no idea how to comply with such a request.
The following days brought subtle changes. She would find him sitting on the garden bench in the late afternoon, not working but simply watching the light change through the apple tree's branches. Once, she discovered him in the kitchen, having arranged her dried herbs not by function but by color, creating patterns that served no purpose except beauty.
But if his relationship with leisure remained tentative, his relationship with proximity had become decidedly more determined.
He found reasons to be near her constantly. Fetching her things from high shelves when she cooked. Carrying her bag when she prepared for work. Standing close enough while she read that she could feel the warmth of his body.
The contact had become bolder, too. His hand would brush hers when he passed her tools. His shoulder would press against hers as they worked side by side at the kitchen counter. Once, when she'd been reaching for something in the high cupboard, he'd appeared behind her, brushing his chest against her back as he retrieved the item she'd been struggling to reach.
"Here," he'd murmured, the word was warm against her ear, and she'd had to grip the counter to compose herself.
Each touch was brief, easily explained by their shared domestic space. But there was an intention in them that made her hyperaware of every point of contact.
She told herself it was natural. He was learning to trust human touch again, and she was the only safe person in his world right now. Of course, he would seek comfort through proximity. It was a sign of healing, not... whatever dangerous thing her mind insisted on making of it.
But when he looked at her during these moments of contact, she saw something in his blue eyes that had nothing to do with healing.
----
It was a cold afternoon in late October when she returned from town with more than just her usual supplies. The encounter had been brief, barely worth mentioning, but something about it persisted in her mind like an itch.
"I ran into Thomas on the main road," she said casually, as she unpacked her purchases. "He asked after your recovery."
James went very still where he'd been arranging firewood by the hearth. She noticed how his hands paused mid-motion, how his breathing changed almost imperceptibly.
"He seemed quite concerned," she continued, sorting through the vegetables she'd bought. "He mentioned that he hadn't seen you about the property lately when he delivered wood to the neighbors. Asked if you were... settling in well."
The silence stretched long enough that she turned to fully look at him. He was standing now, the wood forgotten, focusing his attention entirely on her with that intensity she'd learned to recognize as significant.
"He was very solicitous," she added, not entirely sure why she was sharing these details. "Even offered to check on us more frequently, make sure we had everything we needed for winter."
Something flashed across his features. It was gone so quickly she almost missed it. But for just a moment, his expression had been utterly cold, calculating in a way that made her breath catch.
"Kind," he said with careful neutrality.
"Yes, very kind," she agreed, though something in his tone made her study his face with more detail. "Though I told him it wasn't necessary. We manage quite well on our own."
"Good."
The word struck her with more force than she'd expected, and she saw him catch himself immediately, changing back his posture toward the careful deference she'd grown accustomed to.
"Mean," he said quickly, "that it's... good that you told him. We don't need... outside help."
There was something almost possessive in the way he said we, a sense of ownership that should have concerned her, but instead sent an unexpected thrill through her body.
"No," she agreed softly, watching how his shoulders relaxed at her confirmation. "We don't need outside help."
He moved toward her then, ostensibly to help put away the supplies she'd brought, but she noticed how he positioned himself between her and the door. How his movements had become measured, which revealed complete attention.
"Did he... say anything else?" he asked.
She paused her unpacking, caught by something in his tone. "Such as?"
"About... us. About me… here."
The question had a weight she couldn't quite decipher. There was vulnerability in it, but also something sharper. Something that sounded almost like a threat assessment.
"He mentioned that caring for family must be difficult," she said slowly, studying his reaction. "Said I was... generous to take on such a task."
The change was immediate and unmistakable. Every line of his body went rigid, his hands closing into fists at his sides. For a moment, she saw something dangerous flash in his eyes, something that wasn’t precisely trauma, but predatory calculation.
"A task," he repeated, barely above a whisper.
"That's not how I see it," she said quickly, recognizing the distress in his posture. "I told him as much. You're not a burden, James. You're..."
She stopped, realizing she had no words for what he was to her. Family didn't quite ring a bell. Patient felt wrong. And anything else felt too dangerous to voice.
"You're a friend," she finished lamely.
He stared at her for a long moment, processing her words, testing them against whatever internal measure he used to evaluate his worth. Finally, some of the tension left his shoulders.
"Thomas," he said slowly, as if testing the name on his tongue. "He… before… came often?"
"Once a month for the wood delivery. Then some more if there were other supplies needed."
"And he... talks to you. Asks questions."
It wasn't really a question, and something in his tone made her suddenly conscious of how those conversations might appear to someone else. Thomas's assessing gaze, his offers of additional help, and the way he always seemed to find excuses to extend their interactions.
"He's friendly," she said carefully.
He nodded once, but there was something in his expression that made her think he'd filed that information away for future consideration. Then, he moved closer to where she stood, close enough that she could see the conflict playing out across his features. His hands hung at his sides, opening and closing.
"Do you..." he started, then stopped, as he struggled with the words. "Would it be... easier? If he helped instead?"
"Easier how?" she asked gently.
"He's... normal," he muttered, the word coming out rough and bitter. "Not..." He gestured vaguely at himself.
"James," she said softly, stepping closer to him. "Look at me."
He lifted his eyes reluctantly; there was desperate hope in his expression.
"Thomas doesn't make me laugh when he arranges my herbs by color instead of function," she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. "Thomas doesn't notice when I'm tired and banks the fire without being asked. Thomas doesn't sit with me in silence that feels more peaceful than any conversation."
He leaned into her touch with a sound that was part relief, part something else. His hand came up to cover hers, where it rested against his face.
For a moment, they stayed like that, her warm palm against his cheek, his fingers trembling slightly as they pressed her hand closer to his skin. Then, slowly, almost unconsciously, he turned his face into her palm.
The movement was instinctive, animal almost, the way he nuzzled against her hand, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathed in the scent of her skin. His stubble rasped gently against her palm as he rubbed his cheek against it, seeking more of that impossible softness.
The weeks of careful, stolen touches had been building to this moment where he could finally, openly, seek the comfort her touch provided.
When he opened his eyes again, they were bright with something raw and uncertain. He lifted his free hand hesitantly toward her other hand, ghosting his fingers over her knuckles before he found the courage to speak.
"Again?" he whispered, the word rough with need. "Please... like outside?"
She hesitated, her rational mind wrestling with something softer. There was nothing inherently wrong with a gentle touch, she told herself. It was therapeutic, even. Healing contact for someone who had been systematically denied human kindness.
Slowly, she lifted her free hand to his hair, threading her fingers through the dark strands that had grown longer during his time with her. She moved her fingers in soft, soothing strokes, the way she might comfort a wounded animal. His eyes fluttered closed, then he leaned toward her, just slightly, gravitating toward her frame as if drawn by some invisible force.
She pretended not to notice, focusing on the simple act of providing comfort.
The silence stretched, only broken by his careful breathing and the whisper of her fingers through his hair. His face had relaxed completely, and the tension that usually lived in his shoulders melted away under her ministrations.
Then she felt him go rigid.
His eyes snapped open with horror, and his gaze went immediately downward. Following his line of sight, she saw what had caused his sudden distress, the unmistakable evidence of arousal straining against the fabric of his trousers.
"No," he breathed, barely audible. His hands flew to cover himself, his face flooding with mortification.
He stumbled backward, nearly tripping in his haste to put distance between them, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The shame was palpable, as if his body's natural response was some kind of unforgivable violation of her trust.
"Sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry. Sorry."
"James-," she started softly, but he took another step backward, hunching his shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller. His hands remained pressed against his groin, and she could see the violent tremor that had taken over his entire body.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice muffled. "I can't- I don't-"
She had seen enough men reduced to their most basic functions by trauma and exhaustion to recognize raw panic when she witnessed it. But there was something more here, something that went beyond simple embarrassment.
"James, look at me," she said, with the calm authority she used when he acted like this. "What you're experiencing is completely normal."
He shook his head violently and turned away from her. "No. Not- not normal. Wrong. I'm-"
"It's a natural bodily response," she continued, stepping slightly closer but careful not to overwhelm him. "It happens to men for many reasons, when they're touched or sometimes for no reason at all. They have no control over it. There's nothing shameful about it."
His breathing was becoming more ragged. This wasn't the reaction of a man who understood what was happening to his body and felt awkward about it. This was something else entirely.
"Have you-" She stopped herself, reconsidering her words. "James, do you understand what's happening to your body right now?"
She saw his shoulders tense even further, and when he finally turned to look at her, his face was flushed with more than embarrassment. There was confusion and something that looked almost like terror in his features.
"I know it's- private," he said, the words coming out in broken fragments. "I know I shouldn't… in front of you. But I don't-" He stopped, and his jaw worked as he struggled with something too complex for his limited vocabulary to express.
She studied his face carefully, seeing the way his eyes darted between her and the floor, the way his hands shook where they pressed against his trousers. This wasn't modesty or social awkwardness. This was the reaction of someone genuinely confused by his own physical responses.
"James," she said gently, "do you know what this feeling is? What is your body trying to tell you?"
He stared at her for a long moment, and she could see him wrestling with whether to answer honestly. Finally, almost whisperingly, he shook his head.
"It feels-" He stopped, his face flushing deeper. "Your bedroom. When cleaning. Happened… too, and I-" He broke off, looking mortified that he'd revealed even that much.
"Oh," she breathed, finally comprehending the depth of his bewilderment. "No one ever explained-"
"Don't-" he interrupted, his voice thick with mortification. "Not an animal. I know I shouldn't-"
"You're not an animal," she said firmly, cutting through his self-recrimination. "And you're not doing anything wrong. What you're feeling, what's happening to your body, it's natural. It's human."
She took a careful step closer, watching for signs that he might flee entirely.
"The feeling you said you had in my bedroom, what's happening now, it's what happens when your body feels... drawn to someone. When you feel affection, or attraction, or when you're touched in ways that feel good."
His eyes widened slightly at her matter-of-fact explanation, and she could see him processing this information with the same focus he applied to learning any new skill.
"It's not something you need to be ashamed of," she continued.
"But I-" He gestured helplessly at himself, at the evidence of his erection that he was still trying to hide. "In your room. I made a mess, I ruined-"
She paused, "What kind of mess?"
His face flushed deeper, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, in a barely above a whisper, "I touched… the feeling… couldn't stop. But I didn't… I didn't taint anything of yours.” He hurried to clarify. “Only… my trousers. I ruined the trousers you gave."
Her expression softened with understanding. "Oh, James. What you did was exactly the right thing to do. You didn't ruin anything; it's what happens when these feelings reach their natural conclusion."
The confusion in his expression deepened, and she realized she was going to have to be more explicit with him than she'd anticipated.
"What you felt in my room, what's happening now, your body is responding to desire. And when those feelings build up enough, your body has a way of releasing that tension. It's not a mess or a malfunction. It's how it’s supposed to work."
He tilted his head, then looked cautiously at his groin.
"The feeling itself," she continued, " I think you recognized that's pleasure."
"Pleasure," he repeated slowly.
"Yes. And the fact that you uh… that it happened when I touched you-" She paused, recognizing she was entering a dangerous territory. "That's not wrong either. It means you trust me. That you feel safe with me." She managed.
He was staring at her now with something close to wonder, as if she'd just explained some fundamental mystery of the universe.
"I was afraid-" He stopped, swallowing hard.
"Of what?"
"You think… is disgusting. That… I wanted to hurt."
The pain in his voice made her chest clench. "James, sexual desire doesn't mean wanting to hurt someone. When it's healthy, when it comes from care and attraction, it's about wanting to be close to them. To please them, too."
The concept seemed to astonish him. "To please-?"
"Pleasure, yes. When two people care about each other, these feelings can be shared. But James," she added carefully, "what you're feeling, what happened in my room… you don't need another person to address it. Your body has ways of finding relief on its own."
His brow furrowed with concentration.
She felt heat rise in her cheeks, but pressed on. Someone needed to give him this information, and there was no one else who could do it safely.
"Through touch, as you did. It's called... taking care of yourself. And it's completely normal and healthy for men to do."
She could see the moment he understood, followed immediately by a fresh wave of mortification.
"In private," she added quickly. "It's something you do alone, when you need relief from these feelings."
"Like- like when I clean myself?"
"Yes, exactly like that. By yourself."
They stood in silence for several minutes while he processed this revelation. She could see him working through the implications, trying to fit this new understanding into his worldview.
"And you-" he started, then stopped. "don't think I'm-"
"I think you're a man discovering things about himself that he should have learned years ago," she said firmly. "I think you're normal, and human, and deserve to understand your own body."
Something in his posture finally began to relax, the rigid shame giving way to cautious relief.
"But the mess-"
"Can be cleaned up. James, what you produced, that's called-" She paused, realizing she was about to give him vocabulary he'd probably never heard. "There are names for these things. Medical terms. Would it help to know them?"
He nodded eagerly, always hungry for information that could help him understand the world.
"The fluid your body produces during release, that's called semen. The feeling that comes with it is called climax, or orgasm. And the whole process -the arousal, the building tension, the release- that's a normal part of male sexuality."
"Sexuality," he repeated.
"The part of being human that involves physical attraction and pleasure. It's not dirty or wrong or dangerous. It's just... part of life."
She watched him absorb the information, then bite his lower lip.
"So I… when it happens again-"
"When you feel aroused again," she corrected gently, "you can take care of it privately. In the toilet, or when I'm away. It's healthy to do so."
He lifted his eyes to meet hers directly. "Then you… not disgusted?”
"James," she said softly, "I spent years in field hospitals. I've seen every possible thing the human body can do. What you're experiencing doesn't shock or disgust me. If anything, I'm glad you're healthy enough to feel these things."
For the first time since his erection had become obvious, he let his hands fall away from trying to hide it.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She nodded and cleared her throat.
"Now," she said, returning to a more practical tone, "I imagine you'd like some privacy to... process this information."
The flush that spread across his cheeks was different now, embarrassment, yes, but without the crushing shame that had characterized it before.
"I'll be in the garden," she continued, moving toward the door. "Take whatever time you need."
As she reached for the door handle, his voice stopped her.
"When you said-" He paused, seeming to gather courage. "it was about wanting to be close. To be attracted-"
She turned back to him, noting how he'd slightly straightened his posture.
"This is because I feel-" He stopped, searching for words. "Because I care about you?"
The question was loaded with implications that made her pulse quicken. She could deflect, redirect the conversation back to safer territory, or skip the awkwardness that came with the moral reproach of being his caretaker. But the innocence in his expression, the need to understand what was happening to him, made her choose honesty instead.
"Yes," she said cautiously.
He absorbed this with a slow nod, and she could see him filing away this final piece of the puzzle.
"I'll be outside," she repeated, and this time she did leave, closing the door gently behind her.
As she walked toward the garden, she tried to ignore the way her own body was responding to the conversation they'd just had, to the knowledge that his desire was specifically for her. She had given him the information he needed to understand himself and his responses.
What she hadn't expected was how deeply it would affect her to know that she was the object of those newly understood feelings.
----
The screaming started just after midnight.
She jolted awake in her bed. These weren’t the muffled whimpers or restless turning that had characterized his previous nightmares, but raw, animalistic shrieks that screamed of agony beyond comprehension.
The sound was so primal, so completely stripped of humanity, that for a moment her mind refused to accept it was coming from the man she'd grown to care for.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, gripping the banister as she forced herself to think. The last time she'd tried to wake him from a nightmare, he'd nearly strangled her.
Another scream, this one dissolving into wordless pleading that made her chest clench with sympathetic pain.
----
The metal table was cold against his back. The straps bit into his wrists, his ankles, his chest. The laboratory smelled of antiseptic and ozone.
"Subject 107 shows remarkable resilience," Dr. Zola's voice drifted from somewhere above him. "But we must establish baseline thresholds before proceeding with field deployment."
The first shock was almost gentle, a tingling that made his muscles twitch involuntarily. He bit back any sound, knowing that reaction would only encourage them.
"Note the response at fifty volts," a technician murmured, adjusting dials on a machine just outside his vision. "Minimal vocalization."
"Increase to seventy-five."
This time, his back arched involuntarily off the table, a strangled gasp escaping through clenched teeth. The pain was immediate, racing along nerve pathways he hadn't known existed.
"Still within acceptable parameters. The subject maintains consciousness. Continue."
The voltage climbed to one hundred. One twenty-five. One fifty. Each increase brought fresh agony that seemed to rewrite his understanding of what his body could endure. His vision began to blur, but he remained grimly awake.
"Fascinating," Zola observed clinically. "The pain tolerance exceeded expectations."
At two hundred volts, he couldn't contain the scream that escaped from his throat.
"There it is," the doctor said with satisfaction. "Mark that threshold. Subject shows significant distress but remains functional."
----
She descended the stairs quickly but quietly, her nightgown rustling around her ankles. The main room was only lit by the dying embers of the fire, and the dancing shadows made the scene feel nightmarish even before she saw him.
He was pressed against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest, but his body was rigid with tension. His head was thrown back, tendons standing out at his neck as another cry tore from his throat.
She moved closer, staying just outside the range of his arms if he lashes out. In the firelight, she could see the tears streaming down his face, the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath between screams.
"James," she called softly, but there was no recognition in his unseeing eyes. He was somewhere else entirely.
Her hand moved instinctively toward him, wanting to offer comfort, but she forced herself to stop. Instead, she positioned herself where he would see her when his eyes finally returned to the present and raised her voice just enough to cut through his terror.
"James. James, you're in my house. You're safe."
No response. His body convulsed against the wall as if electricity were running through his body.
"James!" she called louder, using the tone she'd learned could sometimes penetrate the fog of his mind.
Still nothing. His body jerked against the wall again, a broken whimper escaping his lips as his hands clawed at the surface behind him, leaving scratches in the mortar.
She tried a different approach. Instead of calling his name, she began to speak about the present moment, trying to lure him to reality through details that couldn't exist in whatever hell he was reliving.
"The fire is burning low," she said in a calm voice. "The wood is almost gone. There is the scent of the herbs drying from the rafters: chamomile, lavender, and valerian root, among others."
His breathing hitched slightly, though his eyes remained unfocused.
"There's a little frost on the windows," she continued, moving slightly so the firelight would catch her white nightgown. "Winter is coming early this year. The garden will need covering soon."
Another convulsion, but this one seemed less severe.
"You fixed the fence again yesterday. The posts are straight now, perfectly aligned."
This time, she saw his eyes flutter, a moment of confusion breaking through the terror.
"The bread is rising in the kitchen," she said, though it wasn't true. She hoped the domestic detail would help. "We'll have fresh loaves in the morning. With honey, if you'd like."
"Honey," he whispered, the word so quiet she almost missed it. But his eyes were beginning to track movement now, slowly focusing on her figure in the firelight.
"Yes, honey," she confirmed gently. "From the market. You like it on your bread."
His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths, but the tension was starting to leave his body. The invisible restraints that had held him pinned against the wall seemed to be loosening their grip.
"You're in my house," she said softly. "You're safe. No one can hurt you here."
His body trembled, and then he truly saw her; his eyes were wide and haunted, yet he was present in the moment.
"I-" he started, then stopped, pressing his hands to his face as if trying to scrub away the remaining images from his brain.
She remained where she was, close enough that he could see her clearly but far enough that he wouldn't feel trapped or threatened. The urge to comfort him physically was almost overwhelming, but the memory of his panicked violence the last time kept her where she stood.
"You had a nightmare," she said simply. "It's over now."
He nodded jerkily, still pressing his palms against his eyes. When he finally lowered his hands, she could see tear tracks on his cheeks and something broken in his expression.
"They-" he whispered, then stopped, shaking his head as if the words were too dangerous to voice.
"I know," she said quietly, though she didn't know, could only assume based on what she'd witnessed. "You don't have to tell me."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the dying fire and his gradually slowing breathing. She could see him fighting to bring himself fully back to the present, to shake off the horrors his mind had dragged him through.
"Would you like some tea?" she asked eventually, to give him something concrete to focus on. "Something warm?"
He looked at her then, really seeing, taking in her nightgown, her loose hair, the concern in her expression. For a moment, something vulnerable and grateful flashed in his eyes.
"Please," he whispered.
As she moved to prepare the tea, he remained against the wall, watching her with attention. The familiar routine of heating water and selecting herbs seemed to calm him further, to immerse him in the safety of their domestic space.
----
When she returned with two steaming cups, sitting carefully on the floor at a safe distance from him, he accepted his tea with trembling hands.
They sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, with his voice rough from screaming, he spoke.
"You said... don't have to tell," he began haltingly, then stopped, struggling with the words.
She waited patiently.
He put his cup down, then clenched and unclenched his hands in his lap. "Do you... know what I am?"
She considered her answer carefully.
"I know you're a man who's been through something horrible," she said gently.
"A man," he repeated slowly, as if testing the word. He was quiet for a long moment, then shook his head. "More... several."
She frowned, not understanding. "Several what?"
His hand moved unconsciously to his bare chest, tracing the long surgical scar that ran down through it.
"Not born," he said carefully, each word requiring effort. "Made. From... pieces."
Her breath caught at the implication of his words. The mismatched skin tones she'd noticed, the too-precise surgical scars-
"They took..." he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, still tracing the scar. "Bodies. From battlefield. Soldiers. Built..." He gestured vaguely at himself, unable to articulate the full horror of his creation.
The teacup slipped slightly in her suddenly nerveless fingers. All those weeks of wondering about his scars, about his skin, about his trauma, and the truth was more horrific than anything she'd imagined.
He observed her face, waiting for the revulsion he clearly expected. When she didn't immediately recoil, he continued in that same halting whisper.
"Zola... doctor... he sewed together. Best parts. Made a weapon." His hand moved from his chest to his left arm, where she could see the faint line where darker skin met lighter. "This arm... different soldier. These legs..." He touched his thighs. "Another." Then he traced again the long scar on his front, “inside… another.”
She stared at him, her mind reeling as the full picture came together. Not a man who had been experimented on, but a man who had been created through experimentation. Built from the remains of fallen soldiers, assembled like some grotesque puzzle.
"James," she breathed, her voice thick with horror and compassion.
"Not James," he said quietly. "That... name you gave. Real name... Soldat. Asset. Subject." He met her eyes directly. "Am I... a man? Made from pieces of men?"
She stared at his face -handsome, familiar now after all the time they spent together, and tried to reconcile it with the impossible truth he'd just spoken.
Made from pieces. Assembled like some grotesque machine from the remains of dead soldiers.
Every detail now clicked into place with a sickening clarity. The mismatched skin tones. The surgical scars that had seemed too precise, too deliberate. The way his body moved so precisely that it seemed almost inhuman. Even his strength, which she'd attributed to military conditioning.
She looked at his hands -those hands that had touched her so gently, that had arranged her herbs with such care- and tried to comprehend that once they had belonged to someone else entirely.
"You're James," she said finally. "Whatever you were made from, whoever you were before- you're James now."
Something flashed across his features. Relief, perhaps, or disbelief that she could still see him as a person after what he'd revealed.
She took a careful breath, choosing her words very carefully. The question she needed to ask felt dangerous, but she had to know.
"James," she said gently, "your mind… do you retain any memories from… the original soldier? The one whose..." She gestured vaguely toward his head.
He shook his head immediately.
"No," he muttered. "Zola told handlers... brain was dead too long. Hours without blood." His hand moved unconsciously to his temple. "Nothing left there. Empty when they... when I woke up."
The clinical way he spoke about his own creation made her chest hurt with sorrow. As if he were describing a piece of machinery rather than the horrific violation of human remains.
"So the personality… all of that is yours?"
"Made it," he corrected quietly. "No memories from before waking. Everything I learned... laboratory, cells, training." His blue eyes met hers directly. "Until here. Until you."
She nodded slowly, processing this information. Whatever consciousness inhabited this assembled body, it was distinctly James. Not some echo of a dead soldier, but something new -someone new- who had emerged from unimaginable circumstances.
Another question pressed at her mind, one that made her stomach clench with dread.
"Were there… others?"
His posture changed slightly, as if protecting himself from the memory.
"Yes," he whispered.
The single word had such weight that she almost didn't want to hear more. But she needed to understand the full scope of what had been done, what he'd witnessed.
"How many?"
"Don't know. Numbers... went up to 150, maybe more." He was staring at the floor now, his hands clenched in his lap. "Most lived... few hours. Days. Bodies rejected pieces. Or their minds couldn't... hold together."
"And the ones that survived longer?"
"Some lasted months. But something always... broke. Hearts stopped. Minds fractured." His voice grew even quieter. "They screamed until they died. Or went silent and stopped eating."
The horror hit her in waves. A factory of dead soldiers, assembled and discarded like failed prototypes. James -her James- was the singular success in a line of abominations that had lived only long enough to suffer.
"You survived," she said, not really a question but a statement of wonder and tragedy combined.
"Outlived them all," he confirmed. "Strong enough. Built from... better pieces. Zola was proud." The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. "Perfect weapon. Perfect soldier. Until..."
"Until you escaped."
He nodded once. "The accident… freed me." His eyes lifted to meet hers again.
She looked at this impossible man -this collection of salvaged parts that had somehow become more human than many people born naturally- and felt her heart break for everything he'd endured.
"James," she said softly, "you are not their weapon anymore. You are not their creation, despite how you began. You are yourself."
"But what am I?" The question came out raw, desperate. "Not born. Made from dead."
She leaned forward slightly, careful not to breach his space but needing him to see the honesty in her expression.
"You think, therefore you exist. You feel pain, fear, and affection. You make choices. You chose to knock on my door, you chose to stay, you chose to trust me with this truth." Her voice grew stronger. "Whatever materials were used to create your body, the person who lives in it is real. You are real, James. You are human."
He stared at her for a long moment, and she could see him testing her words.
"Even knowing... what I am... you don't..."
"I don't what?"
"Recoil. Think I’m a monster."
"Because you're not," she said firmly. "You're a man who was given an impossible beginning. That's not monstrous, that's miraculous."
The silence that followed was different from the tense one that had preceded his revelation.
"The nightmares," she said gently, "the experiments they did-"
"Test limits. Pain tolerance. Electrical stimulation. How much... before body stopped working." His voice was flat, clinical. "Needed to know specifications. For field deployment."
Each word landed like a physical blow. She had treated battlefield injuries, had seen the aftermath of torture, but this systematic brutalization of someone they had created specifically to abuse felt beyond her comprehension.
"That's over now," she said. "Whatever they did to you, wherever you came from, you're safe here."
The fire had burned down to embers while they talked, leaving them in near darkness. She rose carefully, moving to add wood to the flames, aware of his eyes following her every movement.
"There's something else you should know," she said as the kindling caught, casting new light across the room. "Whatever you were made from, whoever those soldiers were, they deserve honor for the sacrifice of their bodies, even unknowingly. But you deserve recognition for what you've made of their gift."
"Gift?" The word seemed to puzzle him.
"Life," she said simply. "Consciousness. The ability to choose kindness over cruelty, despite everything you've suffered. That's not something that can be assembled from spare parts, James. That comes from who you are."
He was quiet for a long time, absorbing her words. When he finally spoke again, his voice held a quality she'd never heard before, something that might have been peace.
Summary: When Bucky notices the new neighbor, he can’t seem to get her out of his head! Whatever will he do?
W.C: 1600
Tags: Smut!, pervert! Bucky, panty thief! bucky, guilty bucky?, mentions of lingerie, AFAB! Reader, age gap but it’s not specified, male masturbation, breast fixation, nipple fixation, p in v? kinda? it doesn’t actually happen, Bucky POV, mentions of steve, mentions of war and Buck being the Winter Solider
MDNI!! Let me know if I missed anything!!
He remembers the exact day you moved into the apartment across the hall.
It was only a few days before the new year. Everyone on the floor had seemingly left to be with family, not that he bothered to keep track of his neighbors whereabouts, but he had noticed the overall lack of people when he made the unfortunate trip out of his apartment to see his therapist every other day.
That made your appearance even more noticeable.
Bucky liked to keep track of everyone he saw day-to-day anyway, it helped calm his nerves (rather he told himself it calmed his nerves) and luckily enough for him, you didn’t want to stop and introduce yourself.
Over the next few weeks, he only saw you a handful of times. You both never said anything, barely even looked at each other. It was nice.
Of course, nothing lasts forever. His therapist was sure to tell him that, much to his distain. Strangely enough, it was on one of his trips coming back from another session with Dr. Raynor that he found you cursing to yourself standing outside your apartment.
A part of him wanted to just walk by, and avoid the headache altogether. But he could hear a quiet voice in his mind that sounded a lot like Steve telling him to man up and help a poor lady in need. He sighed mentally and cleared his throat to grab your attention.
You looked up with slight shock and embarrassment. “Oh.. uhm, I’m not in your way am I?” You asked.
He frowned. “No, sorry. You look like you’re having some trouble there?”
Your eyes seemed to light up. “Is it that obvious?”
Bucky chuckled lightly and stepped closer to you, offering a hand of assistance. You gladly handed him your key.
“This building is old. These keys get stuck all the time. You’ve gotta know how to turn it to get it to unlock,” Bucky said as he fidgeted with your lock.
You watched him with unwavering eyes. Unknowingly to you, he was watching you out of the corner of his eye. This was the first time he’d really gotten a good look at your face. You were young, way younger than anyone he’d talked to recently. Most likely a college student. You held yourself with confidence but not in a way that made you seem cocky. You just had a sense of determination he hadn’t seen in a long time.
It was refreshing. Reminded him of sunlight.
He immediately frowned at that thought and focused his attention on your lock. Within a moment a quiet ‘click’ sounded through the small hallway. Your face lit up with a smile so bright he almost had to look away.
“Oh my god, thank you! I seriously thought I was fucked there,” You exclaimed.
He nodded and stepped back. “No problem. You can come get me if it does it again. I’m pretty much always home.”
You smiled again, gentler this time. “I will. Seriously, thank you. I really appreciate it.”
He watched you escape into the comfort of your home. He smiled, unbeknownst to himself and turned to his own apartment.
Cute.
_____
The next time he saw you was only a few weeks later.
Since the door fiasco, Bucky couldn’t get you out of his head. He wasn’t sure why, but something about you was like a breath of fresh air. He felt almost addicted to it, to how he felt at that moment.
So when he opened the door to the laundry room he was understandably surprised to see you. He was also even more surprised to see you in nothing but pajama pants and a very very small tank top.
And no bra.
He was going to turn around. Laundry could wait. Just as soon as his hand hit the door knob, he heard an intake of breath.
“It’s you!”
He sighed.
Bucky turned back around and smiled. “It’s me.”
You were smiling that same damn smile. He felt weak in his knees.
“I haven’t seen you in forever!” You said happily.
He nodded. “I don’t get out much.”
You hummed in understanding. “I get that. I’m still getting used to the city myself.”
It was quiet for only a moment, before you noticed Bucky’s small basket of laundry. You quietly moved over and motioned to the washing machine.
“I’m almost done with the dryer,” You said. Bucky muttered a quiet ‘thanks’ and began throwing his clothes into the washer. Once he was finished you both sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
“I don’t think I ever got your name…?”
Bucky himself was surprised at the question that came from his mouth. You also seemed surprised for a second before grinning.
As you said your name, he watched your lips form the word. Your name fit you, he thought. He whispered it to himself, trying to commit it to memory. Although, he was sure just like everything else about you, he wouldn’t forget it.
“James,” He said in return.
“Nice to officially meet you, James,” You practically purred. He felt his knees go weak again. He feared that might be a common occurrence around you.
As the silence fell over you again, Bucky began to struggle with his most recent thoughts. He questioned why he was acting like a teenager with a crush again?
Bucky had been through more than twenty men combined. He’d done things so horrible he couldn’t even speak about it. He’d seen things that would make anyone want to commit suicide. So why, out of all things, was a girl making him feel so weak?
He quietly looked over at you again. He traced the outline of your figure. Your hair down to your eyelashes. His eyes moved to your lips, plump and wet from where you’d licked them while talking.
He continued trailing down until his eyes stopped on your breasts. He felt guilt wash over him immediately at the practically sinful sight before him. He could perfectly make out your tits. The cold air in the room had made your nipples perk up just enough to poke through the already thin tank top.
Bucky glanced away quickly as the buzzer from the dryer sounded. He turned slightly to hide his tightening pants. You bent over to grab your clothes and he practically called out to god to strike him dead right there before he made a fool of himself.
It felt like years before you were up again and leaving the room. Before you closed the door, you waved bye to him. Bucky had to force every once of what he’d learned as an assassin just to seem normal enough to wave back.
Once the door closed behind you, he groaned and put his face in his hands. He tried to calm his breathing, using some of the techniques Dr. Raynor had taught him in one of their very first sessions. It was probably close to ten minutes before he felt okay enough to remove his hands from his face.
Bucky needed to calm down. You were just a girl. There was absolutely no reason to be feeling like this.
He repeated that to himself as he took his clothes out of the washing machine. As he went to throw them into the dryer, a small bright red thing caught his eye.
He grabbed it before he could even process what it was. He held up the laced piece of clothing he wasn’t sure would cover anything and knew he was doomed.
“Fucking dirty girl…”
_________
He was a pervert.
He knew he was a pervert. He felt guilty and ashamed and terrible.
However,
The thought of you wearing nothing but those red laced panties and a matching bra had been plaguing Buck’s mind. He couldn’t stop. He’d tried. He’d done everything he could think of.
He’d taken a cold shower.
He’d gone for a run.
He even tried to watch some of the movies that Steve had written down in his journal of things he “absolutely needs to watch and listen to” or whatever the blond had said.
Nothing could get that image out of his head.
It was three in the morning when he was fed up and aching and he needed release. He hadn’t meant to grab them. He was simply caught up in the moment. His hand stroking up and down his cock. He moaned and stroked faster.
Once the soft fabric touched his tip, he had to stop himself from instantly cumming.
“Oh fuck…” He moaned. Bucky wrapped the thong tightly around his hand. In his mind, he imagined your hips rubbing up and down his hard on. Teasing him in every way you knew would rile him up.
“Something wrong, Barnes?”
He groaned. He was fucking up into his fist now. He imagined flipping you over, grabbing your hands with his metal one and using his other one to squeeze your breasts.
He imagined kissing down your stomach until he got to those red panties and slowly, sensually kissing down them until you were begging to feel him. Begging him to touch you.
“Say my fucking name, doll,” He moaned.
He imagined your hands wrapped around his back and he mercilessly pounded into you. He imagined your soft lips wrapped around his full length, with your bright eyes filled with tears as you looked up at him.
He cursed.
“Nice to officially meet you, James.”
Suddenly he was cumming into his fist. He continued to stroke his cock until he was spent. As he calmed down, he looked down to see the mess he’d made with your undergarments.
✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader
✦ Word count: ~3,6k
✦ Rating: Explicit
✦ Warnings: Avenger!Bucky, Avenger!Fan!Reader, secret crush, secret hero, fluff, smut, the tiniest bit of angst, misunderstandings, piv sex, breeding kink (I'm not messing around with this one), talk of getting reader pregnant, pet name (Bunny), dirty talk, sex with feelings, multiple orgasms (for both), unprotected sex, creampie.
✦ Summary: Since joining the Avengers you've been avoiding Bucky Barnes, afraid of what would happen if he ever learned the truth.
✦ Note: I have no idea how to tag this, so if I missed something please let me know. I don't know where this came from so just... it is what it is! This is also posted on AO3.
Masterlist | AO3
Stark called a meeting at the workshop in the evening to show off one of his new inventions that could aid them in the field. As you stand in the back and watch, Bucky comes up beside you, and just as always you discreetly take a small step to the side. Everyone, including Bucky, assumes you dislike him, and you are happy to keep up that front since admitting to the truth would be unprofessional and cause a lot more trouble than avoiding him.
He gives you a sideways glance but doesn’t mention it, he’s used to it by now. Unfortunately, you are still close enough to smell his cologne and it makes your pulse pick up. Unbidden images of being under him, smelling his sweat mixed with the perfume while he takes you apart appear inside your mind. Stark says something but you can’t concentrate with Bucky so close. Shifting even further to the side, he glances at you again and his brows draw together.
"I can go stand somewhere else if it bothers you so much," his tone is annoyed but low, to not disturb the demonstration.
"No, it's fine," you mumble.
"You forget I can hear your heart beating,” he points out. “And it sounds like a bunny rabbit backed into a corner by a wolf."
That doesn't make you any calmer. If he can hear that, can he smell how aroused he makes you every time he gets close?
"Sorry, I-" but your mouth has turned dry as a desert. You avoid speaking to Bucky as much as possible because you fear you will just make a fool out of yourself. As you’re doing right now.
"I never understood what you have against me," he crosses his arms, eyes on Stark's display. "Did I hurt someone close to you back in the day or are you afraid I'll revert and start killing again?"
Shame fills your chest. You want to turn to him and hug him, explain that it’s not in any way like that. For years you have admired Bucky and when you had gotten the promotion to work with the Avengers your friends had teased you mercilessly about finally meeting your idol, but when you did and you realized that he was everything you had ever dreamed of you got scared. If he knew your secret he would most likely never speak to you again.
"It's not like that," you whisper, finally daring a look at him, but regretting it right away. His beautiful blue eyes are watching you. Quickly you avert your gaze.
"You can't even look at me."
And that is true. You always look at something else when Bucky is in the same room as you. The only time you allow yourself to admire him is when he's caught up in something else when there is no chance his attention will shift to you.
Just the small amount of it he is giving you right now is almost unbearable. You want to climb him, wrap your legs around his waist, grab his hair, and crush your lips to his. It's dangerous to be so close to him so you do the only thing you can.
"I should go, I'm sorry," you mumble and turn on your heel, quickly exiting the workshop and heading for the elevators.
When you're inside your room you breathe a sigh of relief. That had been a close call. Your insides feel like melted ice cream and your knees get weak at remembering how he watched you. The only problem is that maybe you aren’t as smooth at avoiding him as you think, since he had noticed. You'd have to fix that somehow.
Kneeling at the side of your bed you reach in under it to pull out the box. It's discreet and if someone else found it they would probably assume it would be full of sex toys and the like. But a box full of toys would be mildly embarrassing compared to the actual content of the box.
Inside is a big photo book. Leaning against the bed frame you place it on your lap, opening it to the first page. You've tried to keep it in chronological order over the years and the first page contains a few news articles from the war where either the Howling Commandos or Bucky himself appear. You love to see how it starts with small mentions but then the articles grow bigger and bigger. It had been hard to track down some full spreads, not to mention expensive as fuck, and some things you were still saving up for.
Then there are the articles about the Winter Soldier. They needed to be in there, but you never read them. It was before anyone knew the truth about the mind control and the years of torture. The text described him as a killing machine with no morals, not caring who he hurt to get to his price. You quickly skip past those pages.
Your favorite part is the last bit of the album. Recent interviews and photoshoots with the super soldier, talking about his life and his struggles. Not to mention the stylists always made sure to show off his physic, be it suits or sportswear.
Inside the box are also a replica of his dog tags and the hat he'd worn with his uniform. Putting the tags over your head you play with them between your fingers, remembering how they look around his neck. In your previous apartment, they'd been hanging on the wall and your friends had joked about it being a shrine. Now you are too scared to have it on display. If someone sees it they will think you are insane.
You're startled from your musings by a knock on the door and without much thinking you put the book on the bed before opening it.
Bucky is standing on the other side. The demonstration must have ended.
"What is your problem with me?"
The words fail you as your heart starts hammering. He is too close, but if you back away he will probably take it as an invitation to come in and that would be disastrous.
"I have barely spoken to you since you got here but you've managed to make it very clear how much you detest me. I just want to know why."
He's annoyed and desperate at the same time.
"Can I do something to fix it? I can't have a team member be afraid of me when we go out into the field and I… are those my dog tags?"
Ice rushes into your veins as you realize you forgot to take them off and you quickly cover them with your hand.
"No," you lie.
"They have my name on them."
"No, they don't."
"Are you serious?” Now he’s looking more mad. “Tell me what the fuck is going on right now."
You fucked up. You could keep on lying, close the door in his face, and never speak to him again. Ask for a transfer.
Or you could show him. And then ask for a transfer. Because whatever you did you would not keep your job after this.
With trembling hands you open the door, releasing your hold on the dog tags and gesturing for him to come inside.
"Sit," you murmur and when he does you place the book in his lap. He glances at you and for the first time you hold his gaze. This might be the last time you see him so you might as well take advantage of the moment. It will never happen again.
"Open it."
As he hesitantly opens the first page you slip off the dog tags and place them into the box before sitting down too, with a decent amount of space between the two of you.
While he's occupied you study his face and try to commit it to memory. Bucky Barnes, in your room, on your bed, reading your album. It's a dream come true. Though you had hoped it would be after sex while you were still naked in bed, and you could take it out and show him. But this works too.
"This is extensive,” he sounds impressed and you hope he is. You wouldn’t say it’s your life's work but it’s something you worked hard on and is proud of.
"I know."
"When did you do this?" He looks at you.
You shrug in response, "Over the years."
"Years?"
"I started it when I was in my early twenties.”
"How did you find everything?"
"The internet can be a wonderful place with like-minded people."
"I can't imagine what it could have cost you."
"I prefer not to think about it," you laugh.
He glances down into the box and then bends down to pick up the hat.
"Please tell me this isn't the original one."
"Oh god no, it's a replica!"
"Can I try it?"
"Please do!"
Bucky puts the hat on, tips it to the side, and turns to you with a smile. It's impossible to not smile back when he looks so handsome.
"Still fits you."
"Feels odd. We used to wear them all the time, but I guess I've gotten used to a life without hats."
He removes it and puts it back into the box before picking up the dog tags.
"I have a feeling you don't have these things because you hate me."
"I don't hate you, it's quite the opposite."
"Then why keep avoiding me?"
You twist in your spot uncomfortably, not knowing what to say.
"It's embarrassing. I never thought I would actually get to meet you when I started this collection."
"I honestly feel honored. I'm not usually the person people think it's worth remembering."
You tilt your head, "I do."
"I can see that."
For a moment you look at each other and you get to experience what it feels like to drown in his eyes. Those blue magical pools that you've only ever studied on printed paper or through a screen. It could never compare to the real thing. Fearing you're going to say something more stupid you take the book from him.
"So now you know," you say. "If you want me to transfer I'll happily put in a request. You were never meant to see it and I understand if it makes you uncomfortable around me."
"No, that won't be necessary," he assures you. "But there is one thing I still don't get."
When you look up from your lap he's moved much closer. Too close again. His presence fills your senses in a way no one else has ever done.
"What?" your voice almost cracks.
"Why do you move away as soon as I get close?" His voice is low, as if not to scare you.
With a wobbly laugh, you put the book down in between you and Bucky, scooting a bit away, studying the bedsheets.
"As you're doing now."
"It's just, I like my personal space," you explain.
"And you won't look at me."
A single finger lands under your chin and tilt your head towards him.
He's touching you.
Bucky Barnes is touching you.
"Are you sure you aren't scared, Bunny?"
"Ye-yeah," you swallow.
"Because I think your heart is about to burst out of your chest."
He moves the book out of the way and slides right up to you, until his leg is pressed against yours. The finger is still holding you in place, craning your neck to look at him. Your body flushes with heat.
Now he's really touching you.
"So what is it then?" There is a teasing in his voice, as if he knows but he wants to hear you say it.
Your tongue wet your dry lips and his focus shifts to that for a second. Opening your mouth to give him an answer, nothing comes out, not even the truth.
"Bunny, you better answer me."
Finally, you find your voice.
"I'm scared I won't be able to control myself," you confess.
"And what would happen if you lost control?"
You close your eyes. You can't look at him when you speak.
"I'll drop to my knees and beg to suck your cock."
Bucky inhales sharply.
"Or climb into your lap and beg you to fuck me. I'd let you do anything to me just to get a small taste. I'd ask you to use my body as you wanted and I won't need anything in return."
"Fuck, Bunny. You have a dirty mind."
"Sorry, I can't help that you smell so good and look so hot, it's too much."
His finger on your chin changes to a grip and you open your eyes, meeting his. They're filled with greed for something you don't understand.
"You'd let me fuck you?"
"Yes"
"How about coming inside you?"
"God yes!"
"When was the last time you had tests done?"
"Maybe a month ago? They were clean."
"Any partner since then? Are you on birth control?"
You hesitate for a moment.
"Bunny?"
"No… to both"
Bucky laughs.
"You would let me breed you, Bunny? Fuck you raw until you're bursting with my cum?"
The moan slips out unbidden. Just the thought of his raw dick inside you. Playing pregnancy roulette. It makes you so hot.
"Yes, I would Bucky."
"Take off your clothes, lay on your back."
You stare at him.
"Is something unclear?"
"You? And me? You want to have sex with me?"
Something crosses over Bucky's face.
"You don't have to." He reassures you.
"No! I want to! I just… I never thought you'd want to. With me."
"Well, you're wrong. And if you want to with me you better do as you're told."
Scrambling to take off your clothes you watch Bucky as he stands up and slowly starts doing the same. He's only gotten his shirt off by the time you're naked.
"Spread your legs, let me see."
You pull your knees up and let them fall to the side. The stickiness from your arousal has already coated the inside of your thighs. You're sure you've never been this wet before in your life.
"Bunny's got a cute little pussy on her." Bucky's smile is predatory like he is an actual white wolf stalking its prey. He's down to his boxers now, his erection outlined through the cotton. It's big.
"Don't look scared, we'll make it fit, I promise."
When his boxers are off too you can't help but stare but you’re more excited than anything else. The pulse in your cunt doesn't care if it’s going to hurt, there is only one thing on your mind.
"I want your cock Bucky," you tell him.
"Don't worry, you'll get it."
He crawls on top of you, keeping his weight on his forearms and his body off of yours.
"But I'm going to kiss you first."
His lips are soft but his kiss is demanding. It leaves no room for hesitation that he doesn't want you. Quickly he works your mouth open and moans when his tongue finds yours. You put your hands in his hair, guiding him to where you want his mouth. Then he descends your body, nipping at your jaw, sucking on your neck before finding your breasts. One hand is warm and the other is cold as he presses them together, caressing the nipples with his thumbs, making you keen and shudder. He uses his mouth to pull more sounds from you, licking, sucking, and dragging his teeth lightly against the stiff peaks, until your naked pelvis bucks up against his upper body, trying to find friction for the need he causes in you.
"You need something, Bunny?"
"I need you to fuck me!"
"It would be better for you if you come first."
"No, I need it now! Stretch me with your cock Bucky, please I need it so bad!"
In a second he's kissing you again, feverishly, and this time he lets his body sink down on yours, his thick shaft brushing your wet center, making both of you shudder.
Bucky reaches down and uses his hand to guide the tip to your opening.
"Tell me if it hurts and we'll stop."
"Promise."
You relax into the bed, spreading your legs, and watch Bucky's face as he pushes into you.
He's big, but you're also incredibly wet. Your body slowly gives for his intrusion. There is a slight sting but it quickly turns into pleasure as he fills you.
"So big!" you moan and experimentally move against him.
"Fuck, Bunny, this is the tightest pussy I fucking ever felt. You're going to be the death of me."
"Make me come first, then you can die."
With a grunt, he pulls back and pushes in, carefully to get you used to him, but it’s not what you want or need.
"Move, please move. Fuck me Bucky!" you beg and he does.
Not in your wildest fantasies could you predict this sensation. So full. So good. Bucky groaning above you. His warm skin under the palms of your hands. The sound of your arousal mixing with the sound of skin meeting skin.
"I'm already leaking into your cunt Bunny. It feels so good."
"Yes, Bucky!"
"Did you know I have almost zero recovery time? I just need a quick breather after coming before I can go again."
With a moan, you wrap your legs around him.
"I'm going to fill you with so much cum you'll be drunk on it."
He leans down until he's right by your ear.
"I'll breed you all night long. And I'll continue to do it every night until you're pregnant."
"Bucky!"
"You fucking like that, I can feel how tight you get!"
Shaking your head you try to deny it, but carrying his baby would be the ultimate fantasy.
"Please make me full of you! I want a baby Bucky. Make me fucking pregnant with our child!"
"Dirty! Fucking! Mind!" He says through gritted teeth, punctuating every word with a particularly hard thrust.
"More!" You cry as the pressure inside you builds.
Bucky quickly sits up on his knees, grabbing your hips, pulling you onto his dick as he thrusts inside you.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" you chant. "Make me come, Bucky! Please! More!"
"Bunny!" he warns. "You better fucking come before me, I can't hold it with your tight cunt squeezing me like that!"
Desperately you start rubbing your clit and a moment later everything explodes through your body.
With an unearthly wail, you find your release and Bucky quickly follows, cursing and roaring while he pumps you full.
The world is unsteady for a moment but then it rights itself. Bucky's head is thrown back as he heaves in lungfuls of air and you're no better where you're lying. He's not soft inside you yet and maybe he won't even go down.
"That was…" you begin but then shake your head with a stupid smile on your lips.
"Better than you thought it would be?" He asks.
"A million times better."
"Good because we're not done."
He releases your hips to once again lean down over you, kissing you much softer this time, moving his hips slower. It makes you keen into his mouth with the delicious stretch and the wetness of his release adding to the feeling. It leaks onto the sheets as he fucks you but you don't mind. At the end of all this, your sheets will probably need to be burned.
"Bunny, fuck, Bunny, look at me," Bucky demands and you do. He's close enough that you share a breath.
"So fucking pretty. My little groupie."
Despite the situation you laugh.
"Aren't you?"
"Absolutely Bucky, I'm your groupie."
"Only mine?"
"Of course! I don't have any more boxes under the bed."
"Good."
He rests his head at the crook of your neck, his hot breath ticking your skin and you close your eyes and enjoy the feeling of him surrounding you. Soon another orgasm works its way through your body. You don't scream this time, instead, you whisper in his ear how fucking good it feels, how he's filling you so well, and how you want him to breed you.
Moments later Bucky bursts inside you for the second time. He takes a minute before he rolls the two of you over so you're on top. The strength in your body is nearly gone but Bucky's serum keeps him going. And he keeps his promise. All through the night, he fills you and by the time the sun starts rising, he pulls one last weak orgasm from you before stopping.
"So fucking pretty," he muses as he spreads you open to watch the cum run out of you, before pushing some of it back in with his fingers, making you whine. With a chuckle, he wipes it off on the sheets, and then looks around.
"I don't think we can sleep in this bed, Bunny. Where's your pajamas?"
It's a miracle you're still awake but you point to the clothes on the chair. Bucky finds you some underwear and dresses you, before carrying you to his room. There he makes you take a shower but afterward, he doesn't let you get dressed again.
"I need your skin against mine," he says as he spoons you.
Several hours later you wake up, sore but in the best way. The bed is empty and you must have slept through Bucky waking up. With a giggle, you roll onto your back and that's when you feel something around your neck. Confused, you look down and find his dog tags against your bare skin. The smile on your face must be really stupid as you fiddle with them between your fingers. Who could have known meeting your hero would turn out like this?
Summary : Your husband, Bucky Barnes, finally meets your multiversal best friend, Wade Wilson.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x multiverse traveller!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff. Mentions of Bi!reader. Sexual references. Canon-typical Deadpool banter. Best friend!Wade (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 4.6k
Note : I loved writing Wade dialogues. @marvel I have a whole document of Deadpool oneliners after writing this so hmu lol. MCU timeline is referred to as 616. This has been renamed from the January Schedule Post. The original title was “missing pieces” but I think this feels more right! Enjoy!
The multiverse was infinite, chaotic, and unpredictable, and for most of your life, it was home. You weren’t born in 616—but your home universe had been destroyed when you were very young. Your life had been a constant or travelling universes and timelines since the day you discovered your ability to hop between them.
At first, it was an accident—a desperate, unexplainable reaction during a moment of danger. You were barely old enough to understand what had happened when you ripped yourself from your original reality and landed in a completely different one.
The sensation was terrifying: your body felt like it had been pulled apart at the seams, stitched back together in the wrong places, and then smoothed out with sandpaper.
For years, you became a nomad, leaping from universe to universe, trying to survive in places that didn’t always make sense. You learned to fight. You learned to blend in. You became friends with mutants, gods, and space-faring explorers. You fought alongside rebels, helped topple tyrants, and saved a few realities in the process.
And that’s where Wade Willson came in.
His universe, Earth-10005, was a jumping point to many other universes, so you were there often.
One day… you crossed paths with him.
Somehow, the two of you ended up handcuffed together, dodging explosions, assassins, and angry mutant job bosses for days on end. Wade was loud, obnoxious, and a little too comfortable talking about bodily fluids, but he also made you laugh—something you hadn’t done in a long time. By the time you both made it out alive, Wade declared himself your “multiversal BFF,” and you didn’t have the heart to tell him no.
For years, you stuck together. As you bounced between realities, you would always visit Wade and Blind Al every time you had a day off. Wade was the one constant in your ever-changing life, and despite his endless stream of inappropriate jokes, you trusted him with your life.
But dimension-hopping wasn’t just exhausting—it was dangerous. The toll it took on your body and mind grew worse with every leap. At first, it was just migraines and nausea. Then came the memory lapses, the hallucinations, the moments where you weren’t sure which universe you were in. Every jump felt like tearing yourself apart and stitching yourself back together with thread that was just a little thinner than before.
You started to wonder if you’d ever be able to stop.
Then you landed on Earth-616.
You’d met heroes before—so many that it felt like you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting one—but there was something different about this world.
Something different about him.
Meeting Bucky Barnes wasn’t love at first sight.
You had been tracking some idiot with access to stolen Stark tech who had decided to play warlord, and just accidentally ran into Captain America and The Winter Soldier.
Bucky had taken one look at you, muttered something about “another goddamn wildcard,” and kept his distance.
You didn’t blame him. Trust didn’t come easily to someone like Bucky, and you weren’t exactly an open book yourself. But somewhere between dodging explosions and dismantling killer drones, the two of you found common ground.
It started small—quiet conversations during downtime, a shared drink after a mission. He didn’t ask too many questions about your past, and you didn’t pry into his. But there was something about Bucky that made you want to stay. For once, you weren’t itching to leap to the next universe.
You didn’t realize how much he meant to you until you stopped hopping altogether.
The decision wasn’t easy. Giving up universe-hopping felt like giving up a piece of yourself. But every time you looked at Bucky, every time you thought about the life you could have here, it felt worth it.
Meeting Bucky Barnes was the final nail in your coffin when you made the decision to stay. He was steady in all the ways you never had been, and you adored him for it. You fell in love fast and hard, and for the first time in your chaotic life, you settled down. Now you were semi-retired—a "break-glass-in-case-of-emergency" kind of hero, and you preferred it that way. You even took a protege in America Chavez— always very careful to tell her to avoid hopping unless absolutely necessary— after all, your side effects probably only happened because you were overusing your abilities— jumping realities every other day.
But there were loose ends and missing pieces, one in particular: Wade Wilson.
You never said goodbye. You couldn’t. Telling him, the merc who had grown to be a brother to you, that you could not see him again would break your heart, besides, you weren’t sure your mind would survive it. You left him behind without a word. You figured he’d understand, or at least get distracted by something shiny before he could hold a grudge.
Turns out, you were wrong.
—
One night, doorbell rang.
You and Bucky exchanged a glance. It was late—too late for visitors, and just the right time for enemies. And you and Bucky had made a lot of enemies.
You reached for the knife tucked into the block on the counter, while Bucky’s hand brushed against the pistol he kept stashed in a kitchen drawer.
When you opened the door, you didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or slam it shut.
So you slammed it shut. Hard.
“Who is it?” Bucky asked from behind you.
You turned to your husband, trying to keep your expression neutral despite the absurdity standing just outside your front door. “Step back for a second,” you said, raising a hand to calm him. “Let me handle this first.”
Bucky hesitated, his eyes flicking to the door and then back to you. Slowly, he lowered the gun. “You sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” you replied. And because he trusted you—completely and without question—he nodded, stepping out of the way.
Taking a steadying breath, you opened the door again. And there he was.
Wade Wilson. Deadpool. The Merc with a Mouth. He was decked out in his full red-and-black suit, the unmistakable adamantium twin katanas crossed over his back, and a frankly excessive number of guns strapped to his thighs. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder looked suspiciously heavy, probably filled with even more weapons—or snacks. With Wade, it could go either way. Or both.
“You—you—you LEFT! I’ve been looking for you for five fucking years!” Wade’s voice cracked with a mix of anger and relief as he stood in front of you, his hands gesturing wildly. “You didn’t call! You didn’t text! I was worried sick! And now—”
Before you could react, he pulled you into a crushing bear hug, squeezing like he was afraid you’d disappear again. His red suit smelled faintly of gunpowder, sweat, and something suspiciously like old tacos.
“Wade—” you tried, your voice muffled against his chest.
“No, no, don’t ‘Wade’ me!” he cut you off, releasing you just as suddenly as he’d grabbed you and beginning to pace across the porch. “Do you know how long I looked for you? I had to bribe a Watcher, for fuck’s sake— with four chimichangas and a rare Pokémon card just to get a lead. FOUR! And I didn’t even get to eat one of them!”
He stopped and whirled around to face you, his hands on his hips like an exasperated parent.
“Wow,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms and leaning casually against the doorframe. “What a sacrifice.”
Wade’s head snapped toward you, and through the expressive eyes of his mask, you could tell he was glaring. He jabbed a finger in your direction. “Don’t you sass me, young lady.”
“‘Young lady?’” you repeated, raising an eyebrow and suppressing a smirk. “What are you, my dad?”
“More like your cooler, better-looking big brother,” Wade shot back, straightening up and puffing out his chest. “Who you abandoned, by the way.”
“I didn’t abandon you,” you said, trying to keep your cool despite the guilt that started to creep in. “I just… retired. And forgot to tell you.”
He groaned, throwing his arms in the air. “Do you know how many terrible jokes I’ve had to tell to Peter because you weren’t around to laugh at them?”
You bit back a laugh. “Do you know how many terrible jokes I avoided because I wasn’t around to hear them?”
Wade gasped so dramatically you half-expected him to swoon. His hand flew to his chest as though you’d stabbed him with one of his own katanas. “Wow. Wow. That was low, even for—oh my god, is that a wedding ring?”
His voice hit a pitch that could shatter glass, and you instinctively hid your hand behind your back, like a kid caught sneaking your mouth full of cookies. “Um… yes?”
Wade’s eyes widened—or rather, the exaggerated white circles on his mask made it seem like they did. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!” he screeched, his voice breaking into octaves that would make a soprano jealous. “Married?!” He repeated, staggering back like the mere concept had physically assaulted him. “Who’s the lucky sucker. Is it Thor? Please tell me it’s Thor. I’ve always wanted to be the cool uncle to a little demigod baby. Imagine the family reunions—me teaching a tiny hammer-wielding munchkin how to blow stuff up. Incredible.”
“Wade—” you tried, but the train had left the station, and it wasn’t stopping for anyone.
“No, no, wait. Let me guess!” he said, thrusting a finger in the air like a detective cracking the case. “Steve Rogers? Nah, too noble. He’d insist on taking you on, like, a billion proper dates before even thinking about proposing. Clint Barton? No way, the dude’s got more kids than bullets in Quicksilver. Oh!” He spun around, gasping as though struck by divine inspiration. “Is it Black Widow? Oh, wait. No. Been there, done that.”
“Wade!” you said sharply, grabbing his arm before he could start naming literally everyone in the Avengers roster. “Stop.”
He froze mid-ramble, turning to you with exaggerated curiosity. “What? Who is it? Is it Vision? Please say it’s not Vision. I mean, I’m not kinkshaming, but the guy’s basically a walking USB drive.”
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and opened the door a bit wider. “Just— look.”
Wade tilted his head. And there, standing behind you, with his arms crossed, was Bucky Barnes. He was watching the scene unfold with a mixture of amusement and confusion, his metal fingers tapping a steady rhythm against his bicep. You’ve told Bucky about Wade, if course. You didn’t think he’d actually meet him. “So,” he began, “this is Wade.”
“Wow,” Wade whispered, his voice dropping to a reverent hush as he took in the sight before him. He turned back to you, his hands flapping excitedly like a kid on Christmas morning.
“You mean to tell me,” Wade began, pacing uninvited into your living room as if he owned the place. He dropped a duffel bag on the floor with a dramatic flourish and pressed one hand over his heart like he was delivering a Shakespearean monologue. “That you, my best interdimensional buddy, married this glorious hunk of beef and vibranium?”
You sighed, shutting the door behind him. You supposed Wade was just here now. No going back.
Bucky, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, raised an unimpressed brow but didn’t seem particularly bothered. “You’re laying it on pretty thick, pal.”
“Thick?” Wade echoed, whirling around to face Bucky with wide eyes as if he had personally offended him. “Thick doesn’t even begin to cover it. This—this right here—is grade-A, USDA-approved beefcake. We’re talking prime rib, Winter Soldier.”
He took a step back and began circling Bucky, appraising him like a contestant at a county fair judging show ponied. His movements were exaggerated, tapping his chin thoughtfully.
“Wade,” you said, voice tight as you rubbed your temples, though you must admit: you kinda missed this typical Deadpool nonesense. “Please.”
But Wade was on a roll now. “And the hair!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air like he’d just discovered the eighth wonder of the world. He gestured wildly to Bucky’s slightly tousled, shoulder-length locks. “What is this? A shampoo commercial? A romance novel cover? I mean, look at this man! He’s like Rapunzel’s broody assassin cousin!”
Bucky’s lips twitched ever so slightly, and you caught the faintest hint of a smirk forming.
But Wade wasn’t done yet. He leaned in close to Bucky’s face, squinting dramatically like he was examining a masterpiece in a gallery. “And those eyes. Piercing icy blue! Are they legal? Tell me, do you smolder like this on purpose, or is it just natural?”
“Wade,” you warned again, burying your face in your hands. You were halfway between mortification and resignation, but Wade was completely oblivious—or just didn’t care.
He spun back to you, pointing an accusatory finger. “Be honest with me. Every morning, do you wake up, roll over, and thank god you’re alive to witness his Magnum Opus?”
Bucky snorted, finally breaking his silence. He glanced at you, his eyes sparkling with thinly veiled amusement. “Is he always like this?” he asked.
“Yes,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “And somehow, it’s worse when he’s complimenting people.”
“And the voice!” Wade continued, throwing his hands in the air. “Oh my god, that gravelly, low, I’ve-seen-some-shit tone. Say something, Soldier Boy. Anything. Just talk to me.”
Bucky blinked, clearly caught between humoring Wade and being mildly uncomfortable. “Something.”
Wade gasped as if he’d just heard angels sing. “Jesus Christ, that did things to me.”
“Paws off my husband,” you said, swatting Wade’s shoulder.
“Seriously,” Wade said, crouching in front of Bucky like he was about to propose. “What’s it like being this hot? Is it a burden?”
Bucky was starting to smirk.
“Look at this!” Wade said, standing up and gesturing broadly to Bucky. “Broad shoulders. Stupidly dainty waist. Those thighs could crush my skull, and I’d thank him for it.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing. “Should I be flattered or worried?”
“Flattered,” Wade said immediately. “I’m harmless. Mostly.” He turned to you. “You lucky bitch. You bagged a walking wet dream. How?” He demanded, “Blackmail? Hypnosis? Some ancient magic spell?”
“I’m charming,” you deadpanned.
“You know what? I get it,” Wade declared, pacing around your living room like a man on a mission. He waved a hand in Bucky’s general direction, as though he were appraising a luxury car. “I’d retire too if I got to be railed by this Terminator daily.”
You slapped a hand over your face, your skin heating with embarrassment. “Wade…”
He ignored you completely, flopping onto your couch as if it had been personally reserved for him. He peeled his mask up sad put it on the coffee table. “This is definitely an upgrade from your exes.”
Your face flushed further, frustration bubbling up alongside the mortification. Bucky had never heard of this before. It’s not like it mattered, these were all people in different universes, after all. “I’m warning you—”
Bucky, meanwhile, casually sat down on the sofa across from Wade, one arm draped along the backrest. He looked calm, eyes gleaming with amusement. You plopped into the armchair, already feeling the headache forming.
But Wade wasn’t done. “No, no,” He gestured wildly toward Bucky with both hands, his tone becoming even more conspiratorial. “Let’s talk about this. Because, Beefcake, you need to know where you stand. You’re miles better than the disasters she used to date.”
Bucky crossed his arms, smirking faintly. He was enjoying this was too much. “Oh, yeah?”
“Lets start a with President Loki,” Wade replied with a grin that practically split his face. He spun dramatically to face you, eyes wide with mock disbelief. “Imagine a gold-plated turd sprouted legs and started giving speeches. Her first mistake was thinking he had a personality under all that ego. Her second mistake was sticking around long enough to find out he didn’t.”
Bucky arched an eyebrow at you, tilting his head slightly. “President Loki?”
You groaned, rubbing your temples as if that could erase the memory. “It’s… complicated.”
Wade snorted, adjusting the strap of one of his katanas. “Next up: Mystique,” he continued. “Gorgeous smurf, obviously. Great for roleplay, but terrible for trust. I mean, she’s a shapeshifter. Talk about an identity crisis.”
Bucky let out a chuckle, his shoulders shaking slightly. “She sounds… interesting.”
“Interesting?” Wade repeated, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “Oh, I’m just getting started. Let’s talk about Johnny Storm.” He faced you again, gesturing wildly like a frustrated dad. “The Human Torch? The guy whose entire personality is setting himself on fire? Sure, he was pretty, but the dude had the emotional depth of a kiddie pool.”
Bucky smirked now, openly entertained. “Are there others?”
Wade’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with unholy glee. “Oh, there were others. Oh- oh! Rogue and Gambit?” He turned to Bucky, lowering his voice to a faux-whisper. “At the same time. It’s like watching a soap opera unfold in real time.”
Bucky was laughing outright now. “And you’re saying I’m the upgrade?”
“Oh, beefcake,” Wade said, leaning in. “Not just an upgrade. You’re the crème de la crème. Like season five of Breaking Bad—pretty fucking perfect. You’re probably the healthiest, most emotionally available person she’s ever been with.”
“Stop,” you groaned, sinking deeper into the cushions and wishing you could disappear completely.
“Oh, please don’t,” Bucky teased, his lips curving into a charming grin. “Explains a lot, actually. No wonder you’re so—”
“Don’t.”
“Kinky,” Bucky finished, ignoring your warning entirely.
Wade cackled, his laughter loud and unhinged. “You think she picked it up from her exes?” He leaned in closer to Bucky, stage-whispering, “Beefcake, she didn’t pick up shit from her raccoon trash exes. She’s just built different. Probably came out of the womb with a pair of handcuffs and a ball gag in her mouth.”
“Wade!” you snapped, your face burning.
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, and don’t worry. We never banged. Too much like siblings. It’s like if Monica and Ross—” He gagged, pausing to mime vomiting on your carpet. “Blegh. See? Nope.”
Bucky shook his head, still chuckling. “Good to know.”
“But listen, Beefcake,” Wade said, clapping his hands together. “If this ever goes south—”
“Wade,” you warned sharply.
“—just call me.“
“WADE!” you snapped, reaching out to smack his arm.
“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Possessive much?”
“I’m literally right here!”
Wade laughed, throwing up his hands. “Relax, I’m kidding! I’d never steal him. You two are disgustingly perfect for each other.”
“We do make a great couple,” Bucky said smoothly, a hint of pride in his voice. He shot Wade a look, his tone deadpan. “And no offense, you’re not my type.”
“Ouch?” Wade tilted his head, mockingly intrigued. “What is your type?”
Bucky turned his gaze to you, his voice softening as he said simply, “Her.”
For once, Wade was silent. Then he sighed dramatically, collapsing back onto the couch. “Ugh. You two make me sick. I love it.”
You buried your face in your hands, groaning into your palms. “Why me? Why is this happening to me?”
Wade, utterly unfazed, asked. “Hey, Beefcake, got any beer?”
Bucky, who has how seeming embraced hus new nickname, leaned back against the arm of the couch. “Top shelf in the fridge.”
Without missing a beat, Wade strutted off to the kitchen like he owned the place, humming a Cher song off-key.
You shot Bucky a glare, your eyes narrowing in exasperation.
“Really?” you hissed sarcastically, gesturing toward the kitchen. “You’re encouraging this?”
Bucky shrugged, the picture of calm. “He’s entertaining.”
Entertaining wasn’t the word you’d use. You leaned back against the cushions, crossing your arms. You were annoyed… but you can’t help but smile.
Wade reappeared, holding two bottles of beer and popping one open with what looked like a throwing star. He plopped down beside Bucky, handing him a bottle, and pointed at you with the knife.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Wade said to you. “You’re the one who retired, didn’t tell me, and married this sex god. This is all on you.”
The audacity. You opened your mouth to retort, but Bucky’s low chuckle stopped you in your tracks. You saw the look on your husband’s face, the relaxed posture, the lack of tension in his muscles that he usually had with new people.
Oh no.
They were bonding.
Over you.
And… it got worse.
For the next hour, you sat there in growing horror (and giggles, if you were being honest) as the two of them swapped stories. Wade launched into an over-the-top retelling of the time you “accidentally” blew up a Friends of Humanity base, leaving out the part where he’d distracted you mid-mission with a ridiculous bet.
By the time Wade sprawled across your couch, feet on the coffee table and an empty beer bottle in hand, you were ready to choke the ever living shit out of both if them.
“And then she just left me on Earth-10005 because she was ‘too busy’ dealing with a rogue celestial,” Wade commented, throwing a hand over his heart. “Too busy for me. Can you believe it?”
Bucky, sitting comfortably in the armchair, glanced at you with a teasing smile. “Sounds about right.”
“Hey!” you protested, leaning forward. “That celestial was about to eat the moon!”
Wade wagged a finger at you. “Sure, sure, always saving the world. What about saving me?”He looked at Bucky for support, widening his eyes dramatically.
Bucky snorted.
You glared between the two of them, crushing under your breath.
But dinner rolled around, and things didn’t get any better.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Wade said as he finished dinner leaning so far forward over the table he nearly tipped his chair. “You’re telling me she punched a god because she thought they were just a really smug human?”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, fighting back a gig of laughter. “It’s true. Happened on our second date.”
“Oh, for the love of—” you groaned. “You’re both the worst.”
“I hate both of you,” you muttered, glaring at Bucky.
Bucky leaned over, brushing a hand against yours with a teasing smile. “No, you don’t.”
That night, you decided to let Wade crash on your couch. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice—he was sprawled on the couch, snoring loud enough to wake the neighbours, and there was no moving him to the guest bed without a forklift. Besides, you secretly loved seeing your best friend and your husband bond (even if it had been at your expense).
But as you slipped into bed, Bucky pulled you into his arms. His metal arm gripped your waist, his other hand stroked a lazy pattern on your back. He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple.
“I love you, doll,” he murmured.
You sighed, nestling closer to him, the smell of him—vanilla and a bit woodsy—filled your lungs. “I love you, too.”
Bucky chuckled, a low rumble forming in his chest. “Gotta say, finally half to meet your… ‘bestie’.”
You groaned, flipping to face him
“Hmmph,” you muttered, half-buried in his chest.
“Admit it,” He chuckled, pulling you closer. “You’re happy we get along.”
You tilted your head back to meet his eyes, pretending to pout. “Whatever.”
He arched a brow. He knew you inside and out and there was no point trying to hide anything from the man who could tell you were lying but the way your eyes moved. “You’re very happy about it,” he insisted.
You huffed, but your lips curved up. “Maybe. Just a little.”
“Thought so,” he teased, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. His thumb brushed your cheek as he moved his mouth against yours.
When you finally pulled back, his blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “So… President Loki, huh?” He teased. He was aware of your multiversal travel, but he never pried before, not unless you started the conversation.
Your eyes widened and you groaned, face disappearing under the blankets. “Don’t even start.”
He gently pried the duvet away, his grin wickedly handsome. “Come on. I bet he was self-absorbed.”
You glared at him. “Yes,” you admitted, “of course.”
“Guess that I-Can-Fix-Him attitude didn’t work with him as well as he worked with me, huh?” He raised his eyebrow.
“Ugh,” you shook your head and smacked his chest as he leaned in to nip at your lower lip.
After a while, he asked. “So… I’m better in bed, right?”
You raised an eyebrow, was he… jealous?
He tried to conceal it behind a coy smile.
Yes, he was still partly amused, but you just knew a part of him was dying to know.
“Of course,” You said gently, running your fingers through his hair. “You’re the best sex I’ve ever had.”
His eyes darkened slightly.
Oh.
Should you not have said that? Was it going to get into that pretty head of his? “Even better than the shapeshifter?”
“Way better,” you admitted, and the look on his face was nothing short of triumphant.
You didn’t even have time to protest before he rolled you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hands braced on either side of your head as he leaned down, his breath warm against your lips. “Say it again.”
“Bucky—”
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice low and commanding.
Your heart raced, your breath hitching as his mouth skimmed along your jawline, planting slow, teasing kisses down your neck. “You’re the best—,” you whispered out a breathy moan, “—I’ve ever had.”
“Good,” his hand slid beneath your shirt to rest against the curve of your waist. “Because I don’t ever plan on letting you forget it.”
—
The next morning was somehow even more absurd.
When you wandered into the kitchen, still groggy from sleep, the first thing you saw was Wade. He was sitting on the table, wearing a pair of Bucky’s sweatpants—comically loose around the thighs—and one of your crop tops, which didn’t even reach his navel. He was cheerfully devouring a stack of pancakes that Bucky had apparently made.
Bucky turned and kissed you good morning as you entered.
“Morning, bestie,” Wade said as you plopped down at the table. He pointed his fork at you. “I’ve decided something very important.”
“Oh, God,” you groaned, rubbing your temples as you slid into a chair at the table. Bucky set a plate of pancakes in front of you before sitting down beside you. “What now?”
“I’m the godfather of your second child,” Wade announced with the conviction of a man unveiling a revolutionary plan. “It’s decided. No take-backs.”
You froze mid-reach for the syrup, blinking. Slowly, you turned to Bucky, who looked just as bewildered as you, before turning back to Wade. “We don’t even have a first child.”
“Exactly,” Wade said, shoving a mouthful of pancake into his mouth. “That’s why Logan can have that one. First kids are always screw-ups. It’s like a trial run. Logan can have that one.”
“Logan?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing.
“Oh, he’s great,” Wade said, waving his fork dismissively. “Huge, jacked man. Got claws.” He made a stabbing motion with his free hand, as if that explained everything. “I’ll bring him next time.”
You sighed, shaking your head. Bucky was still staring at Wade like he was a walking question mark, wondering if giving your hypothetical kid a trigger-happy god father was a good idea.
But this was your life now, and you should have realised that just because you stopped traveling to different multiverses didn’t mean the multiverse would ever stop coming to you.
-end.
extra note: should I open a general Bucky Taglist since I write for him a lot?
Taglist from January Posting Schedule: @mathcat345 @starsmoonn @my-mind-is-incognito
Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU
gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader
Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 6.2k
A/N: hi!! just wanted to say thank you all so much for the love on the last chapter and sticking with me!! i know i hadn't posted in forever with being busy with uni and all so it really made me happy that people still remembered this fic. this chapter (once again) was supposed to cover a lot more but i got carried away lol, so instead i'm posting this half and then the next half soon once i have it properly written up. anyway!! please enjoy!! sorry for any typos - not proof read.
taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love
main masterlist | series masterlist
Gertrude Crowley was a nervous woman.
It was the first thing you noticed about her; her movements were hesitant, as though she feared drawing too much attention. In the dim light, you noticed her face—worn, yes, but not aged beyond her years. Lines of worry etched her brow and framed her mouth. Her greying hair, streaked with darker remnants of its original chestnut hue, was hastily pinned beneath a weathered black scarf, frazzled tufts poking through the holes strewn throughout the fabric.
“Tea, Ms. Crowley?” You asked the woman. Despite your soft tone, the woman jumped in her seat, hand raising to her bosom as she took in a sharp breath.
“I suppose, Dear.” She squeaked in reply
You gave the older woman a reassuring smile, hoping to calm her fears. Her pale blue eyes darted away quickly, revealing a haunted expression. They glanced at you briefly, then withdrew as if frightened by what they might find. She fidgeted with her hands, the frayed edges of her gloves exposing trembling fingers.
“Tea is good for the soul, don’t you think?” You hummed to her softly, your upper half bent over your kitchen table, and you poured the steaming liquid into two cups. You hoped the woman wouldn’t comment on how the ceramic was chipped; the painted flowers faded from years of use. “Always so cold in The Warrens, it warms you up from the inside.”
Ms Crowley nodded stiffly, teacup rattling against its matching plate as she held it in trembling hands. You took a brief moment to observe her, eyes searching her appearance. Her clothing was plain but serviceable—a dark woollen cloak that hung unevenly over her frame, its hem damp and muddied from the streets. Beneath it, a simple grey dress fitted her modestly, cinched at the waist with a cracked but sturdy belt. A brass locket hung around her neck, glinting faintly when she shifted. Though practical and well-worn, her boots carried scuffs deep enough that you questioned if the dark fabric was her socks beneath.
She took a hesitant sip from her cup and looked up at you with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Thank you, dear.”
You settled into your seat, dragging your cup across the table's woodgrain. “How can I be of assistance?”
Ms Crowley hesitated, her lips thinning into a line as she contemplated a response. You wisely decided to allow her some space, and the steaming liquid cupped in your palm suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world.
The older woman stumbled over her words, once, twice, thrice before finally settling on a simple, “I..I have never met a witch before.”
You smiled down into your cup, elbows resting on the table as you slowly looked up at her through a strand of loose hair that had fallen across your forehead. “I think you will find witches are alike most people you would meet—just like any stranger you would pass on the street.”
She peered across the table—as if testing your own words against you. Her tired, pale blue eyes squinting as she examined you from head to toe. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right. And I suppose I should trust you. I ‘ave been told most witches are trustworthy.”
“We are.” You state simply, only pausing to take a sip from your cup. The warm liquid fills your belly, a soft hum escaping your throat as you tilt you head in thought. “We’re salesmen, in a way, sellin’ our wares. There will always be scam artists, a few among the many, but most of us are just makin’ ends meet.”
The older woman contemplates your words. She takes a sip, a long one, then nods in affirmation. “You’re right. I should have some faith.”
“Now, Ms. Crowley, how can I help you?” You query once again.
“Well… I don’t know how this all works…”
“Just tell me what troubles you. From the start, if possible.”
Before she could speak, the door creaked open behind you, breaking the fragile quiet that had settled over the room. The sound was faint, yet it resonated through the stillness like the tolling of a distant church bell. Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around the chipped teacup as a wave of unease swept through you. The air seemed heavier, colder—an unspoken warning curling down your spine.
“Spirit-raiser.”
That voice. Gravelly, familiar. Unwelcome. You sucked in a sharp breath, though it felt as though your ribcage had suddenly shrunk two sizes too small for your organs. The bruises still present across your abdomen ached as every muscle in your body tensed, a tangled knot of shock electrifying your nerves. But beyond that, beyond the anger and disbelief, there was a feeling far more treacherous: relief.
He returned.
Your head whipped around, posture immediately straightening as though your spine was a pole made of steel. There he was—Bucky Barnes, leaning in the doorway like he owned the place, his sharp, stormy eyes swept over you, then flicked briefly to Ms. Crowley, whose face drained of colour. The woman looked ready to bolt, her hands clutching the table's edge as if it might anchor her in place. You couldn’t blame her. A woman already so anxious over the idea of magic she had positively turned green the moment she entered your flat. Now she was face to face with the dreaded Bucky Barnes, the fucking menace of the Sootstone? Many in The Warrens likely hadn’t seen the man in person, maybe at a distance, or knew him through whispered tales. You certainly hadn’t encountered the man until he came crashing into your life, smog and all.
“Bucky,” you said, his name slipping out before you could catch it. A string of curses nearly left your tongue along with it. How bittersweet could it be that despite all the hurt you felt, you still called him by a name so familiar? Too familiar. The taste of it burned on your tongue. Your heart slammed into a furious rhythm as what could only be described as a smirk graced his lips. How could he act like he hadn’t vanished from your life without so much as a goodbye?
How could he turn up here and act like all was well and normal?
It had hurt when he had left; yes, that was to be expected. But these past few days, he had avoided you. At least, it felt like avoidance. You hadn’t heard a word from the Smog Boys since your beating at the hand of the Iron Rats, not even a whisper on the sharp winds that rolled in from the dock. Natasha would have told him. In what world would she not have told Bucky that his pet witch had missed the summons because she was trembling, bloodied and bruised on her own floor?
You had convinced yourself that maybe it was for the better, an escape from Becca’s wrath and escape from the Smog Boys…
“I’m busy.” The words escaped you before you could think.
He raised his brows in disbelief. Your toes curled in their boots, cringing at your own blunt tone. But then again, had he just expected everything to return to normal?
“I need’a favour.” He stepped further into the room, his boots thudding against the floorboards as he surveyed the space with casual indifference. His gait was smooth, gaze unbothered. A morbid part of you wished you could inspect his back and see the damage you caused. It didn’t seem to bother him or impede his movements.
Ms. Crowley made a small, frightened noise, her trembling hands going to her locket as though it might ward off his presence. “I—perhaps I should come back later…”
“What’re you doin’ here?” you demanded, the words sharper than you intended, cutting over Ms. Crowley’s muttering.
“As I said, I need’a favour.”
Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you fought to keep your composure.
“A favour?” you repeated, the words dripping with scepticism. “After everythin’, you show up here and ask for a favour?”
Ms. Crowley flinched at the tone of your voice, but you couldn’t stop now. Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest crack in his facade of nonchalance.
“Watch it,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t want to push me.”
“And you don’t want to push me neither, Barnes,” You shot back, planting your hands on the table. “You don’t get to leave without so much as a ‘thank you’ and then show up here, actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”
“You say that, spirit-raiser, but…” He sucked on his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he looked down at you, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets as he sighed through his nose. “I just spent the last four days cleanin’ up your mess.”
Your brows drew inward, confusion slipping through. The entire time you had spent in misery, licking your wounds and nursing your broken heart, he had been out there defending you?
A devilish expression crossed his face. “You really thought you could, what? Walk on over to Grimrow unnoticed while under my protection? Do you realise how long it has taken me to talk the Rat King down from marching over the Sootline and wagin’ war ‘cause of you?”
“They crossed the Sootline. They pursued me.” You rebutted, though even your voice wavered, unsure.
“Yeah.” His head tilted, eyes squinting. “You better be praisin’ whatever fuckin’ witch god you follow, 'cause that little fuck up on their end is the only reason why you’re still here playin’ good little spirit-raiser.”
You swallowed. Hard.
“They hurt me.” You confessed, voice steadying.
“Yeah, I know. Nat told me. Good thing your pretty little face has all healed up. That’s your only fuckin’ worth to me right now after all the trouble you’ve caused.” His words stung; maybe you would’ve believed them true. But you got the sense he was being harsh for the sake of venting frustrations. He wouldn’t even catch your eye as the insults rolled off his tongue.
For a moment, silence filled the room, thick with tension. You could feel Ms. Crowley’s gaze on you. Bucky’s jaw tightened, his posture stiffening as his eyes finally lifted and bore into yours. His expression was unreadable, a carefully laid mask to cover whatever real emotion raged behind his stormy blue eyes.
Then, to your surprise, Ms. Crowley’s feeble voice cut through the silence.
“I-I-I should go now—”
You whirled around.
“No,” you snapped, cutting her off before she could rise. Ms. Crowley froze, wide-eyed and trembling, her teacup rattling slightly in her unsteady hands. For a brief moment, you thought Bucky might let her stay, that he’d simply loom in the corner, his presence a warning but nothing more.
But then Bucky huffed a sharp breath, irritation flashing across his face as he shrugged out of his jacket.
“Get the fuck out,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument, his eyes sliding to meet the older woman's as you made a noise close to a whimper. “And keep your fuckin’ mouth shut about all this.”
Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, her gaze darting between the two of you. With a frightened nod, she scrambled to her feet, clutching her bag and locket close to her chest.
“Apologies. I ain’t sayin’ a thing. Not a word. I swear.” she stammered, her voice a whisper as she made a beeline for the door.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you turned to Bucky, a glare sharp enough to cut steel fixed on your face.
“You didn’t have to scare her off like that!” you snapped, grabbing the teacups and stalking toward the sink.
“A waste of fuckin’ time is what she was,” Bucky replied casually, his voice dripping with indifference.
“She was a client,” you shot back, setting the cups into the sink with more force than necessary. “A payin’ client. I need clients, Barnes.”
Bucky leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you. “You’re actin’ like I don’t pay you triple what they’re offerin’.”
You dipped your hands further into the soapy water, pressing your palms flat against the metal bottom as you sighed, momentarily closing your eyes in exasperation. “You don’t get to decide who’s worth my time. This is my place. My work. You can’t just—”
“I thought Nat was exaggeratin’,” Bucky cut over you, his voice low but carrying an edge that made your stomach churn.
You stiffened, your grip on the cup tightening. “Exaggeratin’ about what?”
“About this.”
Your eyes flew open as his hand caught your chin, tilting your face toward him with an infuriating gentleness. His thumb brushed over your jaw, skimming the faint bruise that lingered there, and his eyes narrowed as they traced the fading split in your lip. A shiver raced down your spine, and you jerked your head away, pulling free of his grasp.
“It’s nothin’,” you muttered, returning to the sink.
“Don’t look like nothin’,” he countered, his tone sharp. “Let me see the rest.”
You froze, your hands hovering over the sink. “No.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped, moving closer. His voice dropped, carrying a dangerous edge. “I need to see what they did to you.”
You shook your head, your pulse roaring in your ears. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
Bucky let out a low growl of frustration, and before you could react, his hand was on your shoulder, spinning you around to face him. His other hand went to your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt.
“Bucky, stop,” you protested, grabbing at his wrists. The soapy water made your hands slick, his skin slipping from your grasp. “This isn’t—”
“Quit fightin’ me,” he said sharply, his eyes flashing with something raw and unyielding. “I need to know.”
His words silenced you, leaving you to stare up at him in stunned disbelief. The fight drained out of you, replaced by a reluctant acceptance as you lifted your hands, a trail of water rolling down to your elbows. Your head dipped, staring down at his shoes as droplets dripped onto his boots. With a defeated sigh, you rested your palms on his chest, pressing the wet skin into his buttoned shirt until you could feel the warmth of his body. With a grunt, he tugged your blouse from where it was tucked into your shirt, ripping the fabric upward until it exposed your belly.
The air seemed to leave the room as his gaze fell on the mottled bruises that painted your abdomen, the angry purples and blues. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as his hand hovered over the worst of the damage, his fingers brushing against your side with an uncharacteristic hesitance.
You heard him swallow audibly, adam’s apple bobbing. A shiver ran down your spine as his thumb carefully ran up to your sternum, then across the band of your brassiere.
“How many ribs did you break?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
You sucked in a sharp breath as the hair across your body rose on end. Tingles blossomed across your skull as his hand swept down to the waistband of your skirt, tugging it down to inspect the damage still hidden.
“Three.”
His grunt of acknowledgement was quiet, but the tension dominating his frame was unmistakable. He stepped back abruptly, running a hand through his hair, tongue running over his bottom lip.
“Why didn’t you fight back?” The question gave you near vertigo.
“I did.” You lie through your teeth
The gangster shook his head, hands resting on his hips as he looked down at you.
“Bullshit. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I’ve felt it, doll.” Your gut clenched as he half motioned towards his back. “If you wanted to fight back, they would’ve been dead long before they touched you.”
You pause. He was right. He was entirely right. You hadn’t fought back because you were what? Dejected and defeated? Too swept up in your own pity? Living in your mother's shadow? Or was it just the shadow you had created for yourself?
“You’re punishin’ yourself, aren’t ya? Hm?”
“I’m not lyin’ Barnes—” You begin to speak, voice raising as hysteria begins to bubble within you. Why was he asking you these things? Why was he pretending to care?
“Why?” He cuts over you,
You turned away, refusing to respond. “I think you should leave now.”
He was silent for a beat. Then you heard the shuffle of clothing as he picked up his coat and swept it over his muscled shoulders. “I still need that favour.”
You sigh, an exaggerated noise as you spin to face him with a scowl. “What now? Can’t it wait?”
“You’re expected. At a meetin’.”
“Meetin’?” You echoed.
“About what happened. With the Iron Rats.”
“I thought you said you dealt with it—” You bite back, irritation flaring.
“Would you just shut your fuckin’ mouth for a second and listen?” Bucky cut over you, voice raised. You clamp your mouth shut in surprise.
“It’s the Rat King.” Bucky meets your gaze. “He wants to meet you.”
—
You would have never described Bucky Barnes as nervous, but the walk to the Sootline almost had you questioning that assumption. Bucky kept his pace steady, though you noticed the subtle clench of his jaw and the occasional twitch of his hand at his side. It wasn’t the demeanour of a nervous man—no, Bucky Barnes didn’t do nervous—but something unexplainable was simmering beneath the surface.
The streets of the Warrens were quieter than usual, the normal hum of life dampened. The sun had grown low in the sky, the usual grey fog warming to a diffused orange and pink glow. The cobblestones were slick beneath your boots, liquids you wouldn’t dare identify, leaving a sheen across the ground that reflected the faint glow of lanterns. You adjusted your coat, tucking it closer against the chill, and cast a sidelong glance at Bucky.
"Barnes, you alright?" you asked cautiously, breaking the silence. You weren’t one to pry, but the energy engulfing the gangster was strange.
“We’re late,” he muttered, his voice clipped.
You frowned, the sharpness of his tone needling at you. “Well, if you’d told me sooner than five minutes ago that I was needed—”
“And you would have come?.” His words were abrupt, cutting through your protest like a blade. “You do ‘ave a habit of ignorin’ my summons.”
Your jaw clamped shut, a heavy silence falling over the both of you. Further down the twisting, wonky street, you could see streetgoers dashing into nearby stores and homes. Above in the stacked homes that towered above the streets, faces cautiously peeked out, watching as Bucky and you marched past. You observed a group of three children ushered away by their mother, her tightly shutting the rickety window with a grim expression.
“It would be best if you kept your mouth shut during this. Only speak when spoken to. Just agree unless I say otherwise.” Bucky finally spoke, voice gruff.
“Why?” You pry, voice unsure.
“‘Cause I can’t help you if you say somethin’ stupid ‘n end up gettin’ yourself in more trouble.”
Your steps faltered, confusion flashing across your face. “Why do you suddenly care?”
His lip twitched, but he continued with his persistent gait. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You’re scarin’ me—”
“I have a reputation to uphold, spirit-raiser. Can’t have these rats thinkin’ I’ve gone weak ’cause of some bird.”
The words landed heavily, and you bit back the sting of their dismissal. “What does your reputation got to do with me?”
His stride didn’t falter, but his gaze flicked toward you, brittle and intense. “If I can’t protect you, then what’s to say I can protect the whole of The Warrens, huh? What’s to stop them from marchin’ over the Sootline?”
“So, what’s this, then? You strikin’ a deal, handin’ me over to them, actin’ like you don’t care so they don’t think you’re weak ‘cause of some bird?”
“If I wanted you dead, you’d have been dead a long time ago.” He huffed out in an empty laugh. He stopped abruptly, turning to face you. The weight of his stare rooted you in place. “No, doll, those rats… they fucked up.”
Your breath hitched in your throat as he continued, his voice low and deliberate, every word laced with venom. “I’m gonna get them to bend the fuckin’ knee. Show them whose the real fuckin’ King around here.”
—
The Sootline River separated the two territories like a jagged scar, its sluggish current carrying the city’s filth toward the sea. On either bank, the Smog Boys and Iron Rats assembled in tense lines, a mix of swagger and unease flickering across their faces. The lanterns they carried swayed, casting fragmented shadows on the water as the sun finally slipped beyond the horizon, coating the land in creeping darkness, its coffin-like suffocation only exaggerated by the smoke and ash from the Smokestacks.
Bucky stood at the river’s edge, his posture deceptively relaxed, his hands buried in his coat pockets. His gaze locked onto the figure across the river: Varlan Crey—The Rat King. Varlan was everything Bucky wasn’t—brash, loud, and lumbering, his bulk swathed in a tattered black coat with yellow stitching. His grin was wide, but his teeth were uneven, lending him the air of a predator more accustomed to snapping than scheming. His gang flanked him, a pack of diseased rats, restless and waiting for a signal.
“Barnes,” Varlan called, his voice carrying easily across the water, gravelly and full of mock cheer. “Shame we ain’t meetin’ unda different circumstances.”
“Varlan,” Bucky replied, his tone steady, almost clipped. He didn’t move a muscle, his stance radiating a nearly unbearable calm.
Varlan cocked his head, his smirk widening. “I’m guessin’ this is the bird in question?” He nodded towards you.
You froze under his scrutiny, your skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. The air seemed colder now, and your chest tightened as though the river’s chill had seeped into your bones.
Bucky gave a single, deliberate nod. “Yes.”
Varlan snorted softly. “A bird from The Warrens, crossing inta my territories ‘n causing a ruckus amongst my boys… you undastand how this looks bad, Barnes?”
Bucky didn’t flinch. His smooth and unhurried tone carried across the water like a blade. “I can. But it weren’t her that was causing the ruckus now, was it? I’m guessin’ these lies you’re tellin’ yourself are why you so recklessly declared war before examinin’ the facts.”
Varlan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. “Facts,” he repeated, shaking his head as though the word itself amused him. “You’re soundin’ more and more like them fancy wankers up in The Flower Districts, Barnes. Especially in those fine tailored suits a yours.”
A chorus of low laughter rumbled from the Iron Rats side of the bridge, the lines of men with their yellow handkerchiefs grinning amongst themselves.
“Oh, I can recommend you a tailor, Crey,” Bucky said lightly, his voice laced with faint amusement. “I know one who gives discounts for friends.”
It was now time for the Smog Boys to stir behind Bucky, muffled chuckles rippling through the crowd. A flicker of a smile ghosted across Bucky’s lips, though his gaze remained fixed on Varlan. With the subtle jab landed, Varlan bristled. His shoulders stiffened, and his smirk turned brittle. He barked a short laugh, more bark than humour.
“Well,” he said, his voice sharper now. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we?”
“Go ahead,” Bucky replied.
You glanced at him, searching for some clue about his thinking, but his expression gave away nothing. Beside you, the Smog Boys settled, hands tucked into their pockets and chests puffed out as they eyed the Iron Rats across the river. Their stillness wasn’t as practised as Bucky's. He held the type of quiet that preceded violence, the kind that made your stomach churn. As you scanned their faces, you noted how young some men were, barely out of boyhood. It might have been a cause for concern, but you knew many sought out Bucky’s leadership out of desperation. Their energy was much better placed under the guidance of someone like Bucky instead of them turning to the streets where their violence and frustration would run rampant. Regardless of their age or status, you had noticed one common theme among the Smog Boys—none were left unfed, and their clothes were always without holes. The same could not be said for other less fortunate souls who braved The Warrens alone.
“I admit,” Varlan began, dragging out the word with a performative sigh. “That I may ‘ave been… hasty. But ya can’t blame me, not with the information I was told.”
“I guess so,” Bucky replied simply.
Bucky’s lack of reaction agitated the larger man, a cross expression forming on his greasy face. Then his smirk returned, sly and serpentine. “Well, I am impressed by ya…little investigation. Touched a nerve, did it?”
A ripple of unease passed through you as Varlan Crey lifted his brows, head tilted to match his devious, wide-eyed expression. A subtle dig at Bucky’s involvement—or worse, his attachment to you? You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of both their gazes shift momentarily to you.
By some miracle, Bucky didn’t react to the provocation. Instead, his voice came low and steady. “I take it you spoke with the witch?”
You felt your face react before you could steel yourself, face scrunching in confusion. Witch? What witch was Bucky referring to? He certainly wasn’t referring to you—you had never met the Rat King before, let alone spoke with him about your misdeeds of crossing into his territories. In retrospect, with the gravity of the situation weighing upon you, it was a foolish assumption to make thinking you could walk into Grimrow unimpeded or unidentified. In recent months, it seemed everyone and anyone knew who you were before you knew them. It was as if you walked your life with a ginormous red hot brand across your forehead that simply said: Bucky Barnes!
“Spoke? Yes,” Varlan said, his voice emerging in a drawl. “Come ‘ere, girl.”
He turned slightly, and a figure emerged from the Iron Rats’ crowd.
Wanda.
Wanda.
Your chest tightened, bruising squeezing painfully. She walked forward with her usual unnerving grace, her head high, her eyes sweeping the scene before her. Her auburn locks bounced across her white dress, sheepskin draped over her shoulders to protect her from the chill. Coven garb. She was calm. Too calm. The shock of seeing her in the Church of Light clothing almost made you physically recoil. You had never seen the attire in the flesh, but you remembered how your mother had described it—white to symbolise the light and the chosen babe, the Light-bringer. Diviner.
The voices of the past echoed those names in your mind.
Light-bringer…
Your mother had always been short in her tales, too afflicted by the trauma and illness that had ruled most of her life away from the Coven. She had only spoken of the cruelty and sickness in those temple walls. The white was purity, the end of times, the rapture… but also a symbol of their devotion. The crimson blood of their self-inflicted or sometimes forced punishments showed up best on a fresh canvas.
How had Wanda inserted herself in your life so quickly? How long had Leofric and his coven of fucking madness been tailing you? And how had Bucky known to bring her? You glanced at him, desperate for a flicker of understanding, but his face remained devoid of emotion.
“It seems my friend, Barnes ‘ere, is obsessed with facts.” The Rat King spoke, pulling you from your confused daze. He wheezed out a laugh, a phlegm-filled cough quickly following as he spat the glob into the filthy churning Sootline.
“Go on then, girl. State the facts.” Varlan instructed with a bark.
Wanda folded her hands in front of her, her voice level and composed. “I invited her to Grimrow.”
A surprised murmur swept over the crowd.
“The Church of Light has been expanding its temple across the Sootline. I was honoured to become the Head Priestess for our new build—”
“Yeah, yeah, cut to the facts, girl.” Varlan cut over Wanda.
The auburn woman's eyes sparked with something that could only be described as irritation, but it was only a flicker as she expertly composed herself. “I invited her over to celebrate with me, as we have been friends since childhood.”
The word friends felt like a slap. Or even better, a well-placed stab to the abdomen. Your throat tightened as you stared at her, horrified by her ease in lying. How could she say it so smoothly? So convincingly? You tried to form words, but they caught in your throat, leaving you in silence.
“You agree,” Varlan pressed, his voice breaking through your haze, “that you were invited?”
Your lips parted, but no sound came, head spinning. Finally, you forced yourself to speak. “Yes.”
Varlan’s sly eyes narrowed, assessing you. “You say you are both friends but… the bartender and my men witnessed a fight between ya both,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “Why?”
Wanda quickly stepped in, her voice carrying a faint trace of sorrow. “I had expressed my concern. I wished she would stop workin’ for the Smog Boys out of fear for her safety.”
Varlan’s amusement flickered across his face, but you caught the subtle way his eyes darted toward Bucky. It was a jab meant to provoke. Bucky didn’t bite. He remained as unmoving as stone.
“And what do you say?” Varlan asked, turning his attention back to you.
Wanda’s eyes burned into your own, her chin lifting. You could’ve sworn you saw the ghost of a smirk across her lips as she watched you squirm. You couldn’t claim she was lying, or this elaborate fabrication would fall apart. You couldn’t gauge her motive. Was it to make you feel you owed her and the Church of Light? Was it to protect you? Plant seeds of doubt within Bucky, and make it seem like you had hidden parts of your life from him?
“She’s tellin’ the truth,” you surrender, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue.
“And do you have evidence? Of this letter sent to you to invite you?”
Your stomach dropped further, quickly scrambling to come up with a believable lie. “No… No, I burn all my old mail. I use it as kindlin’.”
“Convenient,” Varlan spat out with a slow shake of his head. “Very convenient.”
“I have evidence,” Wanda interjected smoothly, producing a rolled parchment from somewhere on her person. “It is the reply she sent me, confirmin’ the date.”
Bucky’s shoulders subtly relaxed beside you. Had he known about the lie, or was he being strung along by her games, too? Had the two spoken as well? What lies had she told him? Worst of all was the flare of jealousy in your gut—the thought of him talking with that woman, the idea of him trusting her over you—the weight of betrayal was suffocating. Wanda had gone to unimaginable lengths, forging a note in your handwriting to solidify this ruse.
“You wrote this reply?” Varlan asked, holding the parchment aloft.
“Yes.” Your tongue felt thick in your mouth.
Varlan examined the note for a long moment before nodding. “Well, seems you’re right, Barnes. My men were in the wrong. “
“So, we have an understanding now, Crey?” Bucky asked, his voice steady.
“Believe we do, Barnes,” Varlan replied. “Your woman can walk free.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his hand flexing at his side. For a moment, he didn’t respond; his cold blue eyes locked on Varlan like a wolf sizing up its prey.
“That’s it?” Bucky asked, his voice low, dangerously calm. “She walks free, and we’re supposed to call it even?”
Varlan spread his hands in a gesture of mock generosity. “What more do you want, Barnes? She crossed into my territory. I’ve agreed to let her go, no harm done. This should be the end of it.”
Bucky let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He glanced down at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before looking back at Varlan. “No harm done? Is that what ya think?”
“She’s standin’ here, ain’t she?” Varlan said, his tone oily, his confidence growing in the face of no immediate retaliation. “No blood spilt, no lastin’ damage. Consider this a…generous gesture from me.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. Without another word, he stalked toward the bridge.
The movement drew startled murmurs from both sides.
“What’s he doin’?” one of the Iron Rats hissed, his hand twitching toward his weapon.
“Hold!” Varlan snapped. “Let him come if he wants.” There was a cool confidence to his tone, a confidence that was likely misplaced.
“Barnes,” Varlan said, his voice rising as Bucky drew closer with deliberate, measured steps. “There ain’t no need for this. I’ve said the matter is settled.”
Bucky said nothing as he reached the other side. His hand slid into his coat, and when it emerged, he held a knife. The blade gleamed in the lantern light, its sharp edge catching the flickering flames.
The Iron Rats stiffened as if momentarily stunned and unable to make a move.
“Let’s be clear,” Bucky said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension like the edge of his blade. “You think you can cross me, threaten a woman under my protection, and walk away with a few pretty words? Is that what ya think, Crey?”
Varlan stepped back instinctively, his misplaced confidence crumbling as Bucky loomed over him. “Barnes, this is unnecessary—”
Bucky moved faster than anyone expected. His boot struck Varlan’s chest in a brutal kick, sending the Rat King sprawling onto his back. Gasps erupted from the Iron Rats, a few finally thawing out enough to jerk forward, but were quickly off-put their heroism by the crowd of Smog Boys inching across the bridge, blades drawn and faces like jackals.
At some point in the chaos, you had lost sight of Wanda, the witch disappearing into the shadows and fog like a ghost in the night.
Varlan scrambled backwards, his hands raised in a panicked gesture of surrender. “Wait! Barnes, wait!”
Bucky crouched over him, the knife hovering dangerously close to Varlan’s throat. “Ya think this is a game, Crey? Well, let’s fuckin’ play then, huh?” he spat.
“I—I didn’t mean for any of this!” Varlan stammered, his voice high with panic. “I swear, Barnes. Please!”
“Beg,” Bucky said, his voice cold and unrelenting.
Varlan’s face twisted with humiliation, but the knife at his throat left no room for pride. Slowly, he rose to his knees, his hands still outstretched in surrender but his entire form trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I was wrong. Please.”
“Louder,” Bucky demanded.
“I’m sorry!” Varlan cried, his voice cracking. “You can ‘ave the men, do what ya want with ‘em. Is that what you want? Please… just—”
Bucky gripped his balding head with a firm grip, directing Varlan’s watery, terrified eyes to look across the Sootline at you. You had a sudden epiphany, an understanding that Bucky had never been nervous. No. That strange energy, that twitchiness… it had been pure, unfiltered rage.
“Now, say sorry to her.” Bucky instructed, his voice near seething.
“I am sorry! I’m sorry for me actions. And my mens.” The Rat King cried out. Your gaze lifted to meet Bucky’s as he stared back across the Sootline at you. His grip on the man’s head tightened. “Please!”
“Bucky.” You finally spoke up, your voice soft as the breeze as it carried across the river.
As if your brief speech had broken a spell cast across the gangster, Bucky immediately straightened, his expression calm as he sheathed the knife. He reached out and patted Varlan’s head mockingly.
“Good little rat,” he murmured. “You know, I’m hostin’ a party soon. Maybe I’ll invite you, and you can dance and entertain me like the fuckin’ jester you are.”
Varlan’s humiliation was evident, his men exchanging uneasy glances. Bucky grinned wide, showing all his teeth.
“As for the men,” He said, his tone sharp as he turned to face the crowd of Iron Rats head-on. “The ones who crossed the border. Hand them over.”
Varlan hesitated for a moment, his pride still clinging stubbornly. But the weight of Bucky’s gaze, the threat of what he might do, was too much to bear. He nodded quickly, motioning to his men.
As if not wanting to anger the gangster further, the Iron Rats were quick to locate the three culprits and push them ahead, their expressions ashen with terror. Smog Boys emerged from the mist like spectres, grasping the men and dragging them across the bridge before they could escape and bolt back into the depths of Grimrow.
“Take them,” Varlan said hoarsely, his body sunken in defeat. “They’re yours.”
Bucky didn’t even look at them. He turned and crossed the bridge, hand grasping your forearm as he tugged you along. You frantically looked back, watching through the filthy haze as Varlan Crey stumbled back to his feet, cheeks burning, forehead slick with sweat. His men around him looked dejected, their beady eyes following you as you disappeared into the smog.
“Come,” Bucky uttered to you. “We have business to attend to.”
summary | Locked in a safehouse with him would be easy—if you both got along.
pairing | bucky barnes x f!reader
wc | 1.5k
warnings | smut 18+ ONLY. p in v (pls wrap it up irl), praise kink, & alcohol use
a/n | hiii! I posted this on my ao3 account originally, but totally forgot about posting it here. Enjoy! <3
It was two in the morning when his elbow jammed into your back. Two in the morning, after the longest and most tiring day you’ve had in weeks. More like, the mission from hell. And here he was, with that dumb vibranium arm jamming into your back.
You grumbled and tried to ignore him. Then out of nowhere he kneed you.
You sat up with a yelp, still wobbly from sleep.
“Will you stop moving?” the deep grumble of his voice was almost unsettling, as if he was some demon from beyond.
“Me?”
“Yeah. You.” He yawned, “I almost forget you were here.”
If he could see you in the dark, you were sure he’d run for the hills. Your lips scrunched into a tight frown as the sleepiness wore off and your anger from the day prior bubbled to the surface.
“Well I wouldn’t be here if the mission didn’t go to shit, Buck.”
He cursed. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” But you were already starting. And he knew there was no stopping you now. “Sam gave us 45 minutes to run in and grab the weapons container. 45 minutes. How you managed to screw that in less than five—!”
You stopped talked as firm hands snaked around your waist. Eyes wide with concern, you swat him away but to no avail. “Don’t—!”
Bucky Barnes pushed you farther away from his body, shuffling you close to the edge of the bed.
“I need sleep, doll. So do me a favor and stay over there.”
Over there, which was still so close to his body. There wasn’t anywhere to go in this tiny apartment on this tiny bed. It was never meant for two people, let alone two people who really didn’t like each other.
All because the mission went to shit. Because of him, you grimaced.
It was supposed to be a simple grab of illegal weapons hidden at an undercover Hydra base in Split, Croatia. Gorgeous blue waters of the Adriatic Sea surrounded by terracotta colored roofs. It would have been a dream to vacation here, but it was solely work related.
Unfortunately, the work day became a ‘work sleep-over’ after a shit-storm of mishaps went down at the warehouse.
Most of which weren’t your fault.
A soft buzz from the other side of the room caught you off guard. The buzzing continues in a rhythmic tone, which only meant it was one person’s phone—Bucky’s.
You don’t get calls at night. If someone did call—someone better be dead.
“Phone, Buck. Phone!” You insist before he shifts off the bed, flicking on the lamp. You didn’t flinch from the light as your head was already shoved underneath two slightly flattened pillows.
“Hey,” he yawned. “Right…okay, but Sam, when can we leave?” There was a pause before Bucky sighs, dropping his voice slightly. “No she’s awake.”
You groan loudly, plopping back to the surface of the bed.
He stood there in the yellowish light, messy brown hair flat against his head. His boxer briefs were barely hanging onto his hips after leaving the bed. His old black cotton tee shirt was loose on his defined chest.
You couldn’t help but stare. You weren’t blind—he’s a hot guy. He’s always been hot. It wasn’t new. You look every now and again, just to remind yourself men who are that toned and perfect do exist. But they tend to be stoic assholes.
And Bucky seemed to be no different.
Bucky stared at you, his eyes hovering over your body before shaking his head. A smirk played at his lips as he fought back a sleepy laugh. You may or may not have been flipping him off.
“Okay I’ll tell her,” he says before he drops the call. “That was Sam. He said we’re not getting out of here until tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow? Those jerks from the warehouse are still looking for us?”
“Looks like it.” He plopped back onto the bed and shut the light off.
In the dark, you didn’t see his hand reach around your head until there was a tug. The second pillow was yanked out from under you. So, in the dark, he didn’t have time to react when you shoved him straight off the bed.
Thud. Bucky’s ass hit the ground. “What the hell was that for?”
“Oops.”
“You know what—” Bucky jumped up and the blinding yellow light illuminates the room again.
You recoil, gasping as if he’d somehow set your eyeballs on fire. “I can’t sleep with you,” Bucky spat. “You’re insane.”
“And you take up half the bed, but I wasn’t going to say anything,” you smirk as the words left your lips.
“I’m taking up half the bed?”
“Did I stutter, Barnes?”
His eyes widen as the newly pardoned Winter Soldier ignores his urges to throttle you. Instead, Bucky hurries across the room to the kitchenette. He dug around in the last cabinet, shoving past boxes of old crackers and cereal.
“Aha!” In his hands, a bottle of amber liquor waved in the air. “Get up, doll. We’re taking care of this now.”
“Taking care of what?”
“Whatever bullshit this is between us. You’re pissed. I’m annoyed. Let’s drink.”
You blanched, “do you really think alcohol is the best option here?”
“Only if you’re game.”
There was a moment of clarity in your sleep deprived brain. It was stupid, it had to be a bad idea. But your eyes lingered on Bucky and his cocky grin. There wouldn’t be any reason not to.
“I’m always game.”
It only took two drinks. Neither of you were drunk when your lips crashed into each other. But those two drinks slowed any nerves of getting here.
Drunk would have meant you’d forget the fighting… that turned into laughing… that turned into fucking.
But the only thing really getting you tipsy tonight was the feeling of his thick cock and how he slammed into you.
Bucky had you pinned to the wall, his hips rutting in uneven strokes now. He grunted as you sank deeper onto his cock, grinding against his own movements in an attempt to feel some relief.
“Good girl,” he moaned. “You take me s-so good.”
You squealed, digging your nails into his back. He rutted against your desperate movements, each time a bit harder when you moaned. He really liked when you moaned. Every sound you made kept him lingering a bit longer.
“So pretty,” he spat as he curled into you.
His boxers were at his knees as he dug his palms into your hips, trailing his fingers across your skin.
You mewled as his head dipped down to catch your lips again. It was intoxicating just to be against him like this. Feeling him all around you, inside you. It was everything and so overwhelming.
“Fuck,” he murmured. Erratic and swift, his last few thrusts were unsteady. Sliding to the floor to keep his hold, Bucky dropped his head against your chest. He felt grounded like this, nearing his release, grinding down into you against the wall. In one final thrust he groaned as he emptied himself inside you.
Sweaty and very satisfied, he smirked. But you weren’t done and he wasn’t about to waste time.
His fingers pressed against your sensitive clit, brushing it in even strokes. You gasped, grabbing his hair and kept grinding down on his cock still inside you. His fingers were working you to your edge of release and it was hard not to just focus on that feeling.
He was pressing his thumb so softly at first but urgently moves against your clit the harder you push him into you. His cock stiffened again inside you, like he was already going for round two.
“Bucky,” you sounded weak. Like the stress of his movements and touch were going to kill you. He groaned, thrusting as he circled your clit. “I know, baby, I know. You feel so good.”
It was only seconds before your withering and wining against his touch finally met release. He didn’t move, letting you ride your high.
“Fuck,” you whispered between heaving breaths. “Fuck.”
Those blue eyes sparkled under the moonlight. “Round two?”
You snorted back a laugh, gazing at the chaotic scene around you two. Clothes everywhere. Bed sheets thrown. Pillows half-hazard on the bed. You ran your fingers through his hair and tugged.
“Shut up, Barnes.”
It was mid-morning. The sky was cloudy and dark still as a storm was brewing off the coast. “Bucky,” you whispered.
“Hm?”
“What are we doing?”
He yawned, rolling over to meet your sleepy gaze. “What?” Back on the bed, it felt oddly natural to be next to him now.
You sunk deeper into the mattress, “what are we doing? With us.”
Bucky paused. A grin pulled at his lips. “Whatever you want, doll.” His fingers reached out, “up to you.”
Peaking up from the pillows, you watched his blue eyes brighten. Your fingers slid from his hair to the scruff of facial hair building across his jaw. Taking in his love-drunk gaze, you rested against his bare chest. “I had fun.”
“Bet you did—”
The pillow hit his face just as his body rumbled with laughter beneath you.
His eyes lingered on your face before those soft lips brushed against yours. “Let me take you to dinner. When we get home and are not under enemy surveillance. Only if you’re game.”
Sinking into his body with a satisfied smile, you closed your eyes.
bucky that’s loves you and is desperate to please and have you any way he can…
!!!18+!!!
“tell me what you want, and i’ll give it to you,” he strains out as his cock is slowly rutting in and out of your pussy.
you grasp his metal hand that was on your tits, living the cold sensation it has, and drag it down your stomach to your clit, “please? i need it so bad, buck.”
“holy fuck,” he swears he has to start reciting old shakespeare in his head to not cum on the spot. “you’re so fucking good for me, doll. feel so good on my cock. tell me you love it, tell me you love my dick inside you.”
“i love it so fucking much, james,” one night is all you had agreed to with him. but with the way you said his name, not his nickname, not his last name. his first name.
god, he never wants to pull out. if staying inside of you will make you say his name like that again, he’d happily oblige.
“please don’t stop,” your hands moved to cup his face as his fingers continued to deftly work against your clit. you angled his face to look at your own, the eye contact forcing bucky to test his own stamina, question his ability to keep his fucking shit together.
the woman he’s wanted for so long. the woman he’s pined after for damn near two years, beneath him, saying his name in a way he’s only dreamed of, and looking at him in a way that’s better than he’s ever imagined.
“i’m not gonna stop,” his thrusts became harsher and deeper as your moans and whines became louder. “i’m not gonna stop until you cream all over my cock. gonna fuck you until i cum in this perfect fucking pussy. after that, i’m gonna fuck my cum back into you. not a single. fucking. drop. going to waste.”
“‘m so close,” you now rested bucky’s forehead against your own. with a high pitched whine, you wrapped your legs around his waist, licking your ankles together. “‘m gonna cum, oh my god! oh my god! please don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop. don’t pull out - need you to cum in me, jamie. need you to fill me up, please. oh fuck, please fill me up jamie! i need it so bad!”
“oh shit,” his hips were slamming into your pelvis as he pushed you over the edge, your eyes lost in his own before they began to roll back. your pussy quivering around his dick that made him question why he didn’t just propose to you on the spot. “that’s my fucking girl. i’m fucking cumming. i’m cumming in you, doll. holy fucking shit you’re so good! ung-fuck!” his hips kept moving on their own volition, fucking his cum that wouldn’t stop right back into your cunt.
his head moved from yours to your neck, the light sheen of sweat covering his body forgotten as you keep your legs wrapped around him. all that can be heard is your heavy breaths and heartbeats, now in sync, bucky notes.
he gives himself a few more minutes to relish in this moment with you. no fears, worries, no outside people to pressure the two of you in any way. once all other factors were removed, it was easy to be with each other.
after he decides that he needs to help clean you up a bit, he’s sure to be very gentle as he runs a warm washcloth over your sensitive pussy. he runs a bath - somehow at the most perfect temperature - and is sure to rub your shoulders with amazing pressure. it’s those damn hands… you always knew they’d be amazing.
and after drying off, the two of you don’t mention the fact that things will have changed between you two. you simply accept the others company - even if it might just be for tonight…
but, if it were up to bucky, he’d have you any way he can get.
It’s been a rough few months so bear with me lol. This is probably extremely horrible and gonna flop but I’m trying to be positive. I got tired of writing at the end. Currently uploading this at 3am after coming back from the gym. So I’m very tired lol, been sitting on this for a while tho so let’s hope it’s decent. Also a lot of time jumps?? Can’t keep a story straight apparently but what’s new. Oh and Nate Jacob’s is the bad guy?? Idk I started writing this after coming across him and his toxicity on TikTok lol. Anyway enjoy!
Pairings: Bucky x fem!reader
Warnings: self loathing??, reader has bad self image (like me :3), protective Bucky, poorly written fight scene lol, Nate Jacob’s (THATS A WARNING), Nate trying to hurt reader, fluff? And angst. Idk what else
5k words
You’re not sure how this feeling began. Maybe it was parental neglect? Or the bullying throughout middle and highschool? Whatever caused it, the feeling is something that has lived in your soul from a very young age. It's why you've never been able to keep a meaningful relationship, why your friendships never grew into adulthood. That's not to say you can’t speak to people, it's just difficult to get past just speaking and just being around one another enjoying each other's company for the sake of it. You never understood why people felt the need to be around each other just because. Well you didn't understand until you met Nate. You still remember the shy smile he gave you and the buzzer going off in your head. The moment you locked eyes it clicked, some people are just worth being around…Until they start bringing other people into the mix. Which you really hate. You hate him.
“Really Nate? This is your idea of a study session? Making out with some random chick in the history section?” Your voice makes the couple break apart. Nate looked at you annoyed as the girl ran away. It’s not that you hate him, it's just, you hate how he treats you. Your “boyfriend” who acts like he doesn’t want to be seen with you making out with some girl in public? It is infuriating. Why can’t he do that with you? Why does it have to be some random girl? Once the girl leaves Nate walks up to you cupping your face and trying to lean in for a kiss only to be stopped by your hand. “God, Nate as if I’d kiss you after that”
“Come on baby, don't be like that. The boys dared me to do it. You know I have to because-“ You roll your eyes walking away from another one of his stupid excuses “yeah whatever Nate. I’ve got to get to class” “God why do you have to be such a bitch all the time. Get off my back about something for once” he practically yells making a couple of people a few tables down stare at the two of you. Their curious faces making you nervous
“You know what, Nate? Fuck you” You turn to leave ignoring his meaningless apologies and head to your next class.He was so sweet at first. Loving and caring. He charmed his way into your heart with just one smile and then he joined that stupid Frat. Hearing about how hot Nate Jacob’s is and how wild he gets at every party. Also “did you hear about that time he took 3 chicks up to his room. That was a sweet man”. God you hated him but you loved him too much to leave. How could you ever leave? What if you never find anyone else. What if you never find that connection again. You still have hope he can be that sweet and shy Nate you met at freshman orientation.
🖤
Sitting in class you can’t help but replay the argument you had with Nate. How dare he call you a bitch? Does he not love you- The professor’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “All right, everyone,” Professor Williams says, adjusting her glasses. “I’m assigning partners for your midterm project. You’ll be working together for the next few weeks, so get comfortable. And remember, this project is worth 30% of your grade.” A collective groan ripples through the classroom but you sit up straighter trying to focus. You’re not about to let personal drama tank your GPA. You can think about how to fix this problem later. You still love Nate and know that he can be cruel sometimes when he doesn't get proper rest.
“Y/n, you’ll be paired with James Barnes,” the professor announces. You blink in surprise and glance around the room. You don’t recognize the name at first, but then you see him. James Barnes. The guy who always sits quietly in the back of the class, scribbling notes in a worn leather notebook. He looks up when he hears his name, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. He gives you a small, shy smile, and you feel an unexpected warmth spread through your chest. The feeling is familiar but you force yourself to tamper it down. When class ends he approaches you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. “Hey, y/n, right?” he asks, his voice soft but steady.
You nod. “That’s me. And you’re James?” He’s cute. You can admit that to yourself right? It’s not bad to notice his beefy build and incredibly kissable l- “Bucky,” he corrects with a grin. “Only my mom calls me James.” You laugh feeling nervous all of a sudden. “Got it, Bucky. So how do you want to tackle this project?”
🖤
The next day you show up to Bucky's apartment, ignoring the swirl in your stomach. You’re not sure where all these nerves are coming from. Bucky seems like a genuinely nice guy, never speaks out of turn, politely corrects people when they are misinformed about a topic, He's an all around great guy so you don't understand why your stomach is fluttering with nerves. Pink pouty lips cross your mind before the door is pulled open.
“Y/n!” Bucky says with a slight grimace as he opens the door. “Come in, sorry I forgot to mention my roommate invited our friends over” “who’s the chick Barnes?” Bucky rolls his eyes “Ignore Sam. He’s always this loud.”
Sam, sprawled on the couch, throws a pillow at Bucky. “Don’t scare her off, Barnes. Haven’t even seen the girl!” Sam peaks his head from over the couch “hey I’m Sam” he shoots you a smile. A redhead peaks out from the kitchen. “Sam leave Bucky’s girl alone. Hi I’m Natasha welcome to the madhouse,” she greets making you blush. “Hope you don’t scare easily.” A tall blonde offers you a friendly smile from his spot on the dining table. “It’s nice to finally meet you, I’m Steve Bucky’s Roommate. He told us he had a friend coming over. Thought we’d see for ourselves.” Bucky groans, his cheeks tinged pink. “Can you not?” He mumbles
You laugh nervously, cheeks equally as heated as Bucky’s. “Well, it’s nice to meet you all.“ you say quickly as Bucky rushes you through the living room to his room. Careful to still give you space and not touch you without your consent. Something you take note of as his hands gently hover around you, rushing but not touching. “Sorry about that. They can be…a lot” he shakes his head at his friend’s antics.
“It's ok. It's kind of refreshing, you know? I don’t really have a lot of friends.” You trail off as you look around his room.
“Annoying is what it is” he grumbles, making you laugh. You notice all the posters and comics. His bed is neatly made and his game set up clean. Not at all what you expected “wow your rooms nice” he blushes and stumbles over his words making you laugh “I’m serious Bucky. It’s clean, not really something you expect when walking into a guys room.”
He laughs nervously “thank you. Let’s um let’s study?”
As the night goes on, you realize how different bucky is from Nate. Where Nate would judge you for not knowing something with Bucky there’s no pressure, no judgment…just warmth and laughter. You catch Bucky watching you a few times, his eyes soft and filled with something you can’t quite name. After a particularly long study session, you and Bucky end up sitting on the floor of his living room, your notes scattered around you. The conversation drifts away from the project and into more personal territory.
“So,” Bucky says, leaning back on his hands. “Stop me if I'm being too forward but what’s the deal with you and Nate Jacobs?”
You stiffen slightly, but his tone isn’t judgmental…just curious.
“It’s… complicated,” you admit, fiddling with the corner of your notebook. “We’ve been together for a while, but things haven’t been great lately.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Maybe because he asked? Maybe the way he looks at you? The way even in such a short amount of time he’s been able to make you feel safe and like a person. It's crazy to think that a study session and a couple of text messages can make you feel secure around someone but maybe that's just the kind of person Bucky is. Maybe he's just the kind of person that just exudes comfort and safety.
Bucky nods, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve seen how he treats you, y/n. I’m not going to pretend to know what your relationship is but…you deserve better.”
The words hit you harder than you expect. You glance at him, surprised by the intensity in his gaze. “It’s not that simple,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says gently. “But if you ever need someone to talk to…or just someone to remind you how amazing you are, I’m here.”
Your throat tightens, and you manage a small smile. “Thanks, Bucky. That means a lot.” And it does. You’ve never had anyone say these words to you with such sincerity, not a school counselor, therapist or even the “best friend” you had back in highschool ever spoke those words with such conviction. For the first time in a long time, you feel like someone sees you, not as a secret, not as a trophy, but as a person worth caring about.
🖤
As the weeks pass, you and Bucky grow closer. You start spending time with his friends outside of class, finding a sense of belonging you hadn’t realized you were missing out on. And slowly, you start to see what real, genuine care looks like. What it actually looks like to love someone and it scares you. So you ignore it the best you can. The butterflies, the shy smiles, the need to always be close. You ignore it because you're not supposed to feel it. You have Nate and that should be enough Shouldn’t it?
Sighing for the fifth time you catch Bucky’s attention. “You ok?”
You turn to look at him and give him a wry smile. “Yeah I just” you take a deep breath “I caught Nate making out with Cassie in the library again”
Bucky gives you an unimpressed “really? What is that the fifth time this week” Bucky really hates Nate. Every time you mention him his eyes instantly roll making you laugh. And you understand him. You hate Nate too.
You scratch your head and look away from him “the seventh time”
“SEVENTH” he exclaims, making the people at the next table shush him “the seventh time?? Sweetheart you-”
“I know what you’re gonna say Bucky” you interrupt him. “But I just can't do it. I can’t leave him. He’s just…you don’t know how he is ok? He’s caring and sweet and he really does love me. They make him do these things.”
Bucky looks at you with a clenched jaw. “Y/n can I throw a truth bomb at you real quick?”
“Umm?”
“Nate Jacob’s is a fucking dick. I’m not finish” he cuts you off when you open your mouth to retort “Nate is a dick and he doesn’t deserve you. You’re too good for him and it sucks that you can’t see that. You can’t see how amazing you are and how much you deserve for someone to openly express their love for you everyday. Someone who loves you would never do the things he does. Someone who loves you would make out with you behind those shelves. Not Cassie fucking Howard. You deserve the whole world”
You look in his eyes and see the sincerity and love shining through making your throat tighten up and blood boil. How long has it been since Nate looked at you like that? God you fucking hate him! “Thanks for that Bucky but I really didn’t fucking ask you for relationship advice.” You get up and pack your things up quickly leaving Bucky in shock at your sudden outburst. He blinks for a while before following you out the door “y/n wait I’m sorry-“
“No Bucky you don’t understand ok? He loves me. I know he does, he's just. He’s going through a rough time right now ok? Just-I gotta go I can’t right now” you rush to your car wiping the tears from your face and begin driving home. God, you're so embarrassed. You know Nate doesn’t love you. But how you wish that wasn’t true. You wish you could just go back in time and never meet Nate Jacob’s. And Bucky? Can’t help but wish he got the nerve to speak to you at freshman orientation before Nate. Like he planned to, when he saw you he couldn’t believe his eyes. You were the walking embodiment of a goddess and he let his opportunity slip away. Dragging his feet back to his car and driving himself home he just can’t grasp on how you think so little of yourself. He understands making connections is hard for you but… shouldn’t that make it easier to leave people who hurt you?
Getting home he slams the door gaining the attention of a certain redhead. “Woah who pissed in your cheerios. Don’t be slamming doors like that.” She scolds.
“Sorry. Nate Jacobs is who pissed me off. Fucking entitled asshole.” He mumbles
Nat sighs and shakes her head “Study session with y/n i'm guessing? What happened this time?” Bucky sits on the couch with a big sigh, running his hand over his face. “She caught him making out with cassie again”
Pots slam against the stove top and cussing is russian is all the warning Bucky gets before a Furious redhead is standing in front of him, smoke practically coming out of her ears, “AGAIN!?! Does he not realize he has a girlfriend?”
“He does, he just doesn't care? I don't understand why he wouldn't…i mean y/n… is great shes, she's everything. Kind, caring, smart. She's got it all and he's just throwing it away? And she's just letting herself? Why is she letting herself-” He's cut short by a hand knocking some sense into him.
“She is not ‘letting herself’ you idiot. Nate was her first…EVERYTHING she's scared. She’s scared to never find that connection again. She's scared that she gave herself over to him and it was meaningless. I'm sure Nate loved her at some point but now he doesn’t and she can’t seem to figure out why. She probably thinks it has something to do with her. So instead of coming here to gain sympathy points go get your girl and make her feel as loved and cared for as she deserves to be” another smack to the head send bucky racing out of the apartment and to yours.
🖤
The whole drive home you can’t help but think about all the ways you're going to apologize to Bucky for your behavior. He didn’t mean anything bad by it. He’s just trying to protect you. You know he’s probably tired of listening to you bitch about Nate “Bucky would never call you a bitch. He’s a real gentleman” you scold yourself. And he is Bucky Barnes is one of the sweetest and nerdiest guys on campus. It’s a shame no one has snatched him up. I mean with eyes like that and pink pouty lips that make you want to just sink your-
The door opening and shutting pulls you away from your thoughts making you swallow hard. You were out of it from your fight with bucky. You didn’t even notice when you got here or even when you stopped your car.
“Nate?” You ask when you see a tall figure sitting on your couch.
You walk deeper into the living room seeing him sitting on the couch with a beer bottle in hand. His hair messy and eyes red as if he’s been crying. “Oh my god Nate baby are you ok?” your rush to him and kneel next to him. He mumbles something you can’t quite understand. “You’re gonna have to speak up honey”
“How long?” You furrow your brows in confusion.
“How long, what baby?”
“Don’t act stupid y/n how long have you been cheating on me with that fucking freak”
“Cheating? What are you talking about Nate? I’m not cheating on you”
He scoffs harshly “you know I knew you were fucking stupid but I didn’t think you were a liar”
Your mouth opens in shock at his words.
“Don’t call me stupid Nate.”
“Well that’s what you fucking are. Or am I the fucking idiot for thinking my girl actually loved me? Instead she was sneaking behind my back with some fucking freak”
“Bucky is not a freak Nate and don’t accuse me of cheating when you know damn well you’ve been cheating on me. I literally caught you making out with Cassie seven fucking times and didn’t say shit. Yet you’re here accusing me of shit?”
He rolls his eyes “god shut the fuck up. I already told you that was a fucking bet.”
“That doesn’t make it any fucking better Nate. You still did it and now you’re getting mad at me because what? Because I’m studying with Bucky”
“God don’t be so fucking naive y/n you think I can’t see how that nerd looks at you? Probably fucks his hand after spending time with you”
“Nate what the fuck? He doesn’t look at me anyway” you lie. Your chest tightens at Nate’s accusation. His words sting, but you won’t let him see you falter. You square your shoulders and glare at him, the anger bubbling over. “Nate, you’re unbelievable. You’re sitting here, accusing me of cheating because Bucky and I study together? Are you serious right now?” Your voice trembles, but you hold your ground. “Do you even hear yourself?”
Nate scoffs again, his lip curling in disdain. “I hear myself just fine, y/n. I see the way he acts around you, like some pathetic puppy. And don’t act like you don’t know it. What, you like the attention? Does it make you feel good to have two guys chasing after you?”
You feel your blood boil, fists clenching at your sides. “Two guys? Are you hearing yourself? Nate, you don’t even treat me like your girlfriend, let alone someone you’re proud of. And Bucky? He’s the only one who actually respects me!”
His eyes narrow, and he slams the beer bottle onto the coffee table, making you jump. “Respect you? You call hanging around with a guy who clearly wants to screw you respect? If he respected you, he’d stay the fuck away from you.”
Your chest heaves as you fight to keep your voice steady. “If you respected me, you’d stop blaming everyone else for your mistakes and start looking in the mirror. You’re the one who cheats, lies, and treats me like I’m disposable. And yet, I stayed. I stayed because I believed in you. Because I thought you’d change.”
Nate stands abruptly, towering over you, his jaw tight. “You stayed because you know no one else would put up with you,” he spits venomously.
The words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you can’t breathe. Your vision blurs as tears well up, but you refuse to let them fall. “You know what, Nate? You’re right.” Your voice is eerily calm, steady despite the storm raging inside you. “No one else would put up with me. Because no one else would need to. A real man wouldn’t treat me the way you do.”
He looks taken aback for a moment, but then his face hardens again. He roughly grabs your arms and cages you against the couch. Your heart races but you try not to let your fear show. “Don’t act like you’re some kind of victim here, y/n. Because you're not. You’re just a scared little bitch whos gonna shut the fuck up and take it.” Just as his hand is about to raise the door swings open.
“Y/n?” Bucky’s voice, like a beacon of hope lights your small apartment. Before your mind can process it Nate weight is off you and slamming against your coffee table as Bucky rushes him making you scream. Tossing and tumbling with Nate until Bucky gets him in a headlock making Nate tap out before he loses consciousness. Nate quickly gets up looking battered and bruised. His gaze shifts between you and Bucky and he scoffs “you can have her. She's not even a good lay” As Nate opens the door he turns to look at you.“You’re gonna regret this, y/n. No one else will ever love you like I do.”
You pause, turning back to look at him one last time. Finding your voices you say “I hope to God you’re right, Nate.” He leaves without another word and slams the door shut. You heave out the breath you’ve been holding and sit on the couch putting your head in your hands. It quiet for a second before you hear Bucky softly whisper your name making you look up at him. “I'm so sorry Bucky…I swear I didn’t mean to lash out at you. I was just so mad because you were right and i don’t know why i didn’t want you to be even though i already knew you were and god Nate is suck a dick and i hate him and you're way too good for me and hes just and and and-” you tearfully ramble making bucky let out a loving sigh. He walks over to the couch and sits next to you. Carefully raising his hand as if to ask for permission to wipe your tears. You grab his hand and raise it to your cheek for him, Bucky’s thumb brushes away the tears gently, his touch soothing and patient. You finally meet his eyes, and the intensity in them steals your breath away.
“Y/n,” he murmurs softly, his voice steady and full of emotion. “You don’t have to apologize. None of this is your fault, okay? I just hate seeing you hurt…especially by someone who doesn’t even see how incredible you are.”
You swallow hard, his words like a lifeline after a storm. “Bucky…I’m scared,” you admit, your voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be without him. I’ve spent so long believing that this…this was all I deserved.” His brows furrow, and he shifts closer. “You deserve so much more, Y/n,” he says with conviction. “You deserve someone who lifts you up, who loves every part of you—your quirks, your dreams, even your insecurities. Someone who sees you for the amazing person you are and never makes you question your worth.”
You feel the tears streaming again, but this time, they’re different. They’re tears of release, of realization, of finally letting go of the weight you’ve been carrying for far too long. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you whisper. Bucky smiles softly, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he assures you. “I’ll be here, every step of the way, as long as you’ll have me.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel a glimmer of hope. You nod slowly, leaning into his touch. “Thank you, Bucky…for everything.” He chuckles lightly, the sound warm and genuine. “Always, Y/n. You’re worth it.” And in that moment, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you can finally start believing it too.
🖤
The months after Nate were a blur of trying to rebuild yourself. But through the chaos, there was always Bucky constant and patient, guiding you through the storm. Never letting you dwell in your self destructive thoughts but not invasive. Texts to check in. Casual invites to group hangouts. Quiet conversations that felt like salve on old wounds. Bucky never pushed, and for that, you were grateful.
One rainy afternoon, you found yourself on his couch, flipping through an old sketchbook you’d found tucked under his coffee table.”oh is this steve’s?” you ask him, making him furrow his brows while trying to focus on the task of perfecting your sandwich. The sound of rain tapping against the windows filled the silence as you turned the pages, marveling at the drawings. Landscapes. Animals. Portraits of people you vaguely recognized from stories he’d told. And then…Your breath caught. “Bucky…” you murmured, your fingers brushing over the page. It was a half-finished sketch of a girl with a soft smile and familiar eyes. It was unmistakably you.
Bucky, who had been in the kitchen, froze when he realized what you were referring to. “Oh. Uh. That's actually mine” His voice was laced with nervousness. He walks over to see what page you’re stuck on and curses himself when he sees its the drawing of you “That’s…don’t read too much into that. Sometimes I draw people who are important to me.”
Your cheeks warmed. You weren’t sure how to respond, so you simply closed the sketchbook and handed it back. “Important to me” you’re important to him. A warmth spread throughout your chest and this time you let it. Because finally it's sinking in. you're important to him. He cares about you and you care about him..“You’re really talented,” you said softly.
His lips quivered into a shy smile. “Thanks.”
After that, you started noticing the little things about him. How he always carried an extra hoodie in case you got cold. The way he remembered your coffee order. The way his presence lit up whenever you were around, as if you were the only thing that fueled him.
Like the time you were sitting around a campfire with his friends at Steve’s cabin, you found yourself watching him. He was mid-story, his hands moving animatedly as he described some ridiculous prank he and Sam had pulled in high school. His laugh was loud and infectious, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Y/n, you okay?” Bucky’s voice pulled you from your trance. You blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “What? Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired.” He didn’t look convinced but didn’t press further. Instead, he offered you a blanket and sat closer, his shoulder brushing yours. Your heart skipped.
🖤
Weeks passed, and the feelings bubbling inside you became harder to ignore. Again, you found yourself at Bucky’s apartment again, helping him proofread an essay for his philosophy class. He was sprawled out on his bed, his hair slightly messy, his shirt rumpled. He looked so effortlessly perfect it made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you said suddenly, your voice cutting through the comfortable silence. He glanced up, concern flickering in his blue eyes. “What’s up? Did I mess up the formatting again?”
You shook your head, setting his laptop aside. “No, it’s not that.” Taking a deep breath, you twisted your hands nervously in your lap. “I need to tell you something.”
He sat up, his full attention now on you. “Okay… I’m listening.”
“I think…” You paused, gathering your courage. “No, I know I feel something for you. And it scares me, because I’m not sure I’m ready for anything after what happened with Nate. I know it's been months and it still hurts but I also don’t want to keep pretending it’s not there.”
For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Then, slowly, Bucky reached out, his hand covering yours.“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice steady. “You know I feel the same. But I didn’t want to push you or make you feel like you had to rush into anything. I care about you, so much, but we can take this as slow as you need. I just want you to be happy.”
His words were like a balm to your soul, easing the anxiety that had gripped you. A small, tentative smile tugged at your lips. “I think… Being with you makes me happy.”
He smiled back, the warmth in his gaze making your chest tighten. “Then we’ll figure it out together. No rush. No pressure.”
That night the two of you were sitting on his living room floor, laughing about a bad movie you’d just watched. “I don’t know how you can hate this movie,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow. “It’s a classic!”
“Classic garbage,” he shot back, grinning.
You rolled your eyes, leaning back against the couch. “You’re hopeless.”
He turned to you, his expression softening. “Hopeless, huh? Hopelessly devoted to you” he quotes the movie making you cringe and blush. “God you're annoying” you laugh and toss a pillow at him. “Oh so that's how it is?” before you see it coming his fingers are digging into your sides making you giggle uncontrollably.
“Buc-bucky stststop im gonna pee myself” you manage to get out through your laughs.
“Not until you apologize” he says grinning wildly.
“NEVER!” you laugh and manage to grab a pillow to hit him with and escape
“COME BACK HERE” he playfully shouts and begins chasing you around his apartment. Both of you running around like children not noticing the pillow you are about to slip on just as bucky captures you making you both fall together. Somehow twisting himself to take the fall with you landing on top of him. You both groan from the impact. Lifting your head to check on him he realizes how close you are to him and cups your cheek. “How’d I get so lucky?” you look down at his lips and lean in letting your actions express what your words can’t. Suddenly Steve's room door is opening and the beefy blonde is rushing out with bed head and a grumpy face “can you two shut UP!” is all he says before going back to his room. You look at eachother and burst out into a fit of silent laughter. You knew you’d be ok, because Bucky was there. Bucky would always be there.
