petal✩‧₊˚

hi! i’m petal and i love fanfiction waaaay too much :c escape artist; writing and reblogging fics

[lucky-petal]

Look at the Sky, Its the Color of Love Biker!Bucky x Rich!Reader

Petal's love notes: Bucky owns a garage shop so its also Mechanic!Bucky in a way. He calls her bunny and is absolutely smitten with her right from the start ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡ you turn him soft. You can pry the bad boy x good girl trope out of my tightly clenched fists I am never getting over this.

Summary: Oakley and Rivercreek are two sides of the same town that never got along. You, a rich socialite with a family name powerful enough to move mountains catch the eye of a certain biker boy from downtown.

Word count: 11.1k

Warnings: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst, so much / sad bucky is a yearner / love confessions / smut (oral, no protection, p in v) / no use of y/n / reader is referred to as bunny /

Wrote this while listening to Kiss of Life by Sade so you might want to check that out for the vibes. Also, it's my first time writing for this fandom so please feel free to give feedback! Let's be friends ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

Bucky Barnes hates a lot of things.

But not Sundays. Definitely not Sundays.

It's the only time he ever gets to see you, after all. You show up with flustered cheeks every single time. Your hair is in a neat bun, pushed back with a pearl headband that your mother insists you must wear to look at least decent.

You wear a white, chaste dress that falls just below your knees which makes you look pure, angelic, even. Bucky isn't exaggerating when he says that you could be the virgin mother herself, but he doesn't believe in god. He doesn't follow any religion.

Which is why it's so strange to him, and his friends Sam and Steve as to why he insists on smoking just across the street of the old cathedral the uptown folk go to every Sunday.

'Just wanna see what the pretentious are up to, have a good laugh at what rich people gimmick they have this week.' He reasons out to them lamely. 'No other reason.'

Definitely not because he wants to catch a glimpse of you once a week, fidgeting outside the old cathedral as your parents parade you around the other rich families that tend to show off their wealth through generosity.

Somehow, singing praise and donating to the offertory has become a symbol of wealth among the rich folk of Oakley- the upper end of town where you're from. Where folk up there look down on the... more indigent people in Rivercreek, where he's from.

When the cathedral doors open, his eyes find you. They always find you.

You're running a delicate hand through your hair, getting reprimanded by your mother because 'how dare you have a strand of hair out of place.'

Families are greeting each other, he hears someone complain about how much of a hassle it is that their chauffeur had no other choice but to park a little further down the street just to avoid other cars from parking too near their new Chevy.

He wants to roll his eyes at that, but that would mean taking them off you for a second. He doesn't want to.

The Oakley folk continue to rush out in their white and pristine clothing after singing praises loudly as a form of performative philanthropy, which makes him and his friends stand out in their all black clothing, leaning against the seat of their rested bikes.

"Here they come- My god, do they look like a herd of sheep" Sam comments which earns a chuckle from Steve.

A few heads turn at them wearing horrified expressions with a mix of disgust for using the Lord's name in vain, but they couldn't care less.

"Buck, you listening? That was a good one!" Sam nudges his shoulder.

He manages to let out a small smile in response, but keeps his eyes trained on you.

"Yeah, knocked the breath out of me" he tells him, but he's not talking about the joke.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It's a Tuesday and he works grumpily hunched over a car of some rich Oakley folk who had no choice but to have his car done at the nearest auto shop that happened to be his.

'Not a scratch on it, young man.' The older man tries to intimidate him. 'You know the consequences if it comes back with with even a tiny dent.'

Bucky huffs at the memory of the conversation. Oakley folk can fuck off, they're all prejudiced. stuck-up pigs who only look down on--

Well, maybe not you.

He's seen you at charity events before, the orphanage located between both sides of town.

While all the other Oakley folk show up to flaunt their big donations, you actually take it upon yourself to interact with the kids and get to know them. They all adore you, but definitely not as much as he does.

He decides to indulge himself in the image of you in his head to put him in a better mood, when suddenly he hears gentle footsteps enter his garage.

"Hello?" A timid voice makes him shoot his head up from the hood of the car.

It's you.

You're standing in his garage, wearing a simple, yet expensive looking dress that probably costs more than his rent for the entire month-

You're standing in his garage and you're speaking to him.

He opens his mouth once, before closing it again. He knows he probably looks like an idiot right now, gaping at you with wide eyes and saying absolutely nothing, but he can't help himself.

In all his time he spent watching you from afar, he'd already accepted that you were out of his league. He'd be happy with you just sparing a glance at him, but now you were actually here, speaking to him! In Rivercreek of all places-

Realization dawns on him.

You're in Rivercreek.

The bad side of town where the dingy people over here who hate pretentious Oakley kids wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of innocent looking things like you.

Suddenly, a frown dawns on his face.

"Why are you here?" is the first thing he says to you.

You look taken aback by his sudden question, and he winces at how creepy he must sound

"Excuse me?" despite your startle at his words (and his audacity), your voice still sounds like honey in his ears.

"No- I mean..." Bucky panics before recollecting himself with a deep breath. "You're... Not from this side of town, are you?" Safe. That answer makes him seem like less of a stalker now, doesn't it?

You let out a sigh.

"Is it that obvious?" Your expression is one of disappointment and helplessness, triggering a protective nature from Bucky.

"I needed help and... It's getting dark out and I think I'm lost" he listens to you shyly and frantically explain your situation to him while fiddling with the lace hem of your dress.

"I'm cold, and scared- and your shop was the only one with a light open a-and..."

"Hey, relax. I'll help you." Bucky hopes his words of reassurance will stop your rambling. He can almost see the anxiety bubbling in your chest.

"How'd you end up all the way up here? Oakley is on the other side of town."

At that, he sees your eyes widen at him in disbelief. Surely you would've known if you were in- "Is this Rivercreek?!" Your small voice squeaks in surprise.

Bucky can't help but blink in disbelief.

"This... This isn't exactly the kind of establishment that would be at Oakley." He speaks to her gently, scared that a little volume in his voice would scare her off like a frightened little bunny.

"O-oh god, my parents are going to kill me..." the words are spoken out of you in a breath that sounded more for yourself than him, but he hears you loud and clear.

"Hey, hey, don't worry I'll..." Bucky attempts to cut off your anxiety that has definitely reached the surface by now "I'll bring you back to Oakley. The border isn't too far from here, okay?"

He realizes how he's unconsciously stepped closer to you when he feels your warmth of your presence radiating from your spot in the middle of his garage.

"I'm Bucky."

"Bucky" you repeat his name and its suddenly his favorite sound in the world. You tell him your name, before scrunching your nose at the cold air blows and enters the premises of his garage.

He can't help but let out a soft laugh at that. You're just so fucking cute, like a little

"Bunny."

He says it without thinking, but that seems to happen a lot around you.

"What?" Eyes blink up at him in wonder.

"You. You're like a little bunny. All timid and shy."

"Oh." He sees a smidge of a blush on your cheeks which makes his heart rate pick up. You're killing him without even trying and you don't even know it.

Before another moment can pass, Bucky stands up straighter and grabs his leather jacket from where it was tossed on his work desk.

"Come on, bunny. Lets get you back to where you belong. I'll walk ya back to the Oakley border"

"T-thanks, but I was just hoping to get some directions" You shyly let out. "I really don't want to take up more of your time. You seem... Busy" Your eyes trail towards the expensive Mustang the client from your side of town left in his shop.

You're right about that. He is busy.

"Nah. 'M not that busy, bunny" he shrugs and gives you a reassuring smile.

He laughs internally at your little pout and at how you tell him your name again.

"Will you stop calling me that ridiculous name?"

The tone you give him is one of both annoyance and embarrassment, but the little crinkle in between your brows and the scrunch on your nose is the cherry on top. It makes you truly live up to the nickname he's given you.

Bucky shakes his head, still with that gentle smile he never knew his face could make until his conversation with you, and drapes his leather jacket over your shoulders.

"Come on, it'll only get darker and colder from here. Let's get you home." he completely ignores your request to call you by your name and with motions you to follow him.

The walk to Oakley is a decent few minutes, and you manage to make it to the border just before it went completely dark out. The sky is a perfect shade of dark blue, pink, and yellow, making the atmosphere look much sweeter and whimsical.

The pastel colors washed your frame with a soft golden glow, and at that moment Bucky decides that you are the soft light that starts every morning with a gentle warmth. Its ironic how he can feel both comfort and nervousness in your presence.

To his surprise, you both flow into enjoyable conversation where you learn more about each other. You tell him that you've never really been anywhere else but here, limited to where your family chauffeur is allowed to take you.

You were supposed to meet him right at the border of Oakley after visiting the orphanage you volunteer at, but got lost when you decided to take a detour, a short walk to clear your head.

"Makes sense, the orphanage is right at the border of Oakley and Rivercreek. No wonder you ended up at my shop, bunny." Bucky replies.

He tells you that he's been taking care of the shop ever since his pop died, and that he's been running it with his two best friends Steve and Sam. He tells you that he's passionate about bikes, that he and his friends have always lived for the sense of freedom and the rush it provides.

"You're the guys that are always smoking behind the church, then. Am I right?" You ask him with a knowing smile.

"Y-you noticed?" He wants to kick himself for stammering. It looks so uncool.

"I'm not blind, silly" You giggle and hug the leather jacket closer to yourself just as a cold rush of wind hits you both. He has to resist the urge to pull you close to protect you from it. "My mother thinks you're trouble."

"'M already starting on a bad note with your parents, huh bunny?" That earns him a loud giggle and a playful slap on his shoulder.

Once your chauffeur spots you from the end of the road, he quickly gets back inside the car to start it and make his way to you. Bucky can almost feel his distress at almost losing the daughter of an affluent family.

Bucky hears you let out a sigh once you see the headlights of your car flash. The sound of the engine starting acting like a countdown timer indicating the end of your time together.

But he can't let it end here. He's been pining after you for so long, admiring from afar and tomorrow he's going to have to... go back to doing that? He just got you.

You take off his leather jacket from your shoulders and that sends him into a panic to act fast.

"Thank you again for walking me back--"

"When can I see you again?" are the words that rush out of his mouth with slight panic lacing his tone just as you're thanking him. He wants to slap himself in the face for being so forward with you, but the arrival of the car slowly approaching you makes him panic.

"I- What?" You're blushing now, trying to process his sudden words.

Bucky takes a deep breath before repeating more confidently this time.

"I... I wanna see you again, bunny. Will you let me see you again?"

Suddenly, he feels too aware of himself. Covered in all black clothing from head to toe, his intimidating and sharp features contrasting too loudly with your soft ones. There's no way you see yourself with someone like him, its a mismatch from chaos itself.

He prepares himself for rejection, a gentle letdown because he knows your heart is too kind to give him a straight up no. But when he meets your eyes he sees the cute little crinkle on your nose and a shy smile.

"Okay."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

That's how Bucky ends up sleepless that night, with your number on his phone and a pattern of typing and deleting his message to you.

God... He thinks. This is pathetic.

He's acting like some lovesick school boy with his first crush, and not a Rivercreek biker with a series of misconducts under his belt. If only his friends could see him now.

If only they knew that all it takes is a cute girl with a smile that reminds him of sunshine, and crinkles her nose when she gets irritated to make him go soft.

When was the right time to send a text, anyway? He never cared this much when he's talk to girls before.

Sam had told him once, to wait it out a bit before texting a girl. Don't look too available. He had told him. Girls like a little mystery. Keeps them on their toes.

But does Bucky want you on your toes with him? Did he want you to wait?

It almost felt rude to not message you right away, because after all, he thought you deserved the best.

And the best meant giving you his full attention, his full interest and effort even if it meant making a fool of himself according to Sam's dating guideline.

Hey bunny, you get home okay? It's Bucky :)

I know its you, Bucky. You're the only one that calls me that ridiculous name. Yes, I'm home. Thank you again for helping me. :)

He reads your messages in your sweet voice, making his heart stutter. He truly is acting like a school boy right now.

Great to hear that, bunny. Get some rest and don't come wandering out this area alone next time, okay?

Why not? I have my own personal chaperone out of Rivercreek now, right? I'm kidding. Goodnight, Bucky :)

He doesn't sleep that night. Instead, he loses himself in the memory of you in sunset.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

For the next week, you and Bucky exchange messages which allow you to get to know him better.

'What on earth has you smiling like that?' Your mother had caught you once, grinning down at your screen.

'Oh, its nothing its just...' One of the biker boys that you absolutely despise, and would kill me for even speaking to. 'Just a funny video my friend sent.' You tell her.

Your mother huffs at your reply, displeased with your answer as she stirs the dark liquid in the regal teacup in front of her. It makes your drink- coffee that is too many shades lighter than hers due to milk and cream, and a mug with little flowers on it, look much too immature.

"I'd rather have you spend your time more productive than looking at... memes" She laces her words with a tone of disapproval that you're too used to by now.

"Be ready tonight. We have that charity gala today and the press will be taking photos."

Obediently, you get up and leave your flowery mug at the breakfast table before she stops you.

"Oh, and do wear something nice. You're not just looking good for press, but suitors as well. Alright?"

Although her tone was much kinder with that sentence, it causes your heart to thump louder in your chest and your face to flush red.

Her obsession with finding you a match has increased tenfold as soon as you came of age, and you find it absolutely ridiculous. This isn't the 1940's anymore! Mothers no longer need to chaperone their daughters when it comes to dating!

But like the obedient daughter you are, you redirect your anger into subtle balled up fists and let your mouth speak the words your heart begs you not to.

"Yes, mother."

She sends you off with a nod and turns her attention back to her too-black coffee.

You arrive at the charity gala and are met with fellow Oakley families, and of course, the press. The event is marketed as an auction for artworks, wherein the money is promised to go out to the needy but you know better.

Its definitely a power grabbing scheme of wealth dynamics. 'Eat the Rich' you think to yourself. These resources can definitely be used more efficiently if they actually wanted to help the needy.

The event is definitely upscale- the grand ballroom is nothing short of extraordinary with high ceilings, dramatic lighting, and big glass doors overlooking a huge garden. It's beautiful, but you feel out of place.

Earlier that morning, you had texted Bucky your obligations for the night and to expect slow replies.

Which is why the latest notification on your phone comes as a surprise to you.

Fancy getting away for a bit, bunny?

What?

I thought bunnies prefer being outdoors

Don't tell me... you reply back to him with shaky hands before looking around nervously. Another ping from your phone snaps you back into focus

Come out to the garden, bun :)

Your eyes quickly shoot up from your phone to the glass doors that are almost as high as the ceiling allows it to be. There's no way he actually... came here? Is there? Another message knocks you out of overthinking and confirms your skepticism.

The chandeliers look a bit much, don't you think?

Sure enough, when you look up you're met with the tackiest chandelier displays that exhibit grandeur over style and charm. Much like the people in this room.

You let out a sigh and try to calm the butterflies in your stomach. They won't notice you step out. It will only be a moment! You can always excuse yourself for needing some air.

Once you step outside, your eyes trail over the garden landscape. There is nothing but greenery and a high wall separating the event from the rest of the world. How on earth did he get in--

"Psst. Bunny." His whisper comes from behind one of the garden statues that shield his presence perfectly from the event happening inside.

Slowly, you tiptoe your way to where he is before a pair of hands grab your waist, spinning you around.

A quiet gasp leaves your lips at the sudden motion, but the rest of your breath quickly gets stuck in your throat once you find yourself caught between the stone and Bucky, who still has one hand on your waist and the other pressing an index finger to his lips, demanding silence.

He's close, so close that you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

"Sorry," he says quietly "saw one of the guards nearby. But we're in the clear now." He gives you a mischievous smile and steps back to give you more space.

"It's alright." You say shyly.

"But... Bucky, how did you..." You trail off and look over at the walls that stand tall over the both of you. Bucky follows your gaze and smirks knowingly at what you want to know.

"Well, it wasn't an easy climb but-"

"You climbed that!?" You cut him off to whisper yell at him.

"But" A hand comes back to your waist as he repeats himself "I told you I wanted to see you again, remember?"

Heat floods your cheeks at his admission. And despite the dark sky with light only coming from the event behind the glass doors and the moonlight illuminating him in the quiet darkness of the atmosphere, you pick up a dust of blush on his cheeks.

"I... didn't think you'd want to see me now." You tell him honestly. "I thought you'd want to take me to... coffee, or something" the softness in your voice is the most gentle sound to reach his ears.

"I can take you for coffee" He chuckles. "I can definitely take you out for coffee, bunny."

The way he's looking at you feels like a deep, velvet blue with a quiet warmth. His eyes convey a multitude of emotions that you can't quite decipher, but they're there. There's a sparkle in them.

"How do you get them to do that?" You ask.

He can't help but let out another chuckle at your unpredictability.

"Do what, bun?"

"To shine like that."

Bucky is take aback for a moment before smiling.

"Honestly? By looking at you."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The coffee date happens on the next Sunday. He picks you up after Sunday Mass behind the cathedral and you show up in your usual white, knee-length dress. You know that its a date. He told you it would be.

'When are you free next, bunny?' He had asked you that night at the garden.

'Hmm?' You ask him in a dazed state, too caught up in your feelings at how wanted and seen you feel by him.

'So I can take you out on that coffee date. You're okay with it being a date, right?'

That's how you've found yourself behind the cathedral with the excuse to your mother being tutoring sessions with a friend after Sunday Mass. She had nodded approvingly at you for prioritizing your studies, and you had felt a rush at how you've rebelled against your mothers wishes for the first time in your life.

Bucky pushes himself from against the wall and greets you with an arm over your shoulder "Ready, bunny?"

One coffee date turns into two, and then three. He brings you to places around Rivercreek and the novelty of the area to you makes every date feel like an adventure.

'You can't come here on your own, alright?' He reminds you every time. 'I'm being serious, bunny. The people here aren't always good. I won't always be there to protect ya if you come alone.'

You want to giggle at him for his protectiveness, reassure him that you doubt anything like that will happen because 'you have him anyway.'

He pinches your cheek gently at your stubbornness, but can't deny how your bratty side makes his heart beat a little faster. He enjoys bringing out the bold side in you, aware that its something you push down most of the time due to your strict parents.

Eventually, you end up meeting Steve and Sam in the shop during one of your dates.

"So this is her, Buck? The girl thats been stealing you away lately?" Sam teases him, earning him a playful shove by Bucky while Steve gives you a polite smile.

"We've heard a lot about you..." Steve starts respectfully. "Bunny" the playful glint in his eye is hard to miss, which causes you to blush in embarrassment.

Bucky groans at the teasing from his two best friends, but the rest of the day is spent enjoyably.

You learn more about his childhood, the trouble he got into in his younger years, and feel a sense of fraternity between the three of them that makes you jealous.

You tell them that you wish you had friends as close as he does, but a lot of your childhood was spent in tutoring lessons and more family events to maintain your family's status and appearances at Oakley.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After Bucky brings you home that day, he's met with Steve and Sam still at the shop. Both of them have knowing grins on their faces which makes Bucky roll his eyes.

"No" he tells them immediately which earns groans from both his friends.

"Come on, don't be like that. Its been ages since you've started dating again." Sam approaches him with a silly grin.

"We're just curious, man." Steve starts. "That, and... Well..." the rest of his sentence trails off awkwardly.

"That, and we want to know got you dating an Oakley girl" Sam finishes bluntly. "You hate those folk."

Bucky pretends not to give them his full attention by fixing his toolbox. "I told you already, she ain't like them." He sighs. "She's different from them. She... she's more than the Oakley stereotypes"

The way he defended you earns him more teasing from his friends, but after meeting you today? They can't help but agree.

"You got a good one, Buck. You're happier and that's all that matters" Steve tells him genuinely.

"But you know how Oakley ad Rivercreek don't mix well. This won't all be smooth waters for the both of you."

The reminder stings, but Bucky knew what he was getting into as soon as it started. He appreciates his friend's words, but he would have liked to live in the illusion of being worry-free and happy with you for a little while longer.

"I know, Stevie." His hands fiddle with one of the loose threads on his jacket nervously as he thinks about all that could go wrong with dating you.

There will be a lot of naysay, people who will shake their head at the sight of you two together, your parents disapproving of him, and the fact that he may not be able to keep up with the lifestyle you're used to.

He wonders, do you think of this too?

"But she's worth it. I know she is."

Steve claps him on the back at that "Good luck, Buck."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Its a few months into dating when Bucky takes you to one of his favorite spots around town.

'Place is special,' he told you when you asked where you were going. 'No one else knows about it, not even Stevie.'

'I bet you say that to all the girls' you had tease him cutely.

He looks back at you with a playful glint in his eye. 'Just you, bunny.'

The spot he leads you to is a lake covered by the green haze of trees. Sun rays glinting brightly in the clear waters. He lays out a yellow blanket over the dew blades of grass that look to be sparkling in the sunlight.

"It's beautiful, Bucky... I feel like I'm in a fairytale" your fingers brush a dandelion next to you as you lay down, letting the flower heads escape the stem and float around you.

"That's how you make me feel all the time, bun." Bucky lays next to you on the blanket, your shoulders touching as you both watch the drift of clouds overhead.

"Oh stop it, you." You giggle at his words.

Bucky rolls himself up on his stomach so that he's facing you. Your faces inches from each other now.

"I'm serious, bunny... The time I've been spending with you?" He presses a quick kiss on your forehead, "They've been the happiest I've ever been."

Your face is hot, and he's so, so close.

"Bucky..." you say his name shyly. His kiss on your forehead makes you blush, and while he's feathered light kisses there and on your cheek before, he hasn't kissed you properly yet in his promise to take things slow for you.

"I love you, bunny."

Bucky tells you confidently, as if its the most sure thing he's ever had to admit.

"Ever since I first laid eyes on you in that cathedral, I think I've already loved you." He admits further which causes your breath to hitch, and your whole body to freeze as you process his confession.

"I can take care of you just as good as any Oakley boy can. I'll prove it to ya, I'll be the best damn guy for ya." The promises he speaks are spoken in hushed tones, but you hear every word. Bucky keeps his closeness to your body on that blanket. Your shock causes you to unable to form a reply, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind.

Instead, he brings his hand up to brush the stray hairs away from your face before cupping it gently in his palm. "Will you let me, bunny? Will you let me take care of you?"

"I love you." You tell him breathlessly, "I love you too, Bucky Barnes."

His grin is wide and his eyes sparkle brighter than they ever had before. 'Honestly? By looking at you' are the words you recall him telling you when you had asked him how they get them to do that.

Your reciprocation of love is all the answer he needs to bring his face down to yours to capture your lips in a kiss. The movement is slow and gentle. He kisses you as if you're fragile, delicate. As if holding you too tightly or kissing you too hard will break you.

"I'll be so good to ya," He murmurs against your lips "I love you, I love you bunny. You understand that, right? Better than any Oakley boy ever will. I promise"

Bucky continues to tell you because he thinks no amount of words, no matter how many times he says it, will equate to the feelings he's carrying right now.

Your heart aches at his admission, because deep down you both know how your different backgrounds could cause problems down the line.

"Bucky, you know I don't care about the Oakley and Rivercreek stuff." You hope your reassurance reaches his worries.

"I know, bunny." He pulls away to get a good look at you. You can finally name the emotion his eyes have been communicating to you at that moment: love, longing. "Let's just be happy right now, yeah?"

You're brought home that day before the sun goes down.

He drops you off at your porch, kissing you goodbye very quickly just in case your parents are peeking. He waits for the door to close before retreating back to the car he picked you up in.

The door shuts and you lean against it for a moment, allowing your heart to take a break from the love Bucky had showed it all day. You're smiling to yourself when-

"Out late today, aren't we?" Your mother's voice cuts through the warm air you've created for yourself with an icy cold tone. She stands on top of the staircase, looking down at your figure by the door.

"Who is he? The one who brought you home in that... junk" She glares harshly at Bucky's retreating figure heading towards his car.

"Mother, t-that's... That's Bucky. He's, um..." You stammer nervously, frantically trying to flatten your wrinkled dress and unkept hair.

"Are you sleeping with him?" Her voice cuts through once again and her steps down the stairway sound menacing as she makes her way over to you.

"What?! Mother!" The redness from your cheeks comes from both embarrassment and anger.

"Is he from Rivercreek?" She asks you.

You're unable to form a reply. You knew it was just a matter of time before your relationship with Bucky got caught, and you've made sure to rehearse the answer in your head multiple times when the moment presented itself, but right now your voice feels like its stuck in your throat.

Apparently that is all the confirmation your mother needed as she sighs disappointedly.

"I've known you to let this family down numerous times, but to be associated with a Rivercreek boy?" Her voice raises an octave. "This is a new level of low, even for you."

"Mother, please. It's not like that-"

As usual, she refuses to listen.

"Have you no shame for your family name? People from down there are using you for one thing-!"

"No, you're wrong. He's nothing like that..." Your voice is weak at your attempt to fight back against her, but you try anyway. Bucky would have wanted you to try and speak up for yourself.

"He's after you for status! Money!-"

"Mother I love him!"

The space between the both of you turns quiet. Your chest is heaving from anger, and the shock you feel from answering back at your mother for the first time.

"Stupid girl, what do you know about love?" She says coldly before sending you to your room.

"You can't see him again, do you understand? If we find out you've been going behind our backs, he's done."

You lay in bed rethinking the words she spoke. You're aware of how powerful your family is. One wave of a finger can have Bucky in a problematic position, his business gone or even removed from town entirely.

The sentimentality Bucky has for his place in Rivercreek is no stranger to you, either. You hardly think that a relationship with you is worth losing everything he's built.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The next few days has Bucky spiraling. He asks himself if he's done anything wrong, if he said something to upset you or if his confession at the lake came off too strong.

But the tenderness in his heart? The way his brain replays your voice telling him you love him at every waking hour? It makes him believe that he's done everything right.

He reads through the messages he sent you, all filled with worry yet left unanswered.

Bunny, are you okay?

Please tell me if I did something wrong.

Can I see you tonight? I'm worried, bun.

I love you. Please let me know if you're alright.

He showed up at your house once, in the dead of the night, waiting underneath your window.

The light in your room reassures him that you're alright. You're still there physically, but he's yet to feel an ounce of your attention.

Bunny, I'm outside. Just look out for a bit to let me know you're fine, yeah?

You don't.

Bucky waits for the next Sunday to arrive in hopes of getting hold of you, even just for a few minutes. He hates to corner you like this, but he's desperate. You'd understand him showing up like this, won't you?

The way he leans into his parked bike at the steps of the cathedral you frequent takes him back to the days where he used to pine after you, watching you longingly from afar.

He was nothing to you back then.

He shakes his head at the thought. Bucky refuses to go back to being nothing with you, not after you told each other you loved each other, not after he finally felt what it was like to be yours.

Like clockwork, the huge wooden doors open once Sunday worship ends and the Oakley folk flock out the cathedral like sheep. And again, like clockwork, his eyes immediately find you.

Black leather pushes its way through the flock of white clothing towards you. He ignores the grunts of disapproval as someone from Rivercreek infiltrates their sacred space.

The crowd parts for him like he's plagued with nothing but ill intentions, unbeknownst to them all he carries is a heart yearning for you.

You stand picture perfect right outside the doors, too busy fiddling with the strap of your bag to notice the commotion he's caused at the entrance.

The sight of you in full view takes his breath away and almost makes him forget the reason why he's taken stepped inside a church in the first place.

The way you finally look up at him with wide eyes snaps him back to reality.

"Bucky-" You start but are cut off by his hand pulling you into a closed space. A confession room, he realizes once you've made your way inside.

"Wanna tell me what this is all about, bunny?" He asks, staring at you with a hard, fixed gaze. His voice is harsh and it almost makes him feel guilty for using a tone with you that's anything less than gentle, but the affect of being ignored by you for the last few days has him feeling on edge.

"Bucky... You can't be here. You need to leave-" you whisper, words falling into a murmur.

"You're telling me to leave you alone now?" Bucky is anything but discreet in his response, which makes you flinch and panic at volume of his voice. At this moment, he's too desperate to understand the situation to care about who could hear.

"After what happened at the lake... After telling me that you love me" He breathes in deeply. "You're telling me to just... Leave you alone?"

"Shh!" You shush him quietly. "Please, Bucky. You can't let them catch you with me... They- They found out" You admit to him with a heartbroken expression.

It makes sense to him now, why you've been ignoring him. He knew this was going to happen eventually. Steve had warned him, and he's been aware of the... backlash that was sure to follow as soon as he started taking you out.

"Forget about me, Bucky. It's not worth it. They'll ruin you if we keep this up." Your hushed voice turns into a small sob as you speak the words that break his heart.

"I can't do that." He speaks softly and bring you closer to press a kiss on your tearful cheeks. "I can't do that, baby. You know I can't. I love you."

"You don't understand! The lengths they'll go to keep you away from me... You'll lose everything because of me, Bucky!" Your voice is desperate now.

"Then I'll have you" he says quickly in response. "I'll have you and that's everything I'll ever need."

He doesn't expect you to push him away at those words, angrier and a little more desperate now to get through to him.

From outside the confession room, you hear your mother's voice outside calling for you. The both of you jump at the sound of her voice.

"Bucky, enough!" You whisper yell at him "Don't... Don't try anymore, okay? This isn't worth it."

If he thought his heart was breaking earlier, it's definitely wrecked now.

"What are you saying, bunny?"

"I'm saying... that if you ever did love me you'd stop."

The problem with Bucky Barnes is that he was a devoted lover. If you told him to pick the highest peach from a tree, he'd climb it immediately without question. If you told him you wanted pearls, he'd fish out the whole ocean for the best one.

If you told Bucky Barnes to let you go, he'd do it even if it killed him.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"Buck, come on. You've been like this for weeks." Steve comments as Bucky mopes in front of his garage stool, a beer in one hand and his bike keys with the charm you gave him on the other.

It's a little bunny keychain, a fluffy white one holding a pink heart. 'It's for good luck when you're out riding' you had told him cutely.

The dainty charm stands out against his intimidating features when he brings them out his pocket. It earns him odd looks from his friends and passers-by but he never paid them any mind.

He imagines the bunny as a piece of you he carries when he rides, which makes him more careful and aware on the road in his determination to keep you safe.

Bucky can't help but let out a sad chuckle at the memory when he fiddles with the bunny that looks too much like you.

"Give me a break, Stevie." he finally answers his friend. "Should've listened to you. You knew this was going to end badly" the defeat in his voice is new to Steve, making him wince at his friend's sadness.

"Hey, don't say that, Buck." Steve attempts to make him feel better. "Oakley and Rivercreek relationships are just... complicated, you know? You guys tried your best."

Although Steve was trying to comfort him, his words did nothing but dig Bucky into a deeper hole of despair.

He hadn't tried hard enough. He thought to himself. But your desperate expression when you told him to leave you alone holds him back from chasing after you.

Its silent for a moment, with only the faint hum of the television that hangs overhead serving as white noise.

Bucky is about to close shop for the day, too tired to have this conversation with his friend who means well, when the next segment of the local news channel starts playing which stops him in his tracks.

Oakley Association's 50th Anniversary Gala: Families within Oakley commemorate their golden year by raising millions of dollars for charity! Led by association head...

The camera cuts to a close up shot of you and your family at the same ballroom with the garden he snuck in to see you all those months ago.

Its the typical event you see Oakley families attend, but he knows that look of yours.

Your eyes are lacking the life they usually have, the sunlight you radiate is dull and bleak. You look as if you haven't had a good sleep in days. you look like you need him.

"Bun..." He mutters to himself when he sees you.

"You're going over there, aren't you Buck?" Steve asks.

Bucky responds by bringing out his keys- the bunny charm smiling up at him cutely, and sending Steve a look from over his shoulder "You'll lock up for me, Stevie?"

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Oakley's charity gala is yet another event that you are too familiar with.

The pastel yellow dress your mother had picked out for you is a disparity to the gloom clouding your chest. The pearls decorating your neck feel like chains grounding you to your role of a show dog for your family name.

"Smile" your mother reprimands you when she sees the sulk on your face. "Many are watching. Your father paid a good amount of money for the headlines to feature us tonight." She reminds you.

"Wasn't it supposed to be for charity?" Your tone carries venom in them as you answer back once again. You've been doing that a lot lately. Bucky would have been proud of you.

Bucky.

Your heart shatters at the thought of him. The pain in your chest is a cruel reminder of how you had ripped his heart out in that confession room when you told him to leave you alone.

He was the only one to actually see you as more than your family name. The way he understands you down to the smallest of details is something that no one else can replicate.

Your mother shoots you one of her cold glares when you answer her back. She is tired of disciplining you with lectures about respect and adherence, and has taken a new method of punishment.

Suitors.

For the entirety of the night, you are being introduced to the most eligible bachelors of Oakley. Without a doubt a way for your mother to remind you of the other fish in the sea, but you only want one.

The smile you wear is polite, and you speak in a courteous manner, not having it in you to act unmannerly to strangers that don't deserve unkindness. Some of the men are very aggressive in their advances, aware that the dating pool in Oakley is very limited.

By the end of the night, you're exhausted. Your feet hurt, the dress is suffocating, and there are way too many people. All these factors pile up to overwhelm you, causing your eyes to embarrassingly water in the middle of the ballroom.

"Pull yourself together, child." Your mother says through clenched teeth. "Do not embarrass us right now."

Eventually, you can't take it. You exit the huge ballroom doors quickly and make it out the garden. Its the same place where Bucky met you in that first time. The memory of seeing him behind one of the garden statues is enough for the dam to break.

You let out a small sob. Your chest tightening at the release of tension following the events of the night.

"Bunny?"

Bucky's voice cuts through the silence of the night air. You can still hear the faint, muffled sounds coming from the ballroom behind you, but Bucky's voice is clear in your ears.

"What... Bucky?"

"Over here, bunny. I was just about to text ya."

He stands next to one of the rosebushes, slightly hidden by the shadows that the moonlight illuminated over the landscape.

His hair is disheveled as if he's been running his hands through it multiple times. The sparkle in his eyes have dulled, but are still there when he looks at you.

Once he gets a proper look at you, his face falls into a frown.

"Who made you cry, bun?" His immediate concern makes your heart ache. Even after telling him away, his first instinct is to check on you.

You can't take it anymore. You cry out before running down the steps of the platform towards him, throwing yourself in his arms.

"I'm here." He says after he catches your fall. Of course he does. "I'm here, bunny. I'll protect you." He whispers into your hair.

"It's too much." You say through tears, muffled because of how you're burying your face in his chest. "I can't take it anymore. All this bullshit they're making me do."

Bucky's arm tightens around your waist, the other hand strokes the back of your head in comfort. You stay in his arms for a moment, remembering how safe you feel when you're with him.

He lets you cry it out while whispering words of comfort 'I've got you, bun. Won't let them hurt you. I'm here.' He repeats just as many times as you need him to.

You calm down eventually, lifting your head to meet his gaze properly.

"How did you know?" is all you ask. He doesn't need any further explanation to answer.

"Saw the press release on the TV. They showed you and I couldn't... I couldn't just leave you there, not when you looked so... unhappy." His hand reaches up to cup your face, thumb lightly tracing your jaw.

"You came for me." You look up at him with so much love in your eyes that you feel his breath hitch.

"You needed me." He replies with a gentle voice, as if its the most obvious explanation.

The look he has reciprocates your own, making you sniffle back tears. That action makes you scrunch up your nose in the way he loves.

A fond smile appears on his face as he watches that little scrunch in between your brows form. "Bunny..." He says softly. "My bunny."

Bucky kisses you. The first kiss since your declaration of love at the lake. It's still just as soft and sweet as you remember, but there is a new push of longing etched onto it.

You kiss him back with the same amount, showing just how much you've missed him.

"Want me to get ya out of here?" He speaks against your lips.

"What? Bucky-"

"I'm not letting you stay in there any longer, bunny."

He's right. You don't think you can physically or emotionally take the misery of being surrounded by pretentious rich folk, much less your preposterous mother and her impossible expectations.

"Just say the word and we're gone, bunny." Bucky's voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

"I... Yes." You breathe in deeply. "Yes, please, I want to get out of here." You repeat more confidently.

Bucky grins, gives you a reassuring squeeze on your waist before taking your hand in his and leading you further into the garden.

You follow him wordlessly before looking up at the high wall that divides the ballroom's garden from the rest of the world.

"Bucky, I don't think I can-"

"I'm not gonna let you scale a wall, bun." Bucky cuts you off with a slightly amused tone. "Wouldn't dream of it. Too dangerous for ya."

Instead, he leads you to the side of the building that passes just outside the event venue.

"We're using the main entrance?" Your steps falter once you realize where he's leading you.

"They won't notice. Everyone is too busy and drunk inside." He tells you. "You trust me, baby?"

"Yes." You say almost immediately. "Of course."

The smile Bucky flashes at your words is enough to make you forget all your worry. "Then let's go."

Just as he says, you make it out of the gala and into the bike he's parked a few paces away.

"I know you don't like the bike, but I didn't think I'd be stealing you away tonight." Bucky says sheepishly. "We can walk-"

"No, let's take the bike tonight."

Reluctantly, you get on the bike with Bucky's assistance while he chuckles at your attempt at putting on a brave face for him. "Relax, bunny. I'll drive slowly." He reassures you. You believe him.

The ride back to his place isn't as bad as you expected. You enter through the garage where he parks his bike and are greeted with the satisfying and familiar smell of earth and wood.

The polaroid that you took together is still pinned on one of his boards, next to the car blueprints and documents that he needs for the job.

"Never took it off. Couldn't bring myself to." He says without looking up at from his bike as he secures the lock on its handlebars. "Always felt like it was never really the end, you know? Of us."

You hum in agreement and continue looking at the polaroid. It was taken a few months back on one of the first dates he took you on.

'Whatcha got there, bun?' He had asked you while you were fishing out something from your bag.

'Brought something for us, took it right out of father's study.' In your hand is a polaroid camera. The expensive kind Bucky has only seen on store shelves.

He lets out a low whistle at the costly item. 'Ya taking things from your parents now, bunny? Am I rubbing off on you the wrong way?' He jokes.

The idea of his sweet innocent bunny doing rebellious things amuses him. To him, she's the type that would frown upon jaywalking.

'Oh, hush you. I'm just borrowing it.' You slap his arm playfully. 'Come on now, say cheese.'

You bring the camera up and snap the photo just as Bucky lands a sweet kiss to your cheek.

The moment lays frozen in time on his pegboard.

As you continue to reminisce, you feel Bucky's warm figure creep up behind you. Strong arms encircle your waist pulling you so close that you feel his breath at the back of your neck. He lands a kiss on your nape, making you shiver.

"Missed ya." He whispers. "Was going crazy without ya."

Instinctively, you lean into his touch, pressing your back closer to his chest as he continues trailing kisses down your neck.

"M-missed you too." Your breathing gets heavier as his lips tickle your skin in all the sensitive spots.

"Bucky..." You warn shyly as he starts getting handsy with you- pulling you closer and kissing down your neck with more vigor than before.

"I can stop," he pauses, lips tickling your skin, "but I can also make you feel good, bunny. Do you want me to make you feel good?"

The offer is tempting, and you want so desperately to just let yourself feel the man that you've missed so dearly.

However, your lack of experience in comparison to Bucky holds you back. Sure, you've kissed boys before, but you've never done... that. Your strict parents have always been a crutch in allowing you to experience anything more intimate than kissing.

"I don't know... I-I've never- I don't know how, Bucky." You stutter shamefully at your cluelessness.

"That's alright, bunny. I know." Bucky presses one last deep kiss on the column of your neck. "You just let me show you, yeah? Are you okay with that?"

You nod your head shyly.

"Words, bun." He pushes

"Yes. I-I'm okay with that." you tell him.

At your confirmation, Bucky spins you around to face him. "If we're going to do this, I'll make sure to do everything right." His words have that seriousness to them as he looks at you with that familiar glint of a sparkle in his eyes. "Come upstairs with me."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you get upstairs, Bucky pulls you in almost immediately into a kiss and pushes you against the door to close it. You gasp into his mouth at the sudden movement, making him breathe out a chuckle against your lips.

"Sorry," he says cheekily "Just... missed you so damn much. Got excited."

You giggle at his eagerness and kiss him back just as hard. "Take me then, Bucky. I'm all yours."

He lets out a low growl at that, fingers bringing up the hem of your yellow dress from the gala.

"Yeah? Never stopped being mine, right? Even when we were apart?" His question feels more like a statement, but you love how possessive he is with you.

"Yours" you repeat. His hands slide your dress up to your waist before pulling you closer to him. You can feel how hard he is through his pants when he presses against you.

Before you could let out a moan at the slight friction, Bucky pulls you into a rougher kiss before spinning you around from the door frame to fall on his bed.

You lay there sprawled out- hair a mess, yellow dress wrinkled and bunched up to your thighs, but Bucky thinks its the most ethereal sight he's ever seen.

"Beautiful," he whispers as he pulls away to take in the sight of you "I'll take good care of you bun."

"You already do." You sigh lovingly as his hands find the zipper at the back of your dress.

The fabric covering you is removed so slowly and carefully, as if Bucky is afraid to accidentally break you if you're not handled as anything less than fragile.

You hear his breath hitch in your throat as you lay under him, almost completely bare if it weren't for the white lace panties that you still have on.

"God, bunny. You're gonna kill me." He kisses you again sensually, hands roaming more freely than they've ever gone before- from your waist, up the curve of the sides of your stomach, until they land gently on your breasts.

His hand gropes at the flesh while the other hand pins you in place by the hip. You moan at the feeling of his tender touch which makes him trail his mouth to your ear.

"That feel good?" He whispers.

Shyly, you nod at him.

"I'm gonna touch you more now, alright? You tell me to stop and we stop. Got that?"

"Don't stop." Your words reach him in a breathless whisper, urging him to continue on.

His lips trail downwards, kissing down your collarbone to the curve of your breast. Hand continuing to massage and play with the other. You feel his lips lick up at the bud, the new and wet feeling making you moan.

"F-fuck, Bucky." It's almost embarrassing how you're already a mess under him when he's barely even started.

"That's alright, bunny. Let it out- let me know I'm making you feel good." The words of reassurance are spoken to you as if he can read what you're thinking. He gives one last lick on your nipple before attaching his lips to the other side to give it the same treatment.

The hand that was on your hips travels further down to the hem of your lace panties. You gasp at his touch but don't make an effort to tell him to stop.

"Bet you're wet already," he says smugly. "You're already so responsive to my mouth on your tits."

Bucky chuckles when he sees your eyes widen and face flush at his lewd words. He hates to admit, but your innocence and lack of experience is turning him on.

His hands dip down, still on top of the fabric and not taking it off you just yet. When his fingers meet your center, you both let out a rough exhale at the wetness that has pooled there.

"No ones ever touched you here, right bunny?"

He makes his thumb glide up and down your entrance, covered by the thin lace which creates a delicious friction on your clit. You shake your head unable to form any words except for the soft moans escaping you.

He chuckles again at your desperate state.

"What a pure fucking pussy..." He sighs, obviously turned on. "All for me to ruin." The pressure he puts against your core increases, making you whine for him louder.

"B-Bucky-!" You're so, so wet that you can hear your juices squelching against your panties as he continues thumbing at the entrance of your pussy. Every brush of his thumb drags the lace down on your clit which makes you gasp out.

"That's it, baby... You like that? Haven't even started and you're already this wet... Fuck." His eyes darken as he watches you dampen both his fingers and your panties.

You want to tell him to stop teasing you, to take them off and touch you properly- but its as if he's turned on by the thin barrier blocking him off from your sweetness.

He moves his body down to be in level with your core. Before you can comprehend what's happening, you feel his tongue lap up at your pussy in one long and hard stroke against the fabric.

"A-ah!" The sound that leaves you is in between a cry and a moan. "Bucky, please!"

"Please what, bunny?" He teases by eating you out through the fabric of your underwear. The material is so thin that you can feel his hot tongue moving against you almost completely, but its still not enough.

"T-take them off... Please." You sob from the pleasure.

"Yeah?" He sucks your clit hard, earning a louder cry from you. "You want me to eat your needy cunt, bunny? Want me to taste you proper?" He makes you feel the warmth of his mouth on your clit as he sucks and licks.

"Yes!" You moan loudly. "Yes, oh god, please!" Bucky is enchanted by the sight. His sweet and innocent girl making a mess for him on his bed, on his tongue. He can't deny you any longer.

"There's no god here, bunny." He rips the ruined lace from your legs. "Just me."

Finally, he dives down to lick you from top to bottom. Completely catching the wetness at your entrance and bringing it to your clit before sucking it into his mouth.

"Ohh fuck," you cry out, lost in pleasure that you become unaware of the lewd moans you're making.

A finger joins his mouth in pleasuring you, rockin git back and forth until he hits the spot that makes you see stars. "R-right there! Yes-fuck!"

"Yeah? Right there, bunny? Right fucking there?" He continues his work on your clit with his mouth, while finger-fucking you to the edge.

You can feel yourself about to come. The coil in your stomach tightens and the warmth in your core bracing itself for what's about to happen. He feels you tighten around his fingers, and your hips squirm to get away from the onslaught he has on your pussy.

"Gonna cum, bunny?" He mutters against your pussy, making the vibrations push you closer to the edge.

"T-too much, Bucky-! C-can't...!"

"Just feel, bun." He says against your clit in between lapping up against it. He presses his arm on top of your stomach to keep you from squirming. "Feel it, bunny. Let go for me. Cum on my tongue."

Heat washes over your whole body. You do exactly as you're told and cum on his tongue generously, which he licks at with a moan. For a moment, you lose all sense of presence and can only focus on the pleasure washing over you.

"So fucking good..." He says while drinking you up. "Did so good for me, baby."

Once you've calmed down, Bucky brings himself back up to kiss your forehead. "You okay?"

When you nod your head, Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. "Lost you for a second there, thought you were going to pass out."

You let out a weak giggle. "Still want more of you, though..." You bring your hands up to Bucky's shirt to pull it off his head, and moan at the sight of his chiseled body.

He kisses you as he takes off his pants as well, leaving him in just his boxers.

"We don't have to-" he tries to say.

"I want to, please."

Bucky nods at your reassurance, laying you down and propping a pillow underneath your hips. 'It'll feel better with the pillow there' he had told you.

Once he's set you laid out properly on the bed, he props himself on his elbows hovering above you.

"I'll be gentle." He says genuinely, eyes locked on yours lovingly.

"I know, I trust you." You reply back to his sincerity with your own.

He takes a moment to position himself outside your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock outside to lube himself with your juices. Slowly, you feel him press the tip inside you.

There's a sudden stretch that you feel, making you gasp at the foreign sensation.

"Still okay?" He pauses to ask.

"Keep going, Bucky..."

Encouraged by your words, he continues pushing in slowly, slowly, until he's fully sheathed inside you. It stings and the pressure it places on your lower half is stinging.

But when you look up, Bucky's face is contorted in pleasure. The tightness of your walls, the way you feel so warm, and wet, and soft makes him feel like he's in heaven.

"Fuckkk- bunny," Bucky groans and rests his head on your shoulder as your warmth encompasses him. He struggles not to move and you can see how it pains him to stay still in order for you to adjust.

"J-just, tell me if- if you can't- fuck" his words come out in gasps and heavy breaths. He can barely form a coherent sentence.

"You can move, Buck." you tell him with a shaky breath.

"Sure, bun?"

After giving him a look of certainty, with a nod he thrusts in shallowly. Any big movements can wait till later, his main priority now is to make sure you don't get hurt.

"Shit, bunny. You're so tight." He groans lowly as his thrusts get deeper. "You feel so fucking good, baby."

After a few particular thrusts, you start feeling sparks of pleasure overriding the pain.

"Mmm, Bucky..." You moan softly.

"Yeah? That good, bun? You like how I'm fucking you?" He asks you, panting as he begins to pick up the pace.

His thrusts get more confident now that you're showing signs of pleasure. The length of his cock still stretches you out and stings, but you love how good he's filling you up.

"O-oh!" You arch your back at a certain spot that he finds. Its the same one he was hitting with his fingers earlier, but deeper. The pillow underneath your hips tilts your body at a position that makes him hit you deeper.

Bucky continues to drill that spot, hitting it with every thrust until you find yourself at the edge again. You can feel him twitch inside you, signaling that he's close.

"I'm not gonna last, bunny." He tells you in a low voice. "I need ya to finish again for me."

His thumb finds your clit again. Its a soft touch, but its enough to bring you closer. You can feel how wet you are as it spreads to your thighs, and Bucky can feel it coat all over his dick.

"I-I'm..." you trail off, mind going blank as he continues to chase both your highs.

"That's it, let go. Cum with me, bunny" he urges you.

You cum with a high pitched moan, clutching onto him as you let yourself go for the second time that night.

"Fuckkkk, bun." he groans as he follows after you, filling you up to the hilt and milking himself completely until he's emptied his load into you.

The bed dips as he crashes next to you, completely spent and with a satisfied, tired smile on his face.

"That was..." You trail off.

"Yeah." He agrees. "I love you, you know that?"

"I do, Bucky. I love you, too." turning to face him, you get a good view of of your favorite shade of blue encompassing the sparkle that rests in his pupils.

For a moment you both forget the troubles that wait for you outside the safety of his home.

"Bunny... I'll fight for us, you know that?" He breaks the comfortable silence between the both of you. "I won't let them take you away from me again."

"Bucky..." you trail off.

"I promised you I'd take care of you, didn't I?" The words spoken between are soft and gentle, a tone he only seems to carry with you, yet carry so much weight. "I'll prove it to them, to everyone, that I can be enough for you."

"Bucky, you don't need to prove anything to anyone." You tell him sincerely. "I love you, and maybe that's all that matters."

For now, at least, you both settle into each other's embrace without any worries.

For now, love is all that matters. You'll worry about the hardships that face you in the morning.

For now, you're safe in Bucky's arms.

[danysdaughter]

⋆˚࿔The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader word count | 11.3k words summary | when your boyfriend offers to play the stranger who picks you up at a bar, you expect a little dirty talk—not a full performance, a running camera, and the dirtiest night of your life. tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, rough sex, established relationship, roleplay smut, manhandling, roleplay sex, filmed sex, degradation/praise, overstimulation, fingering, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f!receiving), facial, fake cheating, teasing!reader, mean!bucky, flustered!bucky, bf!bucky, bucky is down so bad, smut with feelings, bucky has a cam kink now, horny and in love, porn with the tiniest bit of plot, or no... actually I'm lying, there's really no plot. a/n | this has been sitting in my drafts since oct, enjoy. inspired by that episode of modern family where claire and phil roleplay strangers in a hotel bar.

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨ you do NOT need to read the previous parts to read this one

sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @omi-resources

You stood near the end of the counter, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of something you couldn’t even remember ordering.

The condensation dripped between your fingers, cool and slick, grounding you in the low-lit noise of the bar. Your heel was propped on the brass rail, dress riding up just a little, enough to feel the air against your thigh.

The place was alive tonight. Warm with pressed bodies and old wood, the kind of Friday-night hum that vibrated through your ribs. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly against exposed brick, casting everything in shades of pink and amber.

It wasn’t your scene, not really, but you’d promised yourself you’d try. A little lipstick. A short sequence dress. A half-commitment to pretending you weren’t already imagining the silence of your apartment, the relief of kicking off your heels, the familiar weight of his arms around you when you got home.

But then you felt it.

A gaze sliding over your skin like a warm hand before it even touched you. Your neck prickled. The hair on your arms stood. The strange gravity of someone looking shifted the air around you before you even turned.

Then the voice came from behind your left shoulder, cutting through the bar’s chatter like a blade.

“Didn’t think a girl like you would be here alone.”

You turned.

The man beside you was tall, broad-shouldered under a dark coat that looked expensive in a simple way. His hair was neatly cut, dark, with a hint of grey catching the neon light. Stubble lined his jaw, sharp and clean, his eyes were blue, electric even in the dim haze—and they carried this confidence that bordered on predatory.

You gave him a slow once-over. From his boots to his jaw, letting him feel the weight of your attention. Then, casually, you turned back to your drink. “I’m not alone.”

He didn’t leave. You could feel him smile before he spoke again, the warmth of it bleeding into his voice.

“Boyfriend?”

You nodded.

“Is he here?”

You shook your head, taking a sip of your drink, something citrusy and sweet that burned pleasantly on the way down.

“Then you’re alone.” His voice was soft, like he was stating a fact you’d been trying to ignore.

You huffed a laugh before you could stop it, surprised sound that slipped out like a traitor. You sipped again, buying a second, then glanced sideways at him. “That’s not really how it works.”

He leaned in, close enough that his cologne reached you first; clean, soapy, undercut with something warm and woody. It was good. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer just to breathe it in.

“Maybe not,” he said, “but I’ve got a feeling your boyfriend doesn’t appreciate you the way he should.”

You looked at him then, skeptical, one eyebrow lifting. “You know my boyfriend?”

“No.” A grin spread across his mouth. “But if he was doing his job, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

Your lips curved… again, against your will. A small, reluctant acknowledgment that the game was already in play. You shifted, angling your body slightly away, a polite distance that said I’m not interested even as your eyes lingered a beat too long.

He didn’t take the hint. He took a step closer, filling the space you’d left, and the heat of his body wrapped around you like a second skin.

His gaze traveled over your face, not crude, not hungry in the cheap way. Appreciative. Attentive. Too attentive, like he was memorising the curve of your jaw, the way the neon light caught the gloss on your lips.

“I’m flattered,” you said, keeping your tone light, easy. “But like I said—I’ve got someone.”

“Yeah?” His voice dropped, almost a murmur. “Is he here?”

You let out a slow exhale, a half-smile tugging at your mouth. “We’ve been over this.”

He smiled back, smaller this time. A quiet acknowledgment that yes, you had, and he didn’t care.

“You’re drinking alone,” he said, each word placed with care. “Dressed like that. Smiling at me.” He paused, tilting his head, letting the silence stretch. “You don’t strike me as the loyal girlfriend type.”

Your jaw tightened, just a fraction. You turned toward him fully now, elbows finding the bar.

“I’m very loyal,” you said, voice steady. “He’s just not the jealous type.”

He let the word sit, “oh,” slow and dry, laced with amusement. Then, “So he’s a fucking idiot.”

You blinked.

The laugh that escaped you was real this time, warm and surprised, your shoulders loosening despite yourself. You shook your head, a little smile you couldn’t suppress curving your lips.

“That’s one way to put it,” you said.

He tilted his head, eyes catching the soft curve of your smile, and holding it like a prize. A low, appreciative hum escaped him as his gaze dragged down your body, the kind of look that felt like a touch you hadn’t consented to but couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

“You let your girl come out here looking like that,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something rougher, “on her own, with guys like me walking around?” His tongue swept across his bottom lip as his eyes traveled back up to yours. “He doesn’t care. That’s what I’m hearing.”

You didn’t respond. Instead, you brought your glass to your lips, letting the cool liquid slide over your tongue, buying yourself a beat of silence. You could feel the weight of his attention pressing against your skin.

Then he lifted two fingers at the bartender, a lazy, confident gesture.

“Get her another,” he said, without breaking eye contact with you. “Whatever she’s drinking.”

You held up a hand, palm out. “I’m good, thanks.”

“I insist.” His words were soft but firm, and his eyes stayed locked on yours, daring you to look away first. “Your boyfriend can be mad later.”

You tilted your head, letting yourself study him in return. Really look this time. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his chin, and the barely-there dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when his smirk deepened.

He leaned in again, closer now, under the pretense of the music swelling around you. His lips hovered near your ear, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath before you heard his voice.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, each word a carefully placed stone in the path he wanted you to follow. “I’m not here for the small talk. You don’t want me—fine. I can take no.” A pause. “But if you do… just say the word.”

The new drink landed in front of you, the glass slick with condensation, a thin river of water pooling on the dark wood. You glanced at it, then back at him. He hadn’t looked away once, not even to blink.

You gave him a flat look, but your fingers still curled around the rim of the fresh glass, betraying you. “You’re really pushy.”

He shrugged, unhurried. “I’m direct.”

“Same thing.”

“I’d argue it’s different.” His voice dropped, conversational now. “Pushy guys don’t take no for an answer. I’m just giving you a chance to be honest with yourself.”

You lifted the drink to your lips, more to buy time than anything else. The liquid was cold and sharp, citrus cutting through the warmth blooming in your chest.

“I mean, he can’t be that good,” he casually added, as if commenting on the weather. “You’ve checked your phone three times since I walked in. Not once did it light up with his name.”

Your gaze dropped to your hand, fingers tightening on the glass until your knuckles paled.

“That’s not really any of your business.”

He leaned his elbow on the bar, turning more fully to face you. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back a chuckle. “It’s a little bit my business, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “especially if I’m about to spend the rest of my night thinking about those pretty legs wrapped around me.”

Your eyes snapped to his, a jolt of heat lancing through you at the crudeness. You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression schooled, even as your pulse hammered against your ribs.

“You always talk to women like this?” you asked, your voice steady, a thin shield.

“No.” He said it simply, without hesitation. “Just the girls who pretend they don’t want it.”

You scoffed, but you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. “You’re an asshole.”

He tilted his head, considering the word like a wine he was tasting. “Confident,” he corrected, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “And maybe a little desperate.” His eyes held yours, a challenge and an invitation all at once. “Can you blame me?”

His eyes dipped lower for just a second, dragging over the obvious curve of your cleavage, the bare expanse of thigh you’d half-heartedly crossed. When they came back up, his pupils had swallowed nearly all the blue, leaving only a thin ring of color.

“If I were your man,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something gravelly, “I’d never let you out of my sight. Let alone out of the house dressed like this.” A pause, his gaze flicking down again. “That’d only be for me to appreciate.”

You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. “You really think negging my boyfriend’s gonna make me want to fuck you?”

“No.” The word camwe out confident. “But I think you’re already thinking about it. And that’s got nothing to do with him.”

The air between you tightened like a drawn wire. You hated how right he felt. How every time he leaned in, your body seemed to sway toward him, a magnetic pull you couldn’t quite override.

You didn’t meet his eyes right away. Instead, you let your gaze drift to the condensation on your glass, tracing a path through the droplets with your fingertip. Let him sit in his confidence. Let him think he was winning. Even if he kind of was.

“So,” you said after a beat, your voice dropping to a murmur that was almost lost in the pulse of the music, “how exactly would you be better than my boyfriend?”

He didn’t hesitate. Not a flicker.

“I’d actually pay attention,” he said, and his voice had gone quieter, it felt like a secret meant only for you. “I wouldn’t let you walk around looking like this unless it was for me. I’d keep you so satisfied you’d never even remember his name.”

You laughed softly, low and skeptical, a sound that caught in your throat. “That so?”

“Yeah.” The word was a breath, a promise. He leaned closer, and you caught the faint rasp of stubble against his jaw as his mouth hovered near your ear. “I’d learn your body like a map. I’d make you beg without even touching you. I’d ruin every other man for you just by how good I fuck you.”

The words landed like sparks on dry tinder, igniting something low in your belly. You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve told him to get lost, laughed in his face, walked away.

Instead, you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, your chin lifting in quiet defiance.

“You rehearse this shit, or is it just off the cuff?”

A grin spread across his face. “I can show you if you want.”

You took another sip, letting the cool liquid coat your throat. And then you felt it, his knee, sliding slowly between your thighs, pressing against the inside of your leg with unhurried pressure.

“I think,” you said, lips brushing the rim of your glass, your voice steady even as your skin hummed, “you’re full of shit.”

“I think,” he countered, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath at your cheek, “you’re hoping I’m not.”

And you didn’t say anything for a second too long. The silence stretched, filled with the thrum of bass and the thud of your own heartbeat.

His smile widened, slow and triumphant.

“Just one night,” he said, soft as a murmur. “That’s all I’m askin’.”

You exhaled, the breath shaking just a little. “God, you’re really committed to this.”

His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “Could say the same about you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lingered on him longer than they should have. Longer than was safe. The neon glow from the sign behind him painted his jaw in shades of pink and blue. The way he stood; loose, confident, like he owned every inch of space around him, made your mouth go dry.

You were past the point of denial now. You didn’t even try to cover the way your thighs pressed tighter around his knee every time he leaned in, the way your breath caught when his voice dropped. Every word he whispered, every glance, it was crawling under your skin, planting something hot and unruly inside you.

You let out a slow breath, your chest rising and falling as you held his gaze. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, the slight curve, the faint wetness from where he’d licked his lips, then back up to meet his.

“Fine,” you said softly, the word barely audible beneath the thrum of the bar’s music. “Just one night.”

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t question it, didn’t gloat, at least, not out loud. But the shift in him was unmistakable. His shoulders straightened, his jaw tightened, and that smirk curved at the corners of his mouth. It was a look that said I knew it. I knew you’d break.

Then his fingers wrapped around your hand; big, warm, a little rough, calloused in a way that made you wonder what he did for a living. He pulled you up from your stool in one clean, fluid motion, and you felt the sudden loss of the barstool’s support replaced by the solid heat of his body close to yours.

Your drink was still half-full. Your dignity back at that bar. Didn’t matter.

His hand didn’t just hold yours, it led. Gripped with purpose, not carelessness. His thumb pressed into the soft webbing between your index and middle finger, and you felt the pulse in his palm, steady and strong.

Out of the bar, past the crowd jostling at the door, through the heavy oak door and into the night air that hit you like a slap, cold and sharp after the suffocating heat you’d been sitting in.

The temperature difference made your skin prickle, your nipples tightening beneath your dress. But it didn’t cool you down. If anything, it made everything more electric, more alive.

He glanced back once, just long enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, you caught the flicker of heat behind his gaze, the tension in his jaw.

The parking lot was mostly empty. You hadn’t even registered which one was his, too busy trying to slow your heart down, too busy wondering what the hell you’d just agreed to.

He didn’t give you time to second-guess it.

Before you could reach for the door handle, he turned you.

One quick, smooth movement, your back hitting the cool metal side of the car with a quiet thud that echoed in your chest. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, your eyes going wide, your hands flying up instinctively.

Then his hand came up, gripping your jaw, his fingers curving around the bone just beneath your ear. He tilted your face up toward his, forcing your gaze to meet his, and you saw the raw hunger there, barely leashed.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he murmured.

It was all mouth and hunger and heat, his lips crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back for hours and the dam had finally broken.

The first contact was almost bruising, a desperate, claiming press that stole your breath and left you reeling. His mouth was warm, tasted faintly of whiskey and salt, and the scrape of his stubble against your chin sent a shiver down your neck.

He kissed like a man who knew what your mouth would taste like. Who’d imagined it in vivid detail, over and over, until now, finally, it was real. His tongue slid in, exploring, tasting, taking, just claiming what he wanted. His fingers held your jaw in place, like he didn’t want you pulling away. Like he didn’t want you thinking.

Your knees buckled.

Your hands flew up, gripping the front of his shirt, the fabric soft but warm, the muscles beneath taut and steely. You fisted the material, trying to anchor yourself to something solid as his mouth moved against yours. His chest was hard against your palms, his heartbeat a rapid drum beneath your fingers.

You weren’t kissing him back at first. You were just trying to keep up. Trying to breathe.

But he didn’t let you. He didn’t give you space to gather yourself.

He licked into your mouth like he was starving, like every second without your taste was agony. A groan rumbled low in his throat, a sound that was equal parts relief and torture, and it vibrated through you, settling somewhere deep in your belly.

His hand slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, fingers curling behind your ear, tilting your head just slightly to deepen the angle.

The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, the way his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear. The cold night air bit at your bare legs, but you barely felt it, all you felt was him, all you tasted was him, all you heard was the wet sound of the kiss and your own ragged breathing.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, throbbing, wet with the evidence of his claim. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.

A thin string of saliva connected your lips, glistening in the streetlight, unbroken until you finally parted them with a shaky exhale.

You didn’t even realize your nails were still digging into his shirt until you felt him exhale against your mouth, a warm, shaky breath that fanned across your sensitive skin.

He didn’t say anything.

Just pressed his forehead to yours. Let you breathe. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheekbones, his breath still uneven. You could feel the tremour in his frame, the barely restrained hunger still simmering beneath the surface.

Then he stepped back, opened the car door like nothing had just happened and waited for you to climb in.

The elevator ride was barely two floors.

Maybe three. You didn’t know. You didn’t remember stepping inside, didn’t remember pressing the button, didn’t remember the doors sliding shut behind you.

All you remembered was his hand on the small of your back, the firm, pressure of his palm against the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide, pressing just hard enough to steer you forward.

And when you reached his door, his grip tightened. Those fingers dug into the flesh just above your hip, and you felt the tremour in his arm, the barely restrained tension coiling through his muscles. Like he was already fighting himself not to ravage you in the hallway.

The key turned. The lock clicked.

And the second the door swung shut behind you, it was over.

He was on you.

There was nothing smooth about it. No romantic glide across hardwood floors to a couch you’d never reach. No whispered sweet nothings.

This was fast.

His coat hit the floor before the door fully closed, followed by the jingle of keys dropping somewhere near his shoes. Your purse slipped from your fingers, landing near the entry table with a dull thump you barely registered.

His hands found your hips first. Then your ass, grabbing handfuls of flesh through the thin fabric of your dress. Then your back, sliding up the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing into the muscles on either side. Then your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, and you gasped against his mouth.

He couldn’t decide where to touch first, so he touched everything.

God, his mouth was everywhere too.

At your jaw, teeth scraping along the sharp edge of it. At your throat, tongue dragging hot and wet over your pulse point. At your collarbone, lips sucking a bruise into the hollow just above where your dress dipped. Anywhere your skin peeked out, he was ther.

He was like a fucking bear. Big, warm, all-consuming, surrounding you with heat and muscle and the faint scent of whiskey and leather and male. And you weren’t complaining. Not even a little.

Your back hit the nearest wall with a thud that rattled the picture frame beside you. The impact forced the air from your lungs, and you gasped, head falling back against the plaster. The dress rode up under his grip, the hem bunching around your hips, cool air kissing the bare skin of your thighs.

Your leg lifted instinctively, wrapping around his hip, heel digging into the firm curve of his ass to anchor him to you. He groaned into your neck and the sound vibrated through your skin.

“Mmm,” he muttered against your throat. His lips brushed your pulse as he spoke, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Does your boyfriend touch you like this?”

A breathy laugh escaped you, surprised and amused despite the heat flooding your veins. You tilted your head back further, giving him more access, and your fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“You really hate that guy, huh?”

He pulled back just far enough to look you in the eye. Dim light from the kitchen filtered through the apartment, catching the sharp blue of his gaze, the dilated pupils, the flush creeping up his neck.

“I think he’s a goddamn idiot,” he said, voice low and rough. “Letting a girl like you walk around wanting this kind of attention. Dressed like this, looking like you do.” His grip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “If you were mine—”

You cut him off with a kiss. It was teeth and tongue and a sharp bite against his lower lip that made him hiss, and then you pulled back, breath short, lips slick.

“But I’m not yours,” you said against his mouth, the words barely a whisper.

And god, the look he gave you.

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking near his temple. His right hand came up, fingers curling around your throat as his thumb pressed gently against the hollow beneath your jaw, feeling your pulse flutter like a trapped bird beneath his touch.

“Not yet,” he rasped, the words a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through his chest into yours

He didn’t guide you so much as haul you toward the nearest surface.

One hand clamped under your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, while the other gripped your ass hard enough to make you gasp. The world blurred; a flash of dark cabinetry, the hum of a refrigerator, the faint citrus scent of cleaner, and then your back hit the edge of his kitchen island.

The impact knocked a quiet, breathless gasp from your lungs. The granite was cold against your skin through your dress, a sharp shock against the heat blazing through your body. The edge dug into your lower back, a hard line of pressure that should have been uncomfortable, but it barely registered.

Not with the furnace of his body pressed so close. Not with the way he was already shoving the hem of your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric with impatient hands, like the dress itself had personally offended him.

“Fuck,” he breathed out. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking near his temple as his eyes raked down your body. His fingers curled into the hem and yanked it higher, past your hips, past the damp lace of your panties, baring you to the cool kitchen air. “Look at you.”

His voice dropped, as his hands slid under the bunched fabric to grip your bare hips. His fingers dug into the curve of bone, hard enough to leave crescents, and a shiver of anticipation rolled through you at the thought of feeling those marks tomorrow.

“Can’t believe your man lets you walk around like this,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin of your thighs. “Dress so short I can see the curve of your ass with every step you take. Tits practically spilling out, begging for attention. You’re a walking invitation, sweetheart.”

“He trusts me,” you shot back, grinning despite the wildfire racing through your veins.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Bucky grunted, and then he lifted you like you weighed nothing, hands under your thighs, a single smooth motion that had you gasping as he set you on the cold granite counter.

Your ass met the stone, a jolt of cold against the heat between your legs, and you braced your palms flat on the surface to steady yourself. “Should’ve locked you up before someone else got to you.”

Your thighs spread instinctively to keep your balance, opening yourself to him like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes dropped between them like he was starving, dress rucked up around your waist, panties damp and clinging.

His hands followed his gaze. Fingertips found the soft inner flesh of your thighs, tracing lazy patterns, goosebumps rising in their wake. His thumbs brushed the edges of your panties, teasing,. His mouth hovered just above yours, close enough that you could taste his breath, warm and slightly sweet with the whiskey from the bar.

“Bet he doesn’t even touch you right,” he murmured, his lips barely skimming yours with each word. “Bet he doesn’t make you beg. Doesn’t know how wet you get from just being told what to do. Does he, sweetheart? Does he know how your body responds to a firm hand?”

You didn’t respond. Your tongue felt thick, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

His fingers hooked into the crotch of your panties, and he shoved the damp fabric aside with two confident strokes. Then one finger traced the length of your slit, gathering the wetness that had been pooling there since the bar. The sensation made you jerk, a sharp inhale hissing through your teeth.

“Fuck,” he hissed, almost to himself. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared at where his hand disappeared between your thighs. “Yeah. This is mine now.”

You clenched around nothing, your body responding before your brain could catch up, a desperate, empty ache blooming in your core.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say this pussy’s mine for the night.”

A grin tugged at your lips, defiant even now. You dragged your nails up the length of his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath the fabric of his shirt. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

He let out a low chuckle. His hand slid from your throat to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he dragged you into another kiss, a reclaiming of territory already conquered.

His other hand slipped lower, fingers teasing at your entrance, slick with your own arousal. The tip of his finger pressed in just barely, and then withdrew.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your mouth, the word a breathless, cocky whisper. “And you’re about to let me prove it.”

His fingers were still between your thighs, barely moving now. Just resting there. A lazy pressure that kept you teetering on the edge of desperate, your hips twitching involuntarily against his palm.

Every time you tried to grind down, he pulled back just enough to deny you, a cruel little game he played with the patience of a predator.

His other hand trailed up your side, slipping beneath the rumpled dress to brush the curve of your waist. His fingertips traced the ridge of your ribs, then swept higher, grazing the underside of your breast with a featherlight touch that had your spine arching.

And then he murmured, voice low and wrapped in velvet, “You ever been filmed before, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught. Lodged somewhere in your throat like a stone.

Your body said yes before your brain even processed the question, your thighs tensed, your nipples tightened, a fresh pulse of heat bloomed between your legs. But your mouth hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your face.

“Filmed?” The word came out breathless, barely audible over the thudding of your heart.

“Mmhmm.” His voice was soft now, coaxing. His lips ghosted over your jaw as he spoke, hot and teasing. “Wanna see how goddamn pretty you look like this. Want to watch you later—legs spread, begging for it, that messy little sound you make when you cum. You ever seen yourself like that, honey?”

You couldn’t answer. Your mouth was dry, your pulse hammering so loud you could hear it rushing in your ears.

He kissed your neck, his lips parting against your skin. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive tendon just below your ear, a sharp little pressure that made you gasp.

His hand stayed between your legs, just touching, his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers slick and still, the heel of his hand grinding lazily against your clit. Keeping your blood hot. Keeping you pliant.

“C’mon,” he whispered, the word a hot puff of air against your throat. “Let me keep it. Just for me. I won’t show anyone.” A pause. His lips brushed the hollow of your collarbone. “Just wanna remember how you sounded when I made you cum. Just wanna have something to jerk off to when you go back to that sorry excuse for a boyfriend.”

Your lips parted. Your heart was in your throat, beating against the base of your tongue.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—and fuck. Those eyes. Half-lidded, dark as sin, glittering with something between hunger and tenderness.

This was for him. Just because he wanted to own this moment. To freeze it, preserve it, revisit it whenever he pleased.

“Please,” he added, the word a low murmur that crawled down your spine. “Let me watch you fall apart. Let me have something to remember you by when you’re gone.”

And just like that, you broke. You nodded once, a small, jerky motion that felt too fast and too slow all at once.

The look on his face turned downright pleased. A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips, pleased and satisfied.

He stepped back, pulling his hand from between your legs deliberately slow that bordered on cruel. The absence was sharp, almost painful—you whimpered, a soft, instinctive sound that slipped out before you could stop it.

He heard it. His lips parted like he might say something, but instead he just let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

He reached into his jeans pocket and tugged out his phone. The screen blazed to life, casting cold light across his angular features. He swiped it awake with one thumb, eyes never leaving yours.

You stayed on the counter. Legs spread. Dress bunched up around your hips, the fabric twisted and forgotten. Panties still pushed to the side, damp and useless.

But before you could process what came next, he handed you the phone.

“Hold this,” he said. “Keep it steady. And don’t stop filming until I say so.”

The weight of the device settled in your palm, the screen angled toward him. Your fingers trembled, but you gripped it tight.

His hands slid under your thighs, palms warm and calloused against your skin, and he pulled you to the edge of the counter with a single, effortless motion.

“You’re really gonna let me eat you out on camera?” he muttered. His thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. “Look at you. Spread open, holding the phone, panting for it like a bitch in heat. What would your boyfriend say if he saw this, huh?”

A shiver rolled through you. You let out a shaky breath as you leaned back on your elbows, your legs falling open even wider.

“He doesn’t need to know,” you murmured.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest, through the air between you, through your bones.

“No, he doesn’t.” Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the tender flesh where your legs met your hips. “But I will.”

He lowered his head, his breath hot against your slick skin.

“Now keep that camera steady, sweetheart. I want to see your face when I make you forget your name.”

And then he was on you.

His tongue hit you like a brand. It dragged from the slick entrance of your cunt all the way up to your clit in one long, agonizingly slow stroke, tasting you like he was savouring every inch. The flat of his tongue pressed firm, parting your folds, and when he reached the top he circled once, lazy, before dipping back down.

You gasped. Your back bowed off the counter, your spine curling like a struck wire. One hand scrambled for the edge of the granite, fingers scrabbling for purchase, while the other fought to keep the camera steady, pointed directly down at him, at the way his mouth was devouring you.

He moaned into you.

A deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your clit, through your thighs, through the aching core of you. Like he was the one being pleasured. Like your taste was the only thing that could satisfy him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered against your flesh, his breath hot and damp. His tongue flicked out, lapping at your clit with a lazy stroke. “So fuckin’ sweet. Sweetest thing I’ve had in my mouth in months.”

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening and chin slick. The camera caught every detail.

“Bet he doesn’t even taste you, does he?” His voice was a low, rasping cruel whisper. “Bet he just shoves it in and pumps away like a jackrabbit, leaves you lying there wet and wanting.”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form a single word. Not when his mouth wrapped around your clit again, sealing tight, and he sucked, once, hard, a sharp vacuum of pleasure that punched a cry from your throat. Then he eased, softening into slower licks, his tongue tracing figure-eights around the swollen bud.

Your thighs trembled, clamping around his head. He didn’t seem to mind. He moaned again, the vibration traveling straight through your cunt and up your spine.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how to touch you here—” His metal thumb pressed into the soft, sensitive spot just beside your entrance, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your heat. “—or how wet you get just from a little attention. Look at you. Dripping. Making a mess all over my face.”

You whimpered. A high, broken sound that felt torn from somewhere deep in your chest.

His metal hand slid up your thigh, the cool vibranium tracking a path of goosebumps across your flushed skin. Then, without warning, two fingers pushed into you. A slick, effortless slide that made you gasp again.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t give you time to adjust. He just pumped them in and out, a steady rhythm that matched the circling of his tongue. His fingers crooked, searching, and when they found that spongy spot inside you, he pressed hard and held.

You didn’t mean to make the sounds you were making.

They poured out of you like confession, gasping, keening, helpless little moans that you couldn’t hold back. Your head fell back, your hips lifting off the counter, chasing his mouth and fingers like you’d lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your wet skin, his lips brushing your clit with every word. “So desperate for someone who isn’t even your man. Fuck, he must be so boring.”

You whimpered, your hips grinding against his face.

His fingers curled again… just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His tongue never stopped. It circled and flicked and pressed, relentless.

“You think about this?” he went on, “When you’re lying next to him at night, do you think about someone else doing this to you? Someone who actually knows how to use his mouth?”

You shook your head, trying to deny, but your body betrayed you, your hips rocking faster against his hand.

“Yeah, you do,” he said, and he laughed, a low, breathless sound against your cunt. “You think about it all the time. I think you’d let me do anything just to feel good for once. I think you’d let me fuck you right in his bed while he’s at work, and you’d still smile like a good girl and kiss him goodnight.”

His fingers fucked into you, slow and steady, his tongue circling your clit in tight, focused strokes that left no room for thought. The pressure built in your belly, impossible to ignore.

“You close?” he asked, his voice hoarse and knowing.

You nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. Too far gone to pretend. Too far gone to care.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His lips were glistening, his jaw slick, his pupils blown wide and black. And then… smirking, that wicked curve of his mouth, he glanced toward the camera.

“Let’s show him, yeah doll?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s show him how you cum for someone who actually knows what he’s doing. Let’s give him something to think about tonight.”

And then he sucked your clit again—hard—while his fingers pumped faster, deeper, curling with ruthless precision.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You came.

It was raw. Violent. Your hips jerked off the counter, your thighs clamping around his head like a vise. The sounds that tore out of you were ragged and broken, a string of curses and pleas that blurred into incoherence.

Your vision went white, your whole body seizing, and he didn’t stop. His tongue kept stroking, his fingers kept pumping, fucking you through every last wave of pleasure until you were twitching and shaking, oversensitive and gasping.

He groaned against your clit, like he loved it. Like he was drinking it down.

You barely had time to catch your breath. Barely had time to register the aftershocks still rippling through your thighs before he was climbing up your body, his lips slick with your release, his chin wet, his eyes dark with something animalistic.

His hand snatched the phone from your trembling grip, like a predator claiming his prize. The other hand clamped around your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he dragged you toward the edge of the kitchen island.

He angled the phone down, the camera aimed directly at your cunt, glistening, swollen, still slick from his mouth. Your dress was bunched around your waist in a crumpled mess, and your panties were long gone, ripped off somewhere between the counter and the floor.

“Gonna let me fuck you now?” His voice was a mocking drawl that made your toes curl. “Even though you’ve got a boyfriend waiting at home? Probably wondering where his sweet little girl is.”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, still floating on the aftershocks of your orgasm. But you played along. You nodded slowly, your lips parting, your eyes half-lidded. Like a good girl. Like a stupid little slut who’d already crossed every line and couldn’t find her way back.

You watched like a hungry bitch in heat as he unbuckled his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet kitchen, and shoved his pants down his thighs with one hand. His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a wet sound that made your mouth water. The head flushed dark, already slick with pre-cum.

Your voice didn’t work anymore. All the clever retorts, the smart mouth answers—gone. Your legs parted on pure instinct, your hips tilting up in silent invitation.

He clicked his tongue.

“Such a dirty girl,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Cheating on your boyfriend like this. Letting a stranger stretch your pretty pussy open in his kitchen. On his counter. While he films it.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, just the head pressing, teasing, not pushing in yet. Your breath hitched. Your whole body trembled.

“Tell me what you are,” he said, the camera still fixed on where he was about to enter you.

“I’m—I’m a dirty girl—”

“Louder.”

“I’m a dirty girl.”

“And?”

“And I—I want you to fuck me.”

He smiled, satisfied.

And then he pushed in.

Thick and slow. Letting you feel every filthy inch as he sank into you, stretching you open inch by inch. The burn was exquisite, a sharp, delicious ache that made your jaw drop and your eyes roll back. You clenched around him, too sensitive, already fucked-out from his mouth, and he groaned, an animal sound that vibrated through his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips seating flush against yours. “Tight little thing. Feels like you were made for this. Made for my cock.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at where you were joined, angling the phone to capture every detail, the way your cunt gripped him, the slick shine of his cock as he dragged out, the desperate flutter of your muscles.

And then he started to move.

His hips dragged back and slammed in again with bruising force. The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. The second made you cry out, loud and raw, your voice cracking in the empty kitchen.

He groaned harder at the sound.

“Look at that,” he rasped, his voice wrecked with pleasure. He angled the camera down again, zooming in on where he split you open. “Fuckin’ made for it, huh? Look at how pretty she takes it.”

He shifted his weight, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, the angle changed, deeper nowand your back hit the counter hard as he picked up the pace. The slapping sounds filled the room.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, breath ragged, the phone still steady in his grip. “Gonna cum on this cock like the fucking slut you are? Let your boyfriend watch it later? Think he’d wanna see what a whore you are when no one’s watching?”

Your eyes rolled back. Your mouth hung open, drool threatening to slip down your chin. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He slapped your clit, a bright flare of pain-pleasure that made you jolt.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—yes, fuck, I—please—”

“Please what?”

“Please let me cum—I need—”

He thrust harder, faster, the angle punishing. His free hand pressed down on your lower belly, making you feel every inch of him inside you.

“Look at the camera,” he commanded, his voice a growl. “Look at it and tell him who’s making you feel this good.”

You forced your eyes open, found the lens, stared into it with glassy, tear-streaked eyes.

“You,” you gasped. “You’re making me—”

“That’s right. Me. Not him. Me.”

He lowered his mouth to your ear, still fucking you, his breath hot and ragged.

“Now cum for me. Cum for the camera. Let everyone see what a good little slut you are.”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden and impossible to stop. Your back arched off the counter, your walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, groaning as you tightened around him, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

“That’s what I thought”

He pulled out suddenly, an abrupt emptiness that made you gasp, your body clenching around nothing, desperate to keep him. The whine that escaped your lips was pathetic, high and needy, and you didn’t even have the shame to swallow it.

But Bucky didn’t give you a second to recover. His metal hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you upright before your head stopped spinning.

“Up,” he ordered, his voice tight and ragged. “C’mon. Up, baby. I’m not done with you.”

Your legs were jelly. Your bones had turned to water. But he hooked his hand under your thigh and lifted you off the island like you weighed nothing, sliding you down until your bare feet hit the cold tile floor.

Your knees buckled immediately. You were shaking, ruined, still dripping down your thighs in sticky trails, your dress bunched around your waist, while he steadied you with a hand on your hip.

“You’re a mess,” he muttered, not even pretending to hide the pride in his voice. His metal fingers traced the curve of your hip, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Bet he’s never fucked you dumb like this, huh?”

Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted. But he didn’t let you stay there. He spun you around, grabbed your hips, and bent you over the counter like a doll, your tits pressing flat against the cold marble, your cheek smushed against the cool stone, your legs spread wide before you even realized what he was doing.

The camera was still rolling. And he aimed it directly at your ass, at your dripping cunt, at the mess he’d made of you.

“There we go,” he rasped, his voice a rough purr behind you. “Much better view. Look at that, fuckin’ dripping for me. Like a little faucet.”

You gasped as his hand came down right across your ass cheek. The crack echoed in the kitchen, and your skin bloomed with heat instantly. Your hips bucked forward, pushing your tits harder against the marble.

“Stay still,” he grunted, his metal hand pressing into the small of your back, pinning you down. “Be good and take it. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

And then he was sliding back in.

No teasing. Just one sharp, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He filled you completely, the angle brutal, the stretch exquisite. Your mouth fell open on a silent scream.

He didn’t wait. He started moving immediately, punishing strokes that made the counter shake. His hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you open for him.

“Fuck, baby—so tight like this,” he groaned, his voice strained, wrecked. “Like you’re trying to milk me dry.”

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear.

“Bet he’s never seen you like this. Fucked out. Bent over. Filmed like a little slut.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving them into you along with his cock. “What would he say if he saw this video? Huh? If he watched you beggin’ for my cock with your makeup running, your pretty little pussy creamin’ all over me?”

Your only answer was a broken moan. Your hands scrambled uselessly across the marble, searching for something to hold onto.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The stretch in your neck sent a shiver down your spine.

“What would he say, huh,” Bucky panted, fucking into you harder now, the slapping sounds wet and filthy, “if he saw how much you love it? If he saw that look in your eyes—that fucked-out, starved look you get when I’m deep inside you?”

Your third orgasm was building, coiling low in your belly, your pussy aching with overstimulation. The marble was digging into your hips, leaving red marks on your skin, and you didn’t care. You wanted more. You wanted him to break you.

“Say it,” he grunted, snapping his hips faster, his hand wrapping around your throat from behind to pull your head even farther back. “Tell the camera what you’re doing.”

You choked on a sob, tears welling in your eyes.

“—Cheating,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat. “I’m cheating on him—fuck, fuck—please don’t stop—”

He groaned like he could’ve fucking died from how good that sounded.

“That’s it, baby. Say it again. Let the whole world know what a filthy little whore you are.”

You were already crying, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation, your body trembling as you struggled to hold yourself up on your elbows. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through you, your clit rubbing against the marble with every movement, building that pressure higher and higher.

“Say it again,” he growled, his cock buried deep inside you. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“—Cheating,” you whispered again, breathless, voice cracking. “I’m cheating on him.”

“Can’t hear you.”

“I’m cheating on my boyfriend,” you moaned, choked and messy, the shame in your voice only making it hotter. “Letting some stranger fuck me in his kitchen.”

He groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second, his grip tightening on your throat.

“God, you’re perfect. Fucking perfect. Say my name.”

You didn’t even think. The word fell from your lips like a prayer.

“Bucky—”

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the kitchen. Your body rocked against the marble with every brutal thrust, your tits sliding across the cold surface, nipples dragging against the stone, your breath fogging the counter in ragged clouds as he fucked you faster.

The hand on your throat dropped down your body to between your legs, metal fingers finding your clit with brutal precision. He rubbed you in rough, tight circles, no gentleness, just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

“Wanna cum again for me, baby?” he panted behind you. “Wanna cum on a stranger’s cock while your boyfriend’s out there probably textin’ you right now, askin’ if you’re okay?”

His fingers pinched your clit and you cried out.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

“Use me,” you begged, the words torn from somewhere deep, broken and desperate. “Please, just use me. I don’t care—I don’t care about anything—just fuck me—”

That did it.

He slammed in harder, faster, his groans turning into guttural snarls, his hips slapping against your ass with a force that left your skin stinging. His metal fingers on your clit were relentless. You were babbling words that made no sense, just sound and breath and need, your voice cracking as that third orgasm tore through you like lightning striking bone.

You clenched down so hard his rhythm stuttered.

“Oh fuck—fuck, doll—”

He pulled out suddenly, just in time, the loss of him leaving you gasping and empty. His hand left your clit and wrapped around his cock, jerking himself with messy, desperate strokes, the camera aimed down at the mess he’d made of you.

“On your knees,” he barked.

You dropped without hesitation.

Your knees hit the cold tile with a dull thud, your body limp and pliant and ruined. Your makeup was smudged into dark raccoon circles around your eyes. Your lipstick was blurred. Your thighs were still slick with your multiple releases, sticky and gleaming under the kitchen lights.

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, chest heaving, every inch of you screaming used.

He pointed the phone down at your face, capturing every detail.

“Jesus fuck—look at you,” he panted, his voice hoarse, wrecked. His grip on his cock was tight, the veins standing out against his skin. “Fucking look at you. Makeup ruined. Hair a mess. Cum drippin’ down your thighs. And you’re still lookin’ at me like you want more.”

You blinked up at him slowly, your tongue sliding across your lower lip, tasting the salt of your own sweat. The corner of your mouth lifted… just enough to tease. Just enough to let him know that yes, you wanted more. You wanted everything.

His breath hitched.

That was all it took.

He groaned deep from his chest, his hips snapping forward as he jerked himself harder… and then he came.

“Fuck—fuck—”

Thick, hot ropes hit your lips. Your cheek. Your tongue.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just let it land wherever he gave it, your mouth open like a fucking invitation, your eyes locked on his the entire time. One streak landed on your chin, another across your nose. You held still like a good girl.

He moaned like he was in pain, his chest heaving, his arm trembling as he kept the camera steady. His other hand milked the last drops out, stroking his tip right against your tongue, smearing the rest across your bottom lip.

“Gonna remember this forever,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The way you look right now. On your knees. Covered in my cum.”

You swallowed what landed in your mouth. The taste of him, salt and heat and something musky, spread across your tongue.

You held eye contact… and then licked your lips. Slow. Sweet. Like you savoured every drop. Your tongue swept across the mess on your cheek, your chin, collecting every trace of him.

And then you smiled and winked at the camera.

He groaned again. His arm dropped. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You’re unreal. You’re fucking unreal.”

He took a shaky step back, running his free hand through his hair, his chest still heaving.

“Get up,” he said, softer now. “C’mere. Let me kiss you.”

You were barely dried off when he dragged you into bed, still flushed in the cheeks, towel hanging low on his hips, clinging to the sharp cut of his waist. He flopped onto the mattress with a grunt that vibrated through the sheets and immediately reached for you like a heat-seeking missile.

You allowed him to wrap himself around you, his chest warm and damp against your back, arm tight across your middle, legs slotting in behind yours like puzzle pieces.

He was trying to hide. Burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing slow and deep like he could disappear into your skin. And despite being genuinely so fucked out after three orgasms, your thighs still aching and your core still humming, you couldn’t help yourself.

“‘Gonna remember this forever,’” you murmured, pitching your voice low and rough, mimicking him. You dragged the words out, dramatic and breathy. “God, baby. The drama. Are you sure you’re not secretly a director?”

He groaned The kind of groan that started in his chest and rolled out like thunder. He dragged the covers over both your heads, cocooning you in darkness and warmth, like it might smother the shame.

And you.

“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

You laughed, the sound swallowed by the blanket fort. Your body shook against his, and he tightened his grip in response, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You were so into it,” you continued, turning your head just enough to speak into the darkness. “Like, really committed. Tell me, what are you gonna do with that video? Are you planning an OnlyFans debut? Get some extra cash to spoil me with?”

He squeezed your waist in warning,, deliberate press of his fingers into your soft skin. You ignored him completely.

“I personally think we’d make a lot of money,” you said, your tone almost dreamy. “With your dick and my tits, we’d be famous in no time. Think of the branding. Think of the content.”

He lifted his head just enough to find your ear. “Please,” he said, low and gruff, “shut up and let me spoon you into silence.”

You hummed, basking in victory.

“You were so serious,” you whispered into the quiet. “The dirty talk? You’re gonna start submitting audition tapes to PornHub next, aren’t you? I can see it now—‘James.B.B, 107, 6’2”, specializes in roleplay and cum facials.’”

He groaned again, but it was quieter now.

You could feel his smile against your skin. He was trying not to let it show,but you knew it was there. Just like the soft kiss he pressed behind your ear, his lips lingering.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?” he muttered, his voice warm and entirely fond.

You turned in his arms, shifting until you faced him. The blanket still draped over your heads, cocooning you in shared heat and the faint scent of sex and soap. His whole body was relaxed in that way he only ever got after sex, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolved.

You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your fingertips. You kissed his nose.

“Not a chance, stranger.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. And then he kissed you anyway, a kiss that tasted like contented surrender. His hand slid up your spine, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath evening out.

You laid there for a long, quiet minute, his arm slung heavy across your stomach like an anchor, his breath slowing behind your ear into that deep, rhythmic cadence that meant he was drifting.

The warmth of his body curved around yours, the sheets tangled around your legs, the faint hum of the city through the window, it was almost enough to lull you under too.

Almost.

Which is exactly why you struck.

“Okay,” you said, your voice sweet as honey. “Give me your phone now.”

He tensed immediately. His arm tightened across your stomach, and you felt the shift in his breathing.

“...No.”

You twisted in his grip, frowning, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him.

“James.”

He sighed, like it physically pained him to hear his name on your lips in that tone. The sound dragged out, full of protest, and he pulled the pillow over his face.

You didn’t let up. You tore the blanket off both of you, sitting up fully, then turned to face him with the kind of look that told him exactly where this was going. A look that said I’m not asking.

“I just want to see how I looked,” you cooed, letting your voice go syrupy and coaxing. “For science.”

“You looked perfect,” he muttered from beneath the pillow. “You don’t need to see it.”

“Oh, but I do,” you teased, already reaching past him toward the nightstand where he’d abandoned the phone. “Because someone got real creative with angles tonight. I wanna see what Christopher Nolan-level filth you captured.”

He tried to pull you back down under the covers, his arm snaking around your waist, but you fought dirty. You squirmed, laughed, dug your elbow into his ribs until he grunted and loosened his grip. There was some wrestling until you finally managed to straddle his hips, pinning him down, and snatched the phone from the nightstand.

“Aha,” you declared, waving it like a trophy. “Siri, show me the porn.”

He groaned from beneath the pillow. “You’re a freak.”

“You love it.”

You unlocked the screen with his passcode, your birthday of course, and found the video right there in his most recent gallery. It wasn’t buried in a folder, wasn’t hidden behind a password.

“Jesus Christ, you didn’t even try to hide it,” you murmured.

You tapped play.

The sound alone was enough to make you both flinch.

Your own moan filled the room, echoing off the walls. The video opened on a shaky shot of the kitchen island, granite cool and sleek under the dim light, your legs splayed wide, his hand wrapped around your thigh.

You looked down at him slowly. His eyes were squeezed shut, the pillow still half-draped over his head, his cheeks flushed dark. For a guy who had fucked you within an inch of your life thirty minutes ago, he looked deeply, profoundly embarrassed.

“Oh my god,” you said, pausing the screen on his face. There he was… eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hair a wild mess, that filthy, knowing smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Who is he? Why is he so serious? Is this an Oscar campaign? A sizzle reel for his breakout role in Eat Pray Fuck?”

“Stop it,” Bucky mumbled.

But you kept going.

“Look at you. Sergeant Pornstar. All intense and broody. Grunting like you’re about to break the fourth wall and fuck the audience too.”

He peeked out just enough to glare at you, one blue eye visible above the edge of the pillow, very unamused. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re so hot when you’re pretending not to be a freak.”

He huffed, but his ears were pink. The tips of them, visible above the pillow, turned the colour of a ripe strawberry.

You tapped further into the video, scrolling through the shots. Paused again. Leaned in closer to the screen.

“Wait—” You squinted. “Did you zoom while you were inside me?”

He huffed, and buried his face in the pillow like he could escape through the mattress.

“You did. Oh my god, you adjusted the focus on my ass. You framed the shot like it was a nature documentary.”

“Stop watching it,” he moaned.

“Never. I’m gonna turn this into a gif. A screensaver. My new phone background. Every time I get a text, I’ll see your constipated orgasm face.”

That did it.

He moved faster than you expected. The phone flew out of your hand, skidding across the bed, and he tackled you back down onto the mattress, his weight pressing you into the pillows.

It didn’t hurt. Not with him laughing into your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he tried to wrestle the phone out of your reach. His fingers fumbled against yours, and you shrieked as he pinned your wrist above your head, still laughing, still muttering, “You’re the fucking worst,” and “I hate you so much right now.”

He got the phone eventually.

And as he pinned you to the bed with both wrists above your head, his body draped over yours, sweat-slick and smiling, he leaned down and kissed your cheek. A whisper of lips against your skin.

“I’m deleting that video first thing tomorrow,” he mumbled, his voice fond.

You smiled up at him, your chest rising and falling against his.

“Sure you are, Sergeant,” you whispered, your eyes glinting in the dim light. “Right after you jack off to it one more time.”

He collapsed beside you with a huff, his body sinking into the mattress like it weighed twice what it did, limbs heavy and warm as he pulled you into his chest. His arm slung around your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he exhaled a long, tired breath.

The kind of breath that said finally, peace.

He was wrong.

“So,” you whispered against his collarbone, “since I let you pick this time, I get to choose the next roleplay.”

He sighed again

You ignored it completely.

“We could do the delivery guy thing,” you murmured, a yawn stealing the edge off your words. “Like, you show up with a package and I answer the door in just a towel, dripping wet, all innocent and flustered. And you’re just standing there, all stoic, but you have to fuck me on the spot. Right there against the doorframe. Package forgotten on the mat.”

He didn’t respond. His breathing was slow, like he was trying to will himself into unconsciousness.

So you kept going.

“Or—or we could do the ‘I’m your best friend’s girlfriend’ angle,” you said, your voice dropping into a dreamy cadence. “You’re not supposed to want me. But you catch me in the shower at a party. The bathroom door’s cracked open, and instead of leaving, you just… watch. Then you step inside, still fully dressed, and pin me to the tile.”

“No,” he mumbled, the word muffled against your skin.

Before you could continue, he rolled on top of you, his body a warm, solid weight pressing you into the mattress. His mouth found yours, a kiss that was clearly meant to shut you up. His tongue swept against your bottom lip, and for a moment you let yourself sink into it.

But only a moment.

You broke the kiss with a soft, teasing hum. “What about the corrupt cop thing?” you whispered, your lips still brushing his. “You pull me over on some empty road at midnight. I’m nervous, hands shaking as I hand you my license. And you shine your flashlight in my face, look me up and down, and tell me I was speeding. Then you lean down, voice low, and tell me there’s only one way I can get out of the ticket.”

He kissed you again. Harder this time. A grunt built in his throat, muffled against your mouth, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheek like he could physically hold your words in.

You chuckled against his lips.

“Ooooh. Or the one where I’m drunk and stumbling out of a party,” you said, your voice breathless. “You’re the older guy who tells me to get in the car. You drive me home in silence, but I fall asleep in the passenger seat, my head lolling against the window. So you carry me inside, and tuck me into.”

He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your pulse point, his lips pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Go to sleep, please,” he muttered.

“—but I wake up,” you continued, your fingers threading into his hair, “and you’re standing in the doorway. Watching me. And I’m so grateful. So vulnerable. So willing—spread out on the bed in nothing but his oversized shirt, legs parted just enough, looking up at you with those sleepy, trusting eyes. And then you just… take what you want.”

His whole body shuddered against yours. His hips pressed into your thigh, and you felt the unmistakable stir of interest against your skin. His cock, already half-hard from the images you’d painted, twitched as if responding to your words directly.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, the words rough, as he pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your neck.

You hummed, “I think you like it.”

He didn’t answer. He just pulled you tighter, his arm wrapping around your waist like a vise, his other hand sliding under your head to cup the base of your skull. He kissed your temple, then closed his eyes.

“No more talking,” he whispered.

You grinned against his chest. “Not even the professor one?” you teased. “Where I’m failing your class and you offer extra credit in the form of—“

“I will gag you.”

You snorted, the sound warm and muffled against his skin.

“That’s a yes, then.”

He groaned again, long and suffering. But you felt it, the curve of his lips pressed against your hair, the soft exhale of a smile he tried to hide.

And eventually you let him fall asleep. Wrapped around you, his body a shield of warmth and muscle, his breath evening out into the deep, slow rhythm of rest. His cock still twitched against your thigh every few minutes, a stubborn reminder of all the images you’d planted in his head.

You smiled into the dark, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and finally let yourself drift.

a/n | i fear i would let bucky barnes film me with an iphone 7 in a kitchen with bad lighting and call it art.

bucky taglist:

@thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @yvespecially @snake-in-a-flower-crown @mencantaleer @shellsbae00 @theewiselionessss @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @avivarougestan @xoxoloverb @superlegend216 @lori19 @sired4urmama @writing-for-marvel @thriving-n-jiving @ogoc-19 @jarnesbames108 @iheartfictionalmen1 @daddyslilbrat962

[chuckmademedothis]

oh. MY.

[elixirfromthestars]

No Rest For The Wicked

Pairing: Vigilante!Bucky x FBI Agent!Reader 

Summary:  When the notorious Brooklyn Ripper strikes again, you’re more determined than ever to finally catch him by any means necessary. Even if it means teaming up with your vigilante neighbor Bucky, who's wanted by the very institution you work for.

WC: 31.5k

Contains: crime show level of violence, themes, and action (think of criminal minds/law & order svu as examples) / murder mystery with a serial killer on the loose / friends to lovers / horror elements such as suspense / female reader / mutual pining / Bucky is your hot neighbor / mentions of homicide + case details / descriptions of fatal injuries, blood (nothing in extreme graphic detail) / stalking (not from Bucky) / carnival fun and frights / a bit of a slow burn / a third party has a crush on you, but it's not reciprocated / lots of cameos in the world building / fluff + angst / Alpine shenanigans / hurt + comfort / happy ending

a/n: It seems autumn comes around and suddenly I remember I'm a writer. 😅 This is my piece for the stan-o-ween collaboration! This fic was an idea two years in the making and I spent almost the entire month on it, so I am so excited that it's finally done and yours to read! 🥰 Thank you to all my lovely mutuals who encouraged me along the way while writing this 💖 and to my biggest cheerleader @lomlbuckybarnes 🥹💖 who without her, I'd probably chicken out about posting anything ever again. 🫶🏻 Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist || fic playlist || trick or treat event

“Here,” Special Agent Carol Danvers places a freshly brewed cup of coffee on your desk, its earthy aroma wafting through the air to settle within you with a promise of alleviation. “And before you say anything, don’t. Just drink it. You look like you need it,” She says as a matter of fact, leaving no room for argument. She leans against your desk, crossing her arms with her eyes trained on you like you're her next big case she has to investigate. You take a deep breath, whether to prepare for her lecture or because you need it, who knows? You can feel the radiating warmth of the mug on the back of your hand, tempting you to bask in its caffeinated contents. 

For the fourth time today, no less. 

“I really shouldn’t. I’ve had enough caffeine today to last me the whole week,” you say, and yet your hands betray you, wrapping around the ceramic FBI mug like it holds all the answers to what’s been ailing you for months. 

Carol looks at you with bemused pity, “When’s the last time you had proper sleep?” 

“Last night.”

“Liar.”

“I swear.” 

“Really?” Carol’s eyes drift to your hands, analyzing the way you stir your coffee—with a pen. 

You blink, taking a second to realize what you're doing, taken aback by the sight of your black pen in your coffee. It seems exhaustion had seeped its way so deep into your bones, you were no longer aware of your own actions.

“Okay… so maybe I haven’t been getting the best sleep lately,” you admit despite yourself, removing the pen from your coffee and throwing it away. Carol scoffs, "No kidding."

“I bet you haven't eaten anything either, have you?" Special Agent John Walker inserts himself into the conversation, placing a small bakery bag on your desk before he goes to sit in his—across from yours to the left. He gives you the same look Carol is giving you now, expressions filled with an equal amount of worry and sympathy. It makes you wonder if they show this much care to your other colleagues and friends.

“You two spoil me too much," you state, appreciatively grabbing the bakery bag and opening it to find a golden chocolate chip muffin inside. It's still warm, meaning John must have gotten it right before he came back to the bureau from being out in the field. First coffee and now this, were you that predictable or were your friends that perceptive?

"I promise I’m fine. You both have nothing to worry about. I'm just a bit overwhelmed with the case,” you explain, hoping to placate their worry, but the weariness in your voice does little to quell the concern both blondes feel for you.

And it's written all over their faces.

"I can help with the case if you need any," John offers, a sly smile on Carol's face as she exchanges a brief look with you. You hold back from rolling your eyes at her. For some time now, she has been convinced that John has feelings for you, but you always interpreted his kindness as just being a good friend. It's not like you can take his flirtations seriously when he's flirted with every single female agent in the bureau.

"Thanks John, but you and Lamar are busy enough with the Hydra investigation as it is," you reply, before adding, "Plus if Laura found out I had anyone else helping me with the case she'd kill me. Nat told me yesterday Clint's been moody ever since he found out his wife messages me more than him," your last statement pulls a laugh out of both blondes. "That does sound like Barton—both of them," John chimes in with amusement, easing the a bit of the tension from your shoulders.

Truth be told, it's not like you wouldn't have appreciated the help. A tiny part of you feels bad for turning John down, but unbeknownst to the entire bureau, you already have all the help you need.

Help they can never find out who you're getting it from.

"It's better Walker here doesn't help anyway. Hopkins would miss his work husband too much to let him work on the Brooklyn Ripper case with you," she teases John with a cheeky grin, making him roll his eyes at her.

"Lamar is not my work husband."

"No? Then why is Hopkins bringing you homemade breakfast and lunch every day? Not to mention, he's the one always driving you two around like you're his pretty little passenger princess."

"First of all, those meals are made by his wife and they're delicious. And second of all, what the hell is a passenger princess?"

You sigh internally—here they go again.

You tune out their bickering, used to the way they get under each other's skin and quarrel like siblings. Sometimes you wonder if they had been in another life.

Your mind goes back to the case at hand, The Brooklyn Ripper case. It's files strewn across your desk like pieces of a puzzle you have yet to solve. This case lies between your typical serial killer investigation and a potential connection to Hydra. A criminal organization tied to a litany of crimes including blackmailing influential figures, money laundering, exploitation, mysterious killings, and more. All with the end goal of moving their organization to the top and spreading their influence beyond New York.

Even if it means entertaining a serial killer in their ranks.

The Brooklyn Ripper has taken the life of seven women so far. The first was killed in September of last year, with NYPD detectives handling the investigation. They were in charge of the first four murders, but when the fourth woman was found to have been working for Hydra, they dropped the case and handed it over to the FBI. Anyone working in law enforcement knows how dangerous it is to cross Hydra. Not many would step up to go against them, unlike your boss Nick Fury, the director of the FBI. He has no issue making Hydra his enemy.

You've worked in the New York branch of the FBI for a few years in the counterterrorism and counterintelligence unit, before being transferred over to the criminal services unit eight months ago. You didn't mind the transfer due to budget cuts since you felt like you needed a change of routine anyway. And as fate would have it, out of all the cases that could have been assigned to you, you got The Brooklyn Ripper case along with Special Agent Laura Barton as your partner. Since you've been on the case, three more women have been killed, with all three women having connections to Hydra.

Laura left for maternity leave two months ago, and ever since then you have been investigating the case alone due to too many cases on priority and not enough staff to handle them. Out of seven women, one of them was murdered under your watch alone, and that's a fact that makes you lie awake at night.

"I still think the killer is the White Wolf," at the mention of that specific alias falling from Carol's lips you come back to the present. Your head snapping in her direction, eyes widening ever so slightly having been caught off guard by the name. She tilts her head at you, shaking it with fake disappointment, "You weren't even paying attention to me were you? You really should go home."

The reassuring smile you give her is not convincing at all, "No, no, I was listening. I just got lost in my thoughts for second, why did you bring up the White Wolf?"

"Because, he's obviously your killer."

"He might be one of the possible suspects, but I think others make more sense than him," you reply, composing yourself from your earlier slip up, "He's only ever taken credit for the deaths of higher officials with deep ties to Hydra. Rumlow still makes more sense than the White Wolf here. We don't even know who the guy is or if his background matches what we're looking for," you point out.

Your colleagues have no idea who the White Wolf is, but you do.

You had dinner with him last week.

"I hate to say it, but Danvers might be right," John cuts in, agreeing with Carol for the first time in his life. "He's the only possible suspect who's gone after Hydra apart from the FBI. The last few women have all worked for Hydra, it makes sense he'd go after them."

Carol can't believe what she's hearing, "Walker is making sense—the world is ending."

"You never give up, do you?"

"But he's never gone after women or children, why would he switch up now?" You ask, cutting into their exchange to play along in the conversation. You don't want them to think you're playing defense for the White Wolf.

John shrugs, "Guys like that, they snap," he snaps his fingers for emphasis, "Maybe something happened in his personal life and it set him off. Made him think he had to go further with his vigilante justice and started going after whoever he could get his hands on at Hydra," he theorizes, but everything he says is further from the truth of what the White Wolf stands for—of who Bucky really is.

"Maybe, but as a theory it wouldn't explain the motives for the first three women who were never found to be connected to Hydra at all. In the end, none of the suspects make complete sense," you say, sighing in solemn displeasure.

"Look, your main suspect is still Brock Rumlow—Hydra's guard dog. Lamar and I, we're working hard on the Hydra case, but that doesn't mean we can't find the time to help you out with something. Our cases are most likely connected, so we could always help enough to get some of the weight off your shoulders," John offers again, a soft genuineness to his voice that most don't experience often from him. You give him a small appreciative smile, "Thanks, John. I'll keep that in mind."

He returns the smile before looking at the notification that pops up on his phone. "Crap, I'm gonna be late," he gets up from his chair, putting the files on his desk into one pile, "Sorry for ending the conversation here ladies, I gotta go. You two have a good night." And with that, John packs up the last of his stuff and he's gone.

"Jealous?"

You frown at the question, completely lost as to why Carol would ask you that and why she's smirking at you. "Jealous? Of what?" The pure confusion on your face has Carol letting out a breathless laugh, "You really weren't paying attention, huh? John's going out on a date tonight."

You snort, "Oh? When is he not?"

"So you are jealous…"

You roll your eyes at her attempt to tease you, "Carol. No. John is my friend and he's nice and all, but you know I don't date divorced men—it's too messy."

She shrugs, taking a few steps forward to take a seat on his desk. Oh, if only John could see her now. "Yeah, but you know I'm right when I say he likes you." You look at her like she's said possibly the dumbest thing you've ever heard, "Carol, please be serious. John has flirted with every single female agent in the bureau. Well, except for you, but only because you scare him."

Carol snickers in delight, "That's true. And it's not like he hasn't gone after some of our friends. I still cringe every time I think about how he fumbled that dinner date with Ava," you both grimace at the reminder, "But god, its kind of pathetic how many rebound dates he's gone on that have gone nowhere. He needs to be stopped for the sake of all women in New York," she can't help but take a jab at him even when he's not around.

"Okay, that's enough about John. How's the Punisher case going?" She thankfully takes your cue to move the conversation along, and begins updating you on her investigation. You do your best to keep up as you organize the files in front of you, but truthfully, it's all going in one ear and out the other.

"You know I can tell when you're not paying attention to me, right? I just act like I don't," she calls you out with mirth, you have the decency to be sheepish, "Sorry…"

She shakes her head softly, speaking to you in a tone only a big sister would use, "Don't be, just go home. Take a day off if you can. The case will still be here tomorrow."

"So will the killer."

She can't deny that, "He will, but that's just how things are in this line of work. You take one down and another one pops up tomorrow. There's not much we can do about it—that's just the way the world is." What Carol says may be true, but you don't want to dwell on such harsh realities. Not when it'll make you spiral more into a darker hole than the case already has you in.

Maybe it is time for you to call it a day.

"Are you heading home too?" You ask her as you start to gather your belongings. She nods, the relief she feels at you finally deciding to go home evident in the way her demeanor changes. "I am, but I'm gonna head over to tech first and see if Stark can figure out what's going on with my access ID. This thing only works half the time and I'm sick of it. I think I need to get it replaced."

You grab your messenger bag in one hand and the small bakery bag in the other, "If you're seeing Stark then let's hope he thinks a new ID is in the budget," you jest, causing her to groan. "God, don't say that. Stark and his stupid budget will be the death of me." You laugh, wishing her luck talking to Stark before you're off as well.

Autumn brings in the beginning of change. Trees shed their leaves, going from forest greens to vibrant shades of auburn, blanketing the ground and blowing in the wind like they're searching for their final resting place. The chill in the air invites you to wear your coziest sweaters and visit your local shops to try anything with cinnamon, maple, or pumpkin spice to really welcome the season in.

Tonight, however, the breeze you feel when you step out of your car is icy and sinister in a way that makes you do a triple take of your surroundings. It has you guarding your bag close to your body and locking your car twice. A season that used to bring you a serene comfort is now cold and unforgiving like the end of life.

The wisps of the wind curl around your body, clinging to you as you step into your apartment building. You give a small yet polite greeting to the property manager's father, Yori. A sweet old man who sits at the front desk all day playing crossword puzzles or watching baseball games on a small television behind the desk. A cheerful smile spreads across his face as he returns the greeting. Thankfully, he's engrossed in a Yankees game or he would have pulled you in for a conversation already.

The sound of a crunching leaf that's stuck on the sole of your shoe follows you into the elevator and to the third floor. The clinking of your keys joins it, echoing down the hallway as you walk to your apartment. You're just about to insert your key when the door to the apartment next to yours opens, a meow you can only describe as a hello follows it.

It's your neighbors, Bucky and Alpine.

"Hey you two," you greet them warmly, appreciating the sight of your very handsome and very muscular neighbor holding his cat in his arms like she were something precious and delicate. The sight of him in his navy Henley is enough to turn your night around for the better.

"Hey," Bucky starts, but then Alpine interrupts him by hopping out of his arms and prancing her way to you. She rubs her soft fur against your legs, before pawing at them—her way of saying she wants you to hold her.

You laugh softly, placing your messenger bag on the floor against your door and crouching down to pick her up. You stand with her cradled in your arms as careful as Bucky did in his. Alpine immediately nuzzles into them, letting out a content purr.

Bucky looks at the two of you in a way that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. "She missed you. Haven't seen much of you lately," he points out, voicing only half a truth. What he really wants to say is he missed you, but he'll let that truth hide in the affection of his expression.

You give Alpine a gentle head scratch, your smile turning softer, "I missed her too—and her dad," you add, not being able to hide it like Bucky can. The affection in his eyes only grows fonder at your words.

"Sorry I haven't visited lately. This case has a hold on me and I'm not sure it's going to let go of me any time soon," you say honestly, holding Alpine just a little tighter. Bucky notices, stepping closer to get a good look at you. There's no hiding the tiredness that seems to stick to every part of you like it's a second skin. "I thought so. You dedicate yourself to your job more than others, and it's admirable. But you have to take time to take care of yourself, doll," He reminds you and you find yourself exhaling a little harder, "You're not the first person to tell me something like that today. I try, but it doesn't feel right focusing on anything else when he can strike at any point again."

Bucky searches your eyes as if they hold the answer to how he can get through your stubbornness, "There's a difference between working hard and overworking yourself."

You have nothing to say to that.

Bucky leans down, grabbing your bag and nodding toward his door. "Let me make you dinner. Something tells me you haven't had a proper meal in days." As if on cue, your stomach lets out a grumble loud enough to reach your ears. Bucky bites his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, sparing you further embarrassment by walking back to his apartment and holding the door open for you. You follow him inside with ease, having been at his place enough times to consider it a second home.

"I'll have you know I had a muffin today, and like four cups of coffee," you mumble out that last part, feeling small at the thought of Bucky being able to read you so closely—like there was nothing you could ever hide from him. He lets out a sound between a huff and a chuckle, "Exactly my point. None of that is a proper meal," he places your bag on the couch in the living room, "You should get some rest while I finish making dinner." You open your mouth with a question on your mind, but he narrows his eyes like he knows exactly what you're about to ask, "No talking of the case right now. Not until after dinner."

"But I want to know—" he cuts you off by shaking his head, "I know what you're going to ask, and no—I haven't found any new leads in any of the Hydra communications and their databases haven't been updated. There's nothing new since last month's murder. Now sit," he insists gently, and this time you listen. He makes his way to the kitchen, and you plop down onto the couch, settling comfortably against the cushions while Alpine makes herself comfortable on top of you. There's a part of you that wants to stay awake and pay more attention to Alpine, but as soon as your body sinks into the couch, you doze off, letting the world around you disappear.

Bucky looks through what he has in his cupboards and refrigerator, deciding on making a simple Alfredo pasta. He calls out your name, wanting to know if that's something you'd want to eat, but when he hears no response, he strolls over to check on you. He sees you fast asleep with Alpine in your arms and he can't help the warmth that grows within his chest at seeing you snuggled up in his home like this. He reaches over to the armchair and grabs a throw blanket—the red and black plaid one you gifted him. He covers you with it, gently tucking both you and Alpine in.

There's a lightness to his step when he goes back to the kitchen. He takes his time making dinner, all with a lingering smile on his face. If anyone had told him before he met you he would be granted these moments of peace—of normality from his somewhat unconventional life—he wouldn't have believed them. It seems like it was just yesterday when he was still in the clutches of Hydra, doing their dirty work as the Winter Soldier to save his family from a fate far worse than death.

And all for what? In the end he escaped, but at the cost of his former life. Disappearing from Hydra's traces and distancing himself from his family and friends for their safety. Years of never staying in one place for more than a month, living alone across the country on the run—all to come back to New York to seek revenge on the organization that took everything from him.

He never made a place a home. And then over a year and a half ago he moved here, thinking it would be a temporary place to set some of his plans into motion, but staying here ultimately led him to Alpine and you.

Alpine, a scrawny little kitten he found in an alley, under the pouring rain in a unforgiving city. Left to fend for herself—she reminded him of himself in a way.

You, his next door neighbor with a heart of gold and a smile that never fails to make him weak in the knees. You're everything good in this world he wishes he felt he deserved.

There's nothing he wouldn't do to keep this new life—this fresh start—safe and sound.

When dinner is ready, Bucky reluctantly walks over to you, crouching down to softy nudge your shoulder. As much as he wants to let you sleep, he knows you need to eat something before you go to bed for the night. After a few nudges, your eyes slowly blink awake, but as the scent of dinner drifts your way you perk up, causing Bucky to chuckle fondly at the sight. Alpine yawns from where she lays across your torso, standing on her paws and stretching as she awakens from her beauty sleep.

"Come on, doll. Didn't wanna wake you, but dinner's ready."

You yawn as you get up from the couch, giving your body a good stretch before you follow Bucky to the kitchen table where there's already two delicious bowls of pasta waiting. Bucky pulls out the chair for you and you utter a dozy thank you before digging into the plate in front of you.

You hum in satisfaction at the taste, "Have I ever told you, you could make it as a personal chef?" Bucky takes a seat beside you, practically preening at the way you compliment his cooking. "No, but it wouldn't work out anyway for me. I don't like cooking for other people."

You frown, taking another bite of pasta, "But you cook for me." He grins, a twinkle in his eye like he knows something you don't, "You're not just people to me, doll. You should know that by now." His words have your heart fluttering in your chest in a way only Bucky ever seems to make it. You shove another bite of food into your mouth, anything to preoccupy yourself from thinking too deep and asking him what he means by that.

You don't need to have that answered right now.

Bucky can tell you're holding back, but he doesn't pry—just smiles to himself and continues eating beside you. Your curious nature will get the better of you soon enough, and Bucky is a patient man. He can wait until you're ready to discuss this.

Whatever this is.

There's a comforting silence that falls between you, only interrupted once by the little tune of Alpine's automatic feeder signaling her food is ready. The silence continues until it stretches to the point you feel like breaking it.

"We talked about you at the bureau today," you mention, catching Bucky's attention.

"Oh?" He mutters out between bites, his tone in that one syllable indicating he's wary of where this conversation is going. You know he said not to talk about the case, but this surely doesn't count, right?

"Yeah, my coworkers think that you—the White Wolf—are the Brooklyn Ripper," you say, words laced with an undertone of mirth at such a inconceivable thought. Bucky on the other hand reacts differently to how you thought he would. He finishes his bite, his jaw tensing like it's hard to swallow.

"Do you?" he asks, the air between you shifting into something heavy. You adamantly shake your head, upset that he even felt he had to ask, "Of course not. I'm pretty sure I've been your alibi for almost every victim, Bucky," you let out what can only be described as an awkward attempt to laugh while trying to lighten the mood, but he's looking at you like what you say next could break him.

"But if you hadn't been… Would you believe that I was the killer? That I was capable of that?" He holds his breath waiting for your answer. The weight of what he's asking settles itself deep in your heart. He's asking you if you would ever believe him to be a cold-blooded killer. Someone who kills for the sake of it and not with a morally just reason behind it. Bucky's past is no secret to you. He's been open and honest about everything from the moment you gained his trust. You would never take that for granted by believing him to be someone as cruel and ruthless like the Brooklyn Ripper.

You lock gazes with Bucky, needing him to clearly see the truth in your heart, "No. I would never think that of you, Bucky. I swear." The conviction in your voice eases the fear in Bucky's heart, feeling like he can breath again. He finds solace in the color of your eyes, and after a moment, the air shifts back to something comfortable—familiar.

"Why was I even brought up in the first place?" He wonders, and you wish you would've paid attention earlier to give him an exact answer, "I'm not sure. My mind was elsewhere when Carol and John were talking. It wasn't until they mentioned you that I started to listen. I think they were throwing around ideas for suspects since Rumlow isn't talking."

"Still? Let me guess, Pierce keeps covering his ass?"

"More like sending us on a witch hunt every time we want to ask a question or collect a piece of evidence. He impedes every step of the case with legal jargon."

He grunts, having firsthand knowledge of how Alexander Pierce operates, "Just say the word and I'll delete all the files on his computer—for fun."

"You wouldn't."

"If you asked me to I would."

The temptation to make Pierce's life a bit harder is difficult to brush off, "I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I'm also not going to tell you what not to do." The mischief that makes its way to his face is impossible to miss.

You're halfway through the pasta in your bowl when you've had enough of the conversations involving you, "Anyway, enough about my work, anything new in yours?"

"Not really. Same old boring I.T. stuff," he waves it off like it's not even worth mentioning.

"How's Sam?"

"Still a pain in my ass."

You playfully bump his shoulder with yours, "Stop it, he's not that bad," his face deadpans at your defense of his coworker, "Sam's nice. He gave me the recipe to his grandma's pecan pie when he came over for my birthday dinner."

"Yeah, cause he's a kiss ass," he grouses, nose scrunched up in annoyance. You giggle, watching as Alpine jumps onto Bucky's lap, her head butting his abdomen in an attempt to ease her dad's grumpiness.

The bubble of serenity surrounding you bursts at the sharp and sudden sound of your ringtone. Your stomach lurches with a sense of dread, losing all its appetite. You know there's only one person that can be calling this late.

Bucky utters your name like a silent plea for you to ignore the call and go back to how you were, but you're not listening. You're already up from your seat when he says it, walking over to your bag, and picking up the phone.

"The Brooklyn Ripper struck again."

And just like that, your night takes a turn for the worst.

Bucky feels helpless sitting at the kitchen table, watching as your face falls to something grave as Fury relates to you the details of everything he knows about the most recent victim. There's not much he knows, so he's sending you the location of the crime scene for you to investigate.

The call is over before you know it. You start packing your stuff, needing to head out to the scene of the crime as soon as possible.

"I have to go. There's been another murder."

"Let me go with," Bucky knows you'll turn him down, but he offers anyway. The wooden chair scrapes against the kitchen floor when he stands up, striding over to where you're standing. He knows there's nothing he can say to make the situation better, but at least he can try to do something—be helpful.

You shake your head, looking over at him with eyes that say I wish you could, "It's not a good idea, Bucky. The White Wolf is still on the suspect list and as long as Hydra is connected in some way, you'd only be putting yourself at risk for exposure." Against his better judgment, he pushes the topic, "I don't care if Hydra finds out that I'm in the city or if the FBI figures out who I am. I only care that you're safe."

You swallow hard, the depth of what he's saying not getting lost on you. You need him to understand the sentiment is mutual, "Bucky, I would never forgive myself if you were found out because of me. I care about your safety too and I'm not letting you fall back into the clutches of Hydra for my sake," you stand firm on your decision, "Let's just stick to what we usually do. I go out into the field and you stay here listening in on the Hydra communications and checking the databases for all the information on the victim," you instruct, leaving no room for argument. He had no choice but to listen.

"I don't like this," he says like it's painful to watch you go. "I know, and I'm sorry, but that's just the way things have to go," you remind him solemnly, not able to look him in the eye while heading towards the door. Two bowls of unfinished dinner going cold at the kitchen table.

Alpine meows beside Bucky almost as if to say goodbye or stay, you weren't sure. You couldn't meet her eyes either.

"See you later, Buck."

"See you."

The door clicks shut behind you.

It take you about twenty minutes to arrive at the crime scene. You mask your face with indifference as you walk past the vultures who call themselves the media. It's like at the first spill of blood they can scent it in the air—scrambling to get a headline instead of seeing it for what it is.

Someone has lost their life today in a brutal way. The least the media could do is have the decency to offer the family privacy and the chance to find out the devastating news from the proper channels and not through a social media post.

You ignore their existence, eyes darting to the buildings surrounding the crime scene to try and locate any cameras. The Brooklyn Ripper is smart enough to avoid them, usually placing the bodies in blind spots if there are any. He always kills the victim in one location and then drops it in another, meticulously staging it so the only clues you find are in the victim's autopsy.

If there are any camera's around, Bucky is probably looking through them right now. You sent him the location Fury gave you as soon as you got into your car. He's probably sulking as he watches from afar instead of at your side. You feel a strange sense of comfort wash over you at the thought of Bucky watching your back through the cameras. It helps knowing there's someone looking out for you with a case this severe on your hands. You hope Bucky understands you look out for him too—in your own way.

You pass by the buzz of local news station reporters, and a small crowd of people forming at the sight of law enforcement. You flash your badge to the NYPD officer keeping the reporters at bay, and he lets you pass the yellow crime scene tape. Like all the other crime scenes, nothing seems to be special about this one for the killer to have picked it. It's your average looking alley, tucked ominously between scattered operating businesses on the almost vacant street. It's late enough that most businesses are closed and the streetlights offer but a sliver of light to enter. There's a metallic bleach like scent that hits you almost at the same time that the foul odor of the garbage from the bins does. It's potent enough to be aware of it, but not enough to bother you. You've smelled worse in this line of work.

You carefully make your way over to the black tarp covering the victim's body. The chief medical examiner, Dr.Helen Cho, is discussing something with one of the members of the crime scene unit when you approach. There's about a handful of the unit here collecting all the evidence they can find.

You know if the presence of Dr.Cho was warranted, then there's no doubt who the culprit of this murder is.

"Dr.Cho, did she have the markings?" you inquire, cutting straight to the point. Dr.Cho nods grimly, beckoning you to come and see for yourself. "An off duty officer found her. He was in a drunken stupor when he stumbled his way out of the bar from a few doors down and ended up here. He claims to have sobered up when he saw the body." She hands you a pair of evidence gloves. You slip them on, bracing yourself for what you're going to find.

"He called the FBI tip line when he saw her neck," Dr.Cho crouches down to carefully lift the tarp from the victim's face. You follow suit, crouching down beside her to get a better look. At first glance you notice the way she's laying in a sleeping beauty pose, no blood on her clothes or hair. She looks like she was heading somewhere nice, having no idea of the end that was awaiting her. But most damning of all is the wound on her neck, fitting the Brooklyn Ripper's M.O..

There was an end to end gash along the front of her neck that would indicate it was sliced open. However, when you look closer you can see the swelling and faintest marks of bruising underneath the skin of the wound. A slight deformity that Dr.Cho is sure to conclude happened prior to the slicing. A slice that was clean and precise, with little blood around it. It wasn't done in the heat of the moment or with abruptness. It was done because he needed to do it, not because he wanted to. Without a shadow of a doubt when the victim is transported for an autopsy, Dr.Cho will find she died of a broken neck.

The slicing was done as a cover up.

"I'm confident enough to say the Brooklyn Ripper did this," you conclude solemnly, scanning the alley as Dr.Cho covers the victim again. "Let me guess, there's no evidence the victim was murdered here, is there?" Dr.Cho shakes her head, lips pursing at the lack of evidence. "There are no blood splatters, footprints, or any other indicators that anyone else had been here besides her. The only organic matter we have apart from the trash in the bins is the vomit from the officer who found her body. Other than that, everything else is staged as usual. The victim was laid on the ground in a sleeping beauty pose with her belongings tucked at her side. Her purse seems to have everything in it, but the phone is missing, same as the other victims."

After Dr.Cho recaps the evidence, you ask for the purse. Once you have it you search it and find a few packs of gum, lip gloss, a pocket mirror, some miscellaneous receipts and bits of trash, and what you were looking for—her wallet. You take it out, reading over her ID for the basic information.

Beth Johnson, twenty eight, born on October 10th—her birthday had been last Friday.

You swallow the lump in your throat with a regret you're in no place to have.

Inside the wallet you find a few dollar bills, a debit card and a couple credit cards, but what stands out to you most are two things tucked away behind her ID.

The first item, a polaroid picture of the victim hugging a child in her arms. They share the same smile and fluff of blonde hair. The words Toby's fourth birthday, are written on it in blue marker.

The second item, Alexander Pierce's business card.

You waste no time calling Fury after that, informing him of all the details you knew so far. This was now the second woman to die under your watch, and the eighth woman the Brooklyn Ripper has taken overall. You weren't going to drag your feet in this investigation.

Fury was livid. He hated feeling like someone got the upper hand on him and this war with Hydra was driving him up the wall. He made it clear he wanted you back at the bureau as soon as possible. He was going to call in John and Lamar for an emergency conference and he would be seriously considering formally connecting both the Hydra and Brooklyn Ripper cases once and for all. There's too much overlapping evidence for him to not start connecting them.

You let Fury know you'd be there as soon as you were done at the crime scene before hanging up the call. You take a picture of the victim's ID and the polaroid in case it comes in handy later. You then hand all the victim's belongings to the crime scene unit to be put away in evidence bags.

You step away from the crime scene, letting the crime scene unit finish their job without you hovering. You converse with a couple of the NYPD officers to help them locate the next of kin to deliver them the tragic news. It wasn't until it was absolutely certain that you weren't needed that you walk back to your car, pass the police tape and away from the reporters yelling at you for a chance at an interview.

Your hand grips the handle of the driver's side door tightly, your heart and mind an entangled mess of emotions, blurring the lines between personal and professional. It was never this complicated when you worked in counterterrorism. It was second nature to detach yourself in that unit, but in this one? You can't avoid it.

Before you step into your car, it starts to drizzle. You look up at the night sky and manage to spot a traffic camera on a streetlight.

The sight of it brings you comfort.

"You seem to conveniently neglect the decision my client has made to remain silent over these preposterous accusations."

"I recognize the decision, but given that it's a stupid ass decision—I've elected to ignore it."

Nick Fury and Alexander Pierce have been going at it for over half an hour, not letting Brock Rumlow get a word in—not that Pierce ever does anyway. He sits in the metal folding chair opposite you in the interrogation room, eyes glued to the table. His shoulders droop like he's about to fall asleep and his face is resting in a look that can only be described as pure boredom.

You've been studying him the entire time you've been in here, your role as the good cop meant you couldn't push and get on their bad side like Fury was doing now. But there's only so much rapport building you can take until you eventually break. Having to refrain from spilling all the questions and accusations you keep behind tightly sealed lips can only hold for so long.

There's a knock at the door that breaks Fury from his rant. He strides over to the door, and Rumlow takes this brief moment without him to make eye contact with you. It's only for a split second, but the challenge you saw there was unmissable.

He's daring you to make a move—to show your hand. He's been in plenty of interrogation rooms with you to know you're both tired of this game.

You want to get to the truth.

Special Agent Lamar Hopkins is on the other side of the door, discussing something with Fury and handing him a folder with what you assume is evidence from the case against Hydra. Pierce whispers something in Rumlow's ear while Fury shuts the door. He makes his way back to your side, opens the evidence folder, and plasters a multitude of pictures on the table for everyone to see.

It's pictures of Rumlow and the victim, all taken from seemingly harmless and innocent interactions. Rumlow helping her into a car, passing by her at a nightclub, leading her into an office, dropping her off at home, and many more. There's nothing necessarily incriminating in them, but the twitch in Rumlow's jaw is a blatant tell this struck a nerve with him.

"We can go in circles all damn day if you want, but I'm more interested in what the hell you were doing being seen with the victim so many damn times. And these pictures, they're just from this month," Fury drops another two dozen pictures on the table, "these are from the last four months."

Pierce scoffs, swiping his hand in the air in dismissal of the evidence, "This is ridiculous. My client can be seen with all employees at some point on any given day, this doesn't prove anything. This is a reach and you know it." Fury slams his hand on the desk, "Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it seems to me like she's another woman who was last seen with your client that ends up dead." The brash accusation cuts through the tension like a knife, and you can tell it's testing Pierce's patience on another level.

But more than anything, it severs your willingness to continue the good cop bad cop play.

"Brock, if you didn't do this, then I need you to help us here. Look at her," you take out your phone, having had enough of this endless back and forth. All eyes are on you as you slide the picture of the victim and her son in front of Rumlow. He looks down at it, but you get no reaction from him at the photo.

"Beth, she had a son, Toby. I'm sure you already knew that, maybe even knew him. Last Friday, she and her family celebrated her twenty eighth birthday, and now she's gone. In a few hours, Toby will wake up and ask his grandparents where his mother is, and they won't know what to say to him. It'll be awhile before he understands his mom is gone and never coming back. She won't be there for his future birthdays, she won't be taking him trick or treating on Halloween, having dinner with him at Thanksgiving or Christmas. When the new year comes in, he'll have to welcome it without her," Rumlow bites the inside of his cheek—this is good, you got him to react. "I don't care about what the FBI wants. I just care about him," you point to little Toby in the picture, "I care about giving him answers and catching the bastard who took his mom away from him." There's a conviction to your voice that clearly drives the message home.

For once, Rumlow beats Pierce to speak.

"You ain't got to worry about the kid. She was one of us, we take care of our own—including him," Rumlow's voice is rough with disuse, but at the very least you finally got him talking. You plead with your eyes, leaning in as a calculated sign of trust, "But he still deserves answers. I know there's something you could tell me that'll help me here." Rumlow looks at you with something that's close to pity, "Sorry, honey, don't know anything that could help. And as for finding the guy, I'm sure you're more than capable of it." He grins smugly, like he's doing you a favor with the half compliment. Irritation make its way up your body, hands eager to take action, but you can't. Instead, you give Rumlow a look like you're disappointed in him, but your eyes tell the full story. And his, it's like they're taunting you with the words cut the bullshit. It's clear you don't trust each other. Everything either of you do or say is done with ulterior motives.

Neither of you will get the full truth from each other any time soon.

"Alright, are we done here?" Pierce spits out in indignation, but Fury mocks him with an ardent laugh. "Not even close. You might as well start getting comfortable in here. Excuse us for a moment." With those parting words, Fury escorts you out of the interrogation room. Outside, John and Lamar stand on the other side of the two way mirror, having been listening in the whole time.

There's only a brief acknowledgment between you with an exchange of glances before Fury starts speaking. "I want you three to go to the main conference room and start operating as if we're connecting the Brooklyn Ripper case and the Hydra one. Agent Hill has already supplied it with with the evidence files from both cases. There's a few protocols I have to follow before I can officially connect them, but when I'm done I want you two," he points to John and Lamar, "to take a round interrogating Rumlow. You have a deeper rapport with those two, so I'll be counting on you both to get something useful out of them. In the meantime, exchange notes to prepare for the interrogation, and you," Fury turns to you, "as soon as you're done filling Hopkins and Walker in on your case—go home. You've done a great job tonight, but I'll need you rested and ready tomorrow for what comes next." You know better than to argue with him, so you bite your tongue and reply with a clear, "Yes, sir."

He turns and walks off, leaving you three to head to the conference room.

"What a way to end our Monday, right?" Lamar breaks the silence between you awkwardly. You let out an uncomfortable sound you try to pass for a broken laugh, "Yeah, you could say that…" You know he means well by the question, but it doesn't sit right in the space between you, falling flat.

"This didn't ruin any plans did it?" John cuts in curiously, directing his question at you, disrupting the discomfort in the air. You shake your head, a pang in your chest when you think about Bucky watching you leave. "Just dinner," you say it with a somberness you hadn't intended, so you quickly add, "but I'm sure you're more disappointed about your date being cut short. And I bet Mrs.Hopkins isn't any happier about Lamar getting called back to work." Your last statement brings out a small chuckle out of both men, and the sheepish expression on Lamar's face is confirmation enough that you're right.

"My date wasn't really going well, so I don't mind being called in. I don't think she'll be calling back for another, so I appreciate work keeping me busy," John admits, voice laced with self deprecation as you enter the main conference room. The table in the middle already stacked with files from both cases, just like Fury had said. You take a seat next to John when Lamar mutters something about a delivery and walks back out. You feel sympathy for your friend, the dating scene is hard enough, you can't imagine what it must be like navigating it as a divorced father.

Before you can second guess yourself, you place a comforting hand on his shoulder, he meets your eyes at the gesture, "Hey, don't let it get to you. I don't think many of us have a good track record with dating. I mean I think it comes with the job. I'm sure the right woman for you is right around the corner." Your words seem to strike a chord with him, the corner of his lip tugging, "Thanks. I'm sure she is."

He doesn't look away from you when he says that.

Before you can fully wrap your head around any deeper meanings, Lamar walks in with a pizza box in his hands. The strong scent of pepperoni pizza distracts you, your hand falling from John's shoulder like it never belonged there in the first place. Lamar is none the wiser, putting the pizza box in the center of the table and sitting across from both of you.

"I thought we'd need it for the long night ahead of us—coffee's already brewing in the break room," Lamar adds and you both utter a thank you. You try to brush off whatever just happened, even though a strange air lingers in the space between you. Even. Carol's voice echoes in the back of your head with a boisterous I told you so.

She's going to have a field day with this when you tell her.

There's an orange piece of paper that suddenly slips off the pizza box when Lamar opens it. You reach for it out of reflex, the big bold letters in black contrasting with the pumpkin orange background catching your eye.

FOR TWO WEEKS ONLY—THE CARNIVAL OF TERROR IS BACK IN THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS.

"My oldest loved going last year. I'm taking the whole family again this year," Lamar comments when he notices you reading the flyer. The nostalgia hits you hard, "How nice. I remember when my dad used to take me to these things when I was little. Those memories stick with you forever." You have to pull yourself back from drowning in a sea of memories you'll get lost in. From the past, from memories you used to hold close to your heart, to happier moments you used to give yourself the grace to experience.

To the person you used to be before this case ever landed in your hands.

You shake those thoughts away, hands gravitating to grab your phone. You're not sure what for at first, not until you open your text messages and click on your conversation with Bucky. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, typing up a quick text letting him know you'll be staying at the bureau for a bit. You're not sure what time you'll be getting out of here and you'd hate to have him waiting around for you. His response comes not even a minute later.

Okay, doll. Let me know if you need anything.

Will do. Goodnight, Bucky. Give Alpine a goodnight kiss from me. <3

What about mine? :(

You can't hold back the smile that forms after reading that text.

Have Alpine give it to you for me x

Fine. But yours would have been better. Goodnight.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

Lamar's question makes your head break away from your phone, mouth slightly parted as you blink at him. "What?" A boyish grin appears on his face, eyes crinkling like he's discovered a secret, "Your boyfriend. That's who you're texting, right? No one smiles at their phone like that unless it's someone special on the other end." You find yourself unsure of how to respond because while Bucky may not be your boyfriend, it feels wrong to deny he isn't someone special to you.

Lamar takes your silence as a yes.

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, harshly clearing his throat, "I think that's enough small talk, we should focus on the case," his words slash through the silence, causing you to nod in agreement. You need to focus on what you're supposed to be doing—updating these two on everything you know about the Brooklyn Ripper case, so they can go back to interrogate Brock Rumlow.

It's gonna be a long night.

The next morning when you wake up, the sun is at its highest point in the sky. You manage to find the energy to slip out of bed and into the shower. The water cascades down your body in an attempt to wake you, but it does little to help. You continue your morning routine, nevertheless, putting on a hoodie and pajama bottoms before you make your way to the kitchen. Much to the dismay of the rumble in your stomach, your fridge is empty of everything—even leftovers. You also can't remember the last time you went grocery shopping.

Just as you've resigned yourself to brew a batch of instant coffee for breakfast, there's a knock on your door that stops you. On the other side is Bucky with containers of food in his hands.

"Good morning," you greet him with a lazy smile, trying not to make it obvious you're staring at the way his muscles strain against his workout shirt. He chuckles, eyes raking over your hoodie with a twinkle in them, "Good afternoon, doll. I brought over some leftover pasta from yesterday. Thought you'd be hungry and have no food in your fridge."

You step aside to welcome him in, one word in particular catching your attention, "Afternoon? Wait, how did you know I was awake?"

"Thin walls," he shrugs like that explains everything, "Didn't hear anything all morning, so I figured you slept in." He looks at your hoodie again, "Is that my hoodie?"

You still, looking down at the dark gray hoodie on your body. You know it's not yours, but you're in no mood to give it back, "No." You don't sound convincing, and the gleam in his eyes tells you he's thoroughly enjoying this. You cross your arms, dropping the subject all together, "There's no way I slept in, I don't do that."

You glance behind Bucky at the clock on the wall. It's already noon.

You overslept.

He gently taps your nose to get your attention before you start worrying about what you missed, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Oversleeping is not the end of the world. Just let your boss know what's going on while I get lunch ready, okay?" He heads over to your kitchen like he belongs in that space, the lingering comfort of his gentle tone stays with you as you walk to your room to grab your phone. You notice you have a couple missed calls from Carol, so you send her a quick text before sending Fury an apology and letting him know you'll be at the bureau later. Almost immediately he tells you there's no need, John and Lamar have already done the interview with Beth's parents and are currently following leads from it. So instead he orders you to continue with the routine protocol you follow after the victim's family has been interviewed.

Meaning, it's time for the stakeout.

You head back to the kitchen, a bowl of pasta already waiting for you. You sit on a stool at the kitchen island and Bucky joins you on the stool beside you. "Care to fill me in on last night?" He asks and you do, filling him in on the investigation, the victim, the interrogation with Rumlow and Pierce, and your conference with John and Lamar—excluding the part where you might've lead them to believe Bucky is your boyfriend.

You didn't feel that was necessary to include.

"So I guess I'll have to start co-investigating the Brooklyn Ripper case with the Hydra one," you reiterate, looking down at the bowl of pasta like it held answers to the gut feeling you couldn't shake off.

"You don't seem happy about that," Bucky points out, and you sigh, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. "It's not that I'm not happy about it. Something just doesn't feel right," you can't find the exact words to describe what about it feels wrong. You feel like you're missing a big piece of the puzzle—maybe one of the most crucial pieces—and not being able to pinpoint it is eating away at you.

"I think I know what you mean. Last night, I went through all of Hydra's communications, but the only time the case was mentioned was when they took in Brock for questioning," Bucky mentions while you move the pasta in your bowl absentmindedly before you reply. "I don't doubt he's done some terrible things. I can see it in his eyes—the look of someone who could care less who lives or dies as long as he gets paid enough to do it. But I don't think he did this. If it is someone at Hydra doing this—it's not him."

Bucky nods in agreement, "Brock's been an asshole since the day I met him, but Hydra wouldn't make their golden boy do this. They'd have someone else do it. Like one of the other Winter Soldiers they recruited when I left." The reminder tastes like acid on his tongue, his jaw clenches, eyes glossing over with the ghosts of his past. Your hand reaches out to gently hold his wrist, the metal cold to your touch and yet it brings him the kind of warmth only you seem to provide him.

"Maybe," you give his wrist a light squeeze, he turns his metal hand over to hold yours, like he needs it to anchor him, "but I have a feeling no matter who the suspect is, the answer lies with the first three women the Brooklyn Ripper killed. The ones without any connections to Hydra."

"The ones the NYPD screwed up embarrassingly?"

"Yeah, those. It was like they had never worked a homicide before. By the time me and Laura were put on the case none of the families wanted to talk, so Fury instructed us to prioritize the most recent victims instead. But even those victims don't make complete sense. They all worked for Hydra, sure, but in different sections for different people—like they were chosen at random. An assistant, an exotic dancer, a housekeeper, a working girl, and the most recent, a club waitress. Asking anyone at Hydra is a dead end, the families won't talk to us, and we always end up with very little to go on. It just feels like were on a wild goose chase while that bastard chooses his next victim," this time Bucky gives your hand a steady squeeze when your frustration gets the better of you.

"Hey, we're gonna get this guy. He might be smart at covering up his tracks, but he's bound to slip up—they always do. And when he does, we'll catch it and get him. Don't forget we're a team, doll. The killer doesn't know you have a Hydra expert on your side, and that is your upper hand," his little pep talk does wonders to reignite that spark of hope in you.

"Let's hope he slips up sooner rather than later," you add before looking at your phone. It's almost time.

"Thanks for lunch, Bucky. I don't mean to cut this short, but I gotta get going."

"Are you heading to the bureau?"

You shake your head, "No, I'm heading out to do a stakeout. Gotta get some pictures for evidence, some protocol Fury wants me to follow. It's usually John and Lamar that go, but they're busy following some leads so Fury's sent me instead." Bucky nods, getting up from the stool, "I'm coming with." You open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head firmly, "Nothing you say will make me back down from this one. I couldn't be there yesterday, but there's no reason I can't be in the car with you this time."

He's right, there really is no issue with him coming with you this time, and truthfully you feel safer knowing he'd be there.

"Fine. But this is my case, so you follow my lead, alright?"

A cheeky grin grows on his stupidly handsome face, "Yes, ma'am."

"I can't believe you brought Alpine along," you laugh incredulously as Alpine gets out of her carrier and makes herself comfortable on a blanket Bucky fluffed out in the backseat for her. He scratches the back of his neck, before he explains, "She's got separation anxiety." Your eyes dart to Alpine, then to him, and then back to her, holding back a burst of giggles, "She's got separation anxiety?"

"Yeah, she can't stand being away from me for too long."

"Sure, Bucky."

"I swear, doll."

"I'm sure you do."

Bucky's deadpan expression does little to nothing to stop you from laughing. Even Alpine is looking at her dad like don't put this on me.

You and Bucky have been sitting in your car for about fifteen minutes. You're stationed in a parking lot of a small general store a few houses down and across from where Beth Johnson's residence is. It's a quaint brownstone, a little beat up on the outside, but homey nonetheless. The victim lived there with her parents and her four year old son Tobias, or Toby as she called him. If Hydra follows the same pattern, then like the last four victims, Alexander Pierce would come around offering financial restitution for the families. The money in exchange for their silence.

John and Lamar already had the initial interview with the victim's parents, so all there was left to do is wait. A camera laying patiently in your lap for the moment Pierce makes his appearance.

"You're doing it again," Bucky's voice breaks you from your thoughts. You turn to him, even when he attempts to cover his face with a baseball cap and hoodie, his eyes give away just how handsome he is beneath it all. It's unfair.

"What am I doing?"

"Staring holes into something like it'll give you answers if you look at it hard enough," his perceptiveness never fails to make you feel small. As if he could unravel all your secrets and vulnerabilities like it were nothing. You attempt to assure him with a smile that everything's okay, but it doesn't reach your eyes. He looks at you like he wants to help you, but he doesn't know how.

"It's just, this all feels like a waste of time. Sitting here for who knows how long to snap a couple of pictures when we could be doing something else instead. Maybe even find a proper lead for once, one that'll lead us to the actual killer," you hate feeling like a sitting duck. Like you have to wait for the evidence to come to you instead of going and getting it yourself.

"You don't agree with Fury sending you here," he says it as a statement, not a question.

"I don't. We already know what's going to happen. Getting a few pictures won't make Pierce or Rumlow talk. It won't even get the family to cooperate. So what's the point?" You fidget with the settings on the camera mindlessly.

"If the killer is a part of Hydra then it's important to get proof of every shady deal they've made to protect him."

"And if he isn't?"

He mulls it over, "Then it's even more important. That could mean he's been manipulating the evidence in his favor and making it seem like Hydra's behind it."

That's a possibility you hadn't really considered because who could possibly be stupid enough to cross Hydra like that?

You think back to the list of possible suspects excluding Bucky: Frank Castle, Logan Howlett, Wade Wilson, and Brock Rumlow. You recall the details you know of them, but none of them seem to be the kind to place the blame on someone else. Some of them take credit for their kills proudly while others are only on the list because they fit the military profile the Brooklyn Ripper's alleged to have. Plus, Bucky's already done extensive background checks into every single one of these men. If there was something that could've pointed you in their direction, Bucky would've found it already.

"If he is covering his tracks by putting the blame on Hydra, I wonder why they haven't caught him? He's a liability whether he's part of them or not."

Bucky takes your question into consideration, "It's hard to believe they wouldn't know who the guy is by now. If he wasn't one of them they'd have no problem getting rid of him. But if he is one of them, then they either know who it is and he's too high up in the ranks to cut him loose or they have no idea who the killer among them is," Bucky theorizes and you add, "It could be why they're giving the victim's family hush money disguised as charity. It keeps them quiet long enough for them to try and figure out who it is before the FBI does."

You feel like you're going in circles with the same set of clues, turning them over and over again as if eventually they'll give you a different result. You fall forward, gently resting your head on the steering wheel, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You just need a moment to collect your thoughts. The first few days on a new murder investigation can always be the hardest, so you just need to pick yourself up and move forward.

Bucky places his hand on your back, drawing soothing circles in the space between your shoulders. Your body gravitates towards his touch, leaning into it. "You have shown more effort and dedication on this case than anyone previously assigned to it did. I know you're not used to dealing with victims and families on a personally. You feel every loss on a human level, and that's your strength. It means you're not giving up til the end and you should be proud of yourself for that. I know I am."

Sometimes you remind Bucky of his younger self. The one who had to come to terms that evil exists in this world as the blood on his hands grew. The one who had to make a deal with the devil in exchange for his family's salvation.

He had to pull himself out of a very dark place years ago. He'd make sure you'd never fall into it like he did.

You lift your head from the steering wheel, turning it to lay the side of your face against it. You don't know what to say, but you manage to whisper out a small thank you. You didn't know how badly you needed to hear those words until you heard them. It's hard to not feel out of your element when you're not used to this. You rarely had one on one interactions with victims or families when you worked in counterterrorism. Working in national security was miles away from what you've experienced in this case in the last seven months.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb softly caressing it. "Always," he whispers the promise in an oath to you, and the sincerity in his eyes causes you to let out a soft gasp. It's like if you search his eyes hard enough for something you've been searching for all your life, you'll find it.

Alpine suddenly jumps onto the center console, startling you both. You both pull away as if you've been caught doing something wrong, while Alpine stares at something ahead meowing at it. When you follow her line of sight you're surprised to see a black Rolls-Royce pulling up to the victim's residence. You quickly reach for the camera and start taking pictures. "Remind me to bring her along to the next stakeout," you say in awe that Alpine caught that. A few clicks of the camera later and sure enough, Alexander Pierce steps out of the car along with a couple bodyguards.

"Good girl," Bucky praises Alpine as she jumps onto his lap waiting for a proper thank you. He chuckles under his breath, muttering something about how spoiled she is before giving her the attention she wants. He steals a glance at you while you take pictures of the license plate, finding beauty in no matter what you do.

Alpine meows in his lap, as if questioning her dad why he hasn't made a proper move yet. He pets her fur in thought, wishing he could give her an answer as to why.

The days go by in a blur of paperwork and evidence files until the weekend is but a shift way. You've spent the last couple of days studying the Hydra case, familiarizing yourself with it now that Fury has merged your case with it. As expected, after Pierce visited Beth's parents they stopped cooperating with the FBI, claiming they had no further information to share that could help the case.

Having a team to work with had its pros and cons. On one hand, it was nice to bounce ideas off of John or Lamar, and to have someone to go to when you were stuck on a piece of evidence. However, having to report and update them whenever you wanted to do something and needing a majority vote to go through with it—well, let's just say you had a good idea how the rest of the investigations were going to go and you didn't like it.

You were currently in the bureau's record room, returning some of the files you pulled out of evidence in place of taking others. John and Lamar were somewhere in New York investigating a lead in the Hydra case. You felt like you were between a rock and a hard place—not wanting to step on anyone's toes, but also not really seeing yourself fitting in with that duo.

Both of them did things by the book, followed all the rules with no exceptions. They never pushed the boundaries or took risks to get to the truth. It's why they were one of Fury's favorite pairs. He never had to do any extra paperwork or pull any favors to save their asses.

But you? You were secretly working with a vigilante. One wanted by the very institution you work for. If John or Lamar were to find out, you have no doubt in your mind they would turn you in.

You take out your access ID and place it up against the card reader to access the files. You're sorting through them, exchanging some of the ones you had when something on the screen catches your eye.

There's a name that stands out in the history list of who last accessed files for the Brooklyn Ripper and Hydra cases. There beside your name, John and Lamar's is Carol's. You frown at the sight. Why would she need to have accessed them? You don't remember the Punisher case having anything to do with either of those cases.

You make a mental note to ask her about it later.

Back at you desk, you sit in it for another hour looking through files until you can't take the lack of action anymore. There's one lead you have been thinking of pursuing, but you know if you brought it up to John, Lamar, or Fury—they'd all shoot the idea down.

It's a good thing none of them are in the building right now, right?

Beth Johnson used to work as a waitress in Hydra's nightclub The Red Skull. It's owned by the head of the organization, Johann Schmidt, and he uses it as a hub for a lot of Hydra's operations. A logical step to take with that information is to question the people who work there for anything they might know of the victim that could help uncover her killer. The problem? The couple of times John and Lamar have been able to make it past security to question people inside, have only ended with guns drawn the moment they figure out they work for the FBI.

But you, there's only a couple of people that could recognize you, you're not really on Hydra's radar. They don't even know you're part of the Hydra case now. Armed with all the knowledge you've acquired from these files and Bucky's stories, you could go undercover. Find one of the weak links, maybe a friend of Beth's and prod at them until they crack and tell you something you could use.

This is risky, but exactly the kind of action you were hoping to take. No one could find out you were going, not even Bucky. If he found out you were going into the lion's den he'd have a heart attack or insist on going with you, and you'd never agree to that. You're not letting Hydra take him from you as selfish as that sounds.

You were on your own for this one—what's new?

You couldn't go home and change into something more appropriate for a club because if Bucky saw you walking out in a skimpy outfit and heels he'd most certainly question where the hell you were going. You might have to pull a favor with your friend Ava Starr, the head of the undercover and sensitive operations unit at the FBI.

Before you can back out of the plan, you head to her office. She greets you when she sees you, but narrows her eyes at you when she sees your suspicious demeanor.

"Hey, remember when you almost fumbled the Skrulls operation until I stepped in and saved your ass?" You bring up a memory from last year from an undercover operation you did in the counterterrorism division alongside Ava and others. She had made the wrong call and almost put the entire team in jeopardy, but an improvised plan from you saved the day and her job.

"Yeah… Thanks for the reminder," the sarcasm drips from her lips as they pull into a thin line. You close her office door so only she can hear what you say next, "I'm here to cash in that favor."

"Do I want to know for what?"

"It's best you don't."

She gives you a hard look. As your friend, she wants to pry and find out exactly what she's helping you do, but on the other hand, she believes in you and knows if you're telling her she shouldn't know then she won't question it.

"Alright, come on then. Tell me what you need."

By the late afternoon you're inside The Red Skull. Ava had done an amazing job with the makeover, giving you a sparkly black mini dress to wear with skin colored tights underneath. The dress itself was pretty, but stubborn on clinging so tightly to your body that every curve of it is on display. She caked your face in makeup, something subtle yet fitting for a night at the club. You hadn't recognized yourself when you looked in the mirror, but that was a good thing. The more unrecognizable you were, the better.

The only things you weren't used to were the false lashes on your eyes and the size of the heels on your feet. You can't remember the last time you got all dolled up like this, much less the last time you wore shoes that weren't your work ones. You felt like a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time.

To lower the chances of getting caught, you left your FBI badge in your car, keeping the items in your purse simple except for the gun that rests inside for your safety. You weren't sure you were going to make it past security at first. However, you managed to sneak in by flirting with some college guy who was there with a large group of people. You walked with them in line, avoiding being carded by sneaking in as part of their group. You ended up having to follow them to some booth in the back by the dance floor, but you were able to excuse yourself after a few minutes to go to the bathroom.

As soon as you step away you examine your surroundings. Scanning through the sea of people to locate all the entrances and exits, where the main office is, and where all the employee rooms are. The boom of the bass from the speakers shakes the room, the lights and music bounce off the walls, making you feel the liveliness of the party on every inch of your skin. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and substances much worse permeate the air into a toxic cloud you have to be careful not to inhale in too deeply.

You had a handful of people in mind you wanted to approach before you came in. The club itself is too dark to make out a lot of the faces from afar, but you know for certain there's someone working the bar you might be able to get answers from. One of the bartenders, Pietro Maximoff, has a sister Wanda Maximoff who also works as a waitress in this club, just like Beth did. Wanda and the victim could have been friends, and you know her brother must be feeling extra protective after what happened to Beth.

It was all you had to go with to try and get some answers.

You saunter over to the bar, sitting on one of the seats across from Pietro when you locate him. His eyes land on you and he flashes you a charming smile that you return with ease, "What can I get for you, gorgeous?" You play up the charm with a flirty giggle, "Just a whiskey on the rocks, please." His eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise, "And here I thought a pretty girl like you would order one of those fruity drinks, something as sweet as you." He lays it on thick, probably hoping for a good tip. You look at him through your lashes, "What can I say? I'm full of surprises." He hums in approval, grabbing one of the bottles behind him to prepare your drink. Things seem to be going smoothly so far, even if your undercover skills and flirting tactics are a bit rusty.

"So what brings you here tonight? Waiting on someone?" He asks you while handing you your drink. You pretend to take a sip of it, shaking your head, "I'm not waiting on anyone. I'm looking for something." Your vagueness intrigues him. "Something or someone?" There's temptation dripping from his lips, the blue of his eyes stormy in a way that tries to pull you into them until they're the only thing you can look at.

Too bad you're not into blondes.

"Something," you repeat, giving him a sly smirk while reaching into your purse, "Something maybe you can give me." You've piqued his curiosity with that, and he watches your every move as you brush past the cool metal of the gun in your purse to take out your phone. You have to hope this doesn't backfire or things could get ugly real fast.

You unlock your phone, opening up your gallery to a picture, and turning it over so he gets a clear view of it.

A picture of Beth with her son Toby, the one from the polaroid.

His expression falls, an iciness to it that crawls up your spine when he sneers, "You're a fucking cop?" You keep your cool, shrugging nonchalantly, "I prefer to give you plausible deniability on that."

He scoffs, leaning forward on the bar table separating you. He's so close the iciness in his stare contrasts the heat of the anger that radiates off him, "So you are. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't get you kicked out of here—or worse?"

"Because I'm here for her," you grab your phone to put the picture back in his view, "I came for answers, and I know you can give me some." He avoids looking at the picture, it's like he can't stomach the thought of her being gone.

He clicks his tongue, "Stop acting like you care about Beth. You don't care about her, you don't care about any of them. You just want to get your job over with, maybe even get promoted."

"Olivia, Alice, Karli, Sharon, Ruby, Ophelia, Aida, and Beth," you list out the names of every single victim, catching him off guard. "I remember all of them. Each one of those women aren't an assignment to me, or some statistic I'll write in a report at the end of the year. Those women were like me. They were mothers, daughters, sisters, friends—they were people. And I have to go to bed every night knowing I've failed them." Your voice breaks at the end, opening an album on your phone to show him the images you've kept of every single victim. All pictures of happier snapshots of their life, reminding you who you're working so tirelessly for.

He takes a step back, staring at your phone like the pictures would haunt him if he stares at them for too long. "I need to get justice for these women. I want to give their families answers as to why this happened. I want the bastard to pay and face the consequences of what he's done."

You land on Beth's picture again and he looks away like it's too painful to see. "I can't help you, I—" you cut him off, "Wanda's your sister right? She works here as a waitress just like Beth did. They were probably friends, weren't they? What if she's next?"

He looks almost offended you would say that, "Don't say that. I'd never let that happen."

"I know you wouldn't. But I'm sure if you ask any one of the family members of these women they'd tell you the same. People always think something could never happen to them until it does. Wanda has you looking out for her, but this killer is smart and covers his tracks well. Your employers don't seem to give a damn about protecting the women working for them, so Wanda could very well become his next target."

"No, she wouldn't. I'd never let her get involved in that."

"Get involved in what?" Your question makes him realize what he said and he curses under his breath. "Please, just give me something I can investigate further. Do it for them, not for me." You show him the picture of Beth one last time before shutting your phone off, the bar was starting to get a bit crowded and you didn't want the wrong people finding out what you're discussing.

He takes a deep breath, searching your eyes for your true intentions. There's a genuineness there that makes him feel like he can trust you. He subtly scans the bar, taking your drink and pouring it out before getting you another one to blend in. He leans in close, resting himself on his arm on the bar table like he were having an intimate conversation with you.

"Hydra runs two escort services. The one you probably already know about is run by a madam named Agatha Harkness. It's mainly used for making easy money off of cheating husbands and other degenerates," he says this with distaste on his tongue, "Then there's the other one. Hydra keeps this one under wraps, the only evidence of it existing is if the women have any. It's used to blackmail important figures, government officials, world leaders—you name it." You're grateful the necklace Ava gave you is recording constant audio because he's giving you lots of crucial information.

"The madam that runs it is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She has her own escort service, but she integrates it with the Hydra one. There's only a small group of women from Hydra that work for her. She usually approaches girls that are in need of money, preys on them, and gives them loans in exchange for sleeping and dating whoever Hydra wants to get dirt on and under their control next. A few months ago we were hard on money and Valentina approached Wanda about joining, but I refused to let her," you can hear how protective he is of his sister in the way he speaks about her, "I picked up extra shifts at the bar instead. The only reason I know about this service is because my sister told me."

"There should still be some sort of digital footprint of all of this though, no?" You ask yourself more than him. If there was one, Bucky would've found it already. Pietro shrugs, "All I know is that it's super secret and no one openly talks about it. I picked a fight with my boss about it when Wanda was approached and he told me to drop it for both our sakes." You try to absorb all the information he's given you. It's a bit to take in at once, especially when there's multiple questions you want to ask you know he doesn't have the answer to.

He pulls away to get back to work when you go silent, "You're one of the good ones, I can tell. Cops usually look the other way when things happen to people like us."

Before you can respond, he glances at something behind you and curses under his breath, "You need to go—they know you're here." You pretend to take a swig of your drink, turning your head to see from the corner of your eye two big burly men whispering to each other while looking at you.

You reach into your purse to grab a couple of bills, with your business card tucked between them. You hand them to him, "Thank you for your help. I promise I won't stop until I get the guy. You and your sister stay safe, okay?" He takes the money and notices your card, slipping it into his pocket along with the bills. "We will. Now go, get out of here. There's an employees only exit down the hall from the bar. Take it."

You thank him for the tip, getting out of your seat as smoothly as possible to avoid further suspicion. You make it seem like you're heading towards the bathrooms, but using the line outside of them to slip between the people and cover yourself from being noticed taking the exit Pietro had suggested. You don't know if you're being followed, but you're not looking back to find out.

You're able to make it down the hall and to the exit, stepping out into the autumn rainy night. You find yourself in the alley at the back of the nightclub. You would have to walk about a block in the rain to your car. Luckily, it's only a light pour, so your view isn't obstructed.

You're about to head in the direction of where you parked when out of nowhere, someone grabs your arm. You swing your arm and hit them with your purse, the stranger calling out your name with a familiarity that causes you to still. You look over and hiding below a blue baseball cap is a pair of cerulean eyes you know all too well.

It's Bucky.

"Bucky? How are you here? How did you find me?" You're relieved to see him, even if a part of you doesn't believe he's right in front of you. "Did you seriously think you were going to fend off a possible attack with a little black purse?" He looks at you like he can't believe your first defensive move was a purse hit. Especially after everything he taught you.

"You caught me off guard. You're lucky I went with the purse and not my gun," you retort, watching the way Bucky's body is tense like he's prepared for anything. He lets go of your arm, shrugging off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders. "You're lucky the bouncers didn't search your purse before letting you in."

Seems like you were both favored by luck tonight.

"Let's get out of here, my car's a few blocks away," he says, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you in the opposite direction of where your car is parked.

"My car's closer, let's just take mine," you tell him, trying to keep up with his pace. He notices and slows down a step, "There's a lot we need to talk about, but there's still a possibility we might be followed, so just trust me and follow my lead, okay?" You nod, continuing your walk down the narrow street, one hand in his and the other holding his jacket close to your body. It smells like his cologne, a woodsy scent with a hint of leather.

You make it down the street just fine, but when you round the corner you can tell something's wrong by the way Bucky tightens his hold on your hand. He lets go of your hand in favor of wrapping your arm around his for a closer hold.

"Don't look behind us, but we're being followed. Just stick close, and try to keep up as best as you can," he whispers the instruction before picking up the pace. You balance your weight on your heels to keep up. You don't look back, but you can hear the slight thump of footsteps a few feet behind you.

Your heels click against the asphalt in time with the rhythm of your heartbeat. You lean into Bucky's side to steady yourself, the moisture on the ground from the rain making it harder for you to get stable footing. You don't question Bucky for every turn he makes, every street he crosses, or any shortcuts he takes. You're not exactly in the nicest part of the city, and you trust him to know his way around enough to get you back to safety.

The footsteps behind you never falter no matter how swift Bucky is at changing directions. The rain starts to pour down harder, lowering visibility and causing you to stumble. Bucky steadies you, taking off his baseball cap to place it on your head. You can see better now, and notice that you're headed toward a park.

The ground beneath you softens, and the trees make a decent shelter from the rain. Bucky turns his head to scan the area behind you and his shoulders relax. You're not being followed anymore.

Lightning strikes the sky before the world seems to shake from the thunder. Bucky leads you to a small wooden gazebo to catch your breath. Letting you go in first while he scans the park one last time. A breathy laugh escapes you, whether from the nerves or the adrenaline of being followed—you're not sure.

"You find this funny?" Bucky joins you under the shelter, water droplets falling from his hair after being smothered by rain. You frown, crossing your arms, "No, of course not. I get the severity of what just happened, the laugh just slipped out."

"What the hell were you even thinking back there? Do you understand what would've happened to you if I had arrived a second too late?" Bucky's voice shakes with a desperate anger, his eyes swimming with a despair that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. It's still trying to catch up from the run, and the look Bucky is giving you isn't helping.

"But nothing happened, Bucky. I'm okay," you assure him gently, like he's a frightened animal you're trying not to scare off. Bucky shakes his head, his eyes shining from the rain or with tears, you're not sure, but it's devastating either way.

"You're okay because I was there. If I hadn't been…" His voice trails off like it hurts to finish that sentence. He runs his hand through his hair with a frustrated huff, "God, the worst part is I know exactly what would've happened to you. And I would have had to live with that for the rest of my life."

You bridge the space between you, taking his hands into yours, "But nothing happened, Bucky. If something were to happen to me you can't put the blame on yourself like I'm your responsibility."

Your name leaves his lips with a longing that causes your heart to skip a beat, "You know that's not what this is about," he lets go of one of your hands to motion between you, "We can dance around this all you want until you're ready, but don't pretend like you don't know what you mean to me. I can't lose this. I can't lose you."

You feel an overwhelming surge of emotions you've held back for so long fight its way to the surface. You hate seeing how upset he is at the thought of losing you, but you get it. You'd be lost without him. And it would be the end of him if he lost the one person he opened up to after years of isolation and managed to make a part of him he thought was broken whole again—you.

You go to embrace him, needing to feel close to him and hoping to convey with your hold what you want to say, even if you're not ready to say it. He reciprocates your hug immediately, holding you just as tightly—like you'd disappear if he let go.

The rain patters against the roof of the gazebo creating a calming atmosphere around you. It's like you two are the only ones who exist in the world right now. You've never felt safer than here in his arms, so you savor it for as long as you can.

Until the thunder rattles the gazebo, reminding you of where you are.

"Is this a bad time to mention I got a good lead?"

He laughs in disbelief, "Of course you fucking did." You laugh with him, catching his eye and seeing a twinkle in them. "Is this a bad time to ask you who told you that outfit was a good idea without checking the weather?" You roll your eyes and playfully smack his back, "Shut it."

You're about to pull away, but his hold stays. "Give me a minute, doll. Just stay with me for another minute." The plea in his voice is gentle, like he'd let go if you really asked him to, but you won't. Clearly, you both need this pocket of peace to last a little longer. So you stand there in your shelter from the rain and hold each other like it's your only lifeline in this world.

Bucky and Alpine came to your place that night for an impromptu sleepover. You both showered in your own apartments before reconvening at yours. There was a lot you needed to discuss, which you did over chow mein and pot stickers from your favorite Chinese restaurant across from your apartment, Uncle Lou's. You told Bucky what happened from the moment you decided to go undercover, to why you did it, what Pietro revealed to you, and everything else leading up to when he met you outside the nightclub. He still wasn't happy about it, but what's done is done.

Bucky on the other hand explained he had heard your full government name in one of Hydra's communications, apparently one of the patrons recognized you although the name of the patron wasn't disclosed. That's how he knew you were there. He has your name flagged in the system for safety reasons, and it's a good thing he did because as soon as your name was mentioned an alarm went off on his phone. He was able to access the security cameras at The Red Skull, and when he confirmed you were in fact there, he rushed over as quickly as possible.

He knows how Hydra operates, so he had a tow truck arranged to get your car from the nightclub's parking lot and tow it back to the bureau out of an abundance of caution. There was no guarantee that you could drive your car safely back home without being followed. He parked his car at the park where the gazebo was, somewhere out of the way enough where he could shake off anyone that attempted to follow you.

Bucky had thought of everything.

He wasn't surprised to hear about the secret escort service, although it wasn't around when he was there. He didn't recognize Valentina's name, but he had a vague recollection of Agatha's. You play the audio recording from your necklace on your laptop, so he can get a better idea of everything that was said. To say he didn't appreciate having to hear you flirt with another man is an understatement.

The rest of the night was spent researching and bouncing off theories to each other. You ended up falling asleep on the couch, your feet resting on his lap. He dozed off right after, with Alpine curled up in the space between you.

The weekend is spent collecting as much evidence as you can, so that following Tuesday you can face Fury and hopefully keep his anger at bay as you tell him about your unofficial undercover mission. You hope the discovery will be enough to not be reprimanded too harshly.

But Fury truly lives up to his name.

Things don't start off as smoothly as you hoped when you tell him what you did, sitting in the chair on the other side of his desk, laptop in your lap at the ready with a presentation of evidence displayed on the screen. You've lost count how many times he's cursed in the last five minutes. Going off about if he's just a painting on the wall and does no one understand what the title of director means?

The worst part is how he looks at you like a disappointed father would, making you feel like a scolded child. He exhales heavily, sitting down in his chair, "You recognize what you did was stupid and reckless."

"Yes, sir, but I—"

"And that you could've very easily gotten killed and jeopardized not only your case, but the Hydra one as well."

"Yes, sir."

"You also recognize that while it was extremely reckless it resulted in obtaining the biggest lead we've had on the Brooklyn Ripper case since we've had it."

You can breathe again, "I do, sir."

He nods, approving that you understand, "Alright. While you did manage to get a good lead, this can never happen again. From here on out, everything you do with this case goes through me, got it?"

"Yes, sir." you reply, but he doesn't see the way you cross your fingers in your lap.

"Good. Now, show me what you found." It seems in the pursuit of taking Hydra down, Fury doesn't care what methods are used.

You start from the beginning. How you came to the conclusion of checking out the nightclub, and how you infiltrated it—omitting the part where Ava helped you look the part. You tell him what Pietro told you, letting him hear some of the audio clips for himself. You don't mention being followed afterwards, instead sticking to a story that you left as soon as Pietro gave you the warning and took a taxi home while your car was towed here out of precaution. Fury praises you for the quick thinking and you have to stop yourself from giving Bucky the credit he deserves.

You then go in on the finer details. You dive deeper into Valentina and her off the record escort service she runs with Hydra. You mention how Valentina has been arrested twice for promoting prostitution, but was released with a warning both times. Word on the street—what Bucky discovered—is she's got plenty of blackmail on enough cops in the NYPD to keep her out of jail. She has no official ties with Hydra, but she does get paid to take a few girls from them, teach them the works, and offer them to higher paying clientele. If your speculation is true, then every woman killed connected to Hydra was part of this underground escort service. Whether Valentina knows it or not, the girl's Valentina is taking in from Hydra become the Brooklyn Ripper's preferred victims.

Fury takes in all the information you give him, "We need to bring Valentina in, but without giving away what we know. I'll get a detail on her to locate her whereabouts. As soon as she slips up, she'll be arrested. We'll have to have her brought to a trusted police station, and instead of one of the local detectives interrogating her, it'll be one of us. We can play it off like we're making sure she's safe from Hydra."

Fury's plan seems like the logical play. Getting a one on one chat with Valentina could prove to be crucial to uncovering the identity of the Brooklyn Ripper. She probably even knows who it is without knowing it's him, and having her in custody would help in getting warrants to access her personal property. You would be able to get a hand on all the numbers and channels she uses for her communications that Bucky could then investigate deeper. There's also a possibility she might still have messages or other evidence on her devices that could connect her to the victims.

"You said one of the patrons recognized you?" Fury breaks your thought process with a question.

You nod, "It must have been. At the time I was in the nightclub, Pierce and Rumlow were located to be in different parts of the city, so they couldn't have recognized me. I'm not working the Hydra case close enough for anyone else there to have recognized me. I didn't have my badge on me, so whoever saw me knew me from somewhere."

He taps on his desk like he's mulling something over, "You have to be more careful then. If this escort service is being used to blackmail high profile people, anyone you've been in contact with at the any of the city's charity galas or events throughout the years could be a client of Valentina's. We'll have to be more discreet from here on out."

There's an uneasiness that settles its way into your heart when you think of all the people you know and how any one of them could've been so cold to rat you out like that. Especially knowing what Hydra would have done to you.

After another brief exchange, Fury dismisses you as he has a virtual meeting to attend. You walk back to your desk, letting out a breath of relief. John is sitting in his when you approach, giving you an are you okay look, "Everything okay? That sounded intense for a minute there."

You sit down at your desk, a heat spreading on your face when you realize your coworkers most likely heard Fury reprimanding you. "Yeah, I kind of went over his authority, so the yelling was warranted…" John's expression is one of surprise, not thinking of you as someone who would break the rules.

If only he knew about your vigilante partner.

You quickly summarize the events to John. You'd tell him a more detailed version of it later when you both reconvene with Lamar, but for now a more condensed version is all you can give with the energy you have left after being yelled at. John's demeanor shifts immediately, "That was extremely dangerous, you could've gotten really hurt." He scolds you, his disappointment matching Fury's, but somehow coming from John it doesn't feel as serious.

"I went in knowing the risks, but I'm here now aren't I? It's all good," you try to brush it off, not wanting to hear another lecture. His eyes narrow, "No, it's not. The few times Lamar and I have gone up to The Red Skull while chasing a lead—we've never come out without having to get into a fight with security and have their guns drawn on us. It's a miracle you came out unscathed."

"Not a miracle, I just got lucky."

"Lucky or not, some of us really care about you," he follows his statement with the mention of your name, "And we—me, honestly I don't know what I would have done if you got hurt." The heavy weight of the sentiment beneath the surface of those words sits in your chest uncomfortably. Carol's words echo in your mind, but beyond that, there's a wave of nausea that hits you. You always considered John a good colleague and friend, and you'd be lying if you said you'd ever thought of him in any other way.

This is the man who showed you the ropes when you first got transferred here. He's the kind of guy that would get up mid conversation to hold the door open for someone on the other side of the room and the kind of partner that would take a bullet for you—he's done it twice for Lamar. He does have his quirks. Saying things that come off wrong, on bad days being impatiently temperamental, and walking around with the confidence of a man who thinks he's owed attention. Sometimes he's not the best guy, but he's always been a good friend.

You feel like you've been put between a rock and a hard place. Made even worse by what he says next.

"There's actually something I'd like to talk about with you—maybe over dinner or coffee?" There's a hope in his voice that's hard to miss, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole then and there. You've never been put in this position before. How do you stay truthful to how you feel, but not make things awkward or lose a friend?

"John I—I don't… Could we hold this conversation off until I'm done with this case?" You try to buy yourself some time. Hopefully enough to figure out the best way to turn him down.

"You're allowed to live your life outside of here."

"I know, but it wouldn't sit well with me."

John give you a tight smile, like he already knows this is going nowhere, "Okay, I get it. Don't worry about it, okay? Have a good rest of your day." He gets up from his desk and walks off, out the doors and out of sight.

There's a pit at the bottom of your stomach when you watch him walk away. You find yourself getting up from your desk as well. Looking across the room and feeling relief when you notice Carol is at hers. It's almost like she can sense your distress the way her eyes look up from her computer and lock with yours. You beckon her to follow you into the break room and she doesn't hesitate to get up and scurry along to meet you there. And when you tell her what happened with John, her I told you so is as smug as it is jovial.

"Jesus Christ, I cannot believe he finally asked you out and you turned him down like that," she says almost in awe, like she's sorry she missed the interaction.

"Carol, I thought it was clear I don't date divorced men."

"But John's also your friend."

"Yes, my divorced friend."

She tilts her head like she's recalling something, the curiosity in her eyes evident, "Did you say no because of that or because of this secret man you have everyone talking about?"

You do a double take. Surely, you misheard her. "Excuse me, what? I have a secret man that everyone's talking about? What do you mean by everyone?"

She snickers, enjoying how flustered you're getting, "Well, rumor has it you have a boyfriend—a secret lover." Her tone is playful, so you don't know if you can take her serious or not.

"Carol this isn't funny."

"Oh, it's not. I'm the closest friend you have and you didn't tell me that you're seeing someone? I should be offended."

You roll your eyes at her dramatics, "There was nothing to tell you because I don't have a secret boyfriend." You then add with a hint of panic in your voice, "Is this like a big rumor in the bureau?" She shakes her head, "No, I was just teasing you. Lamar told me you were texting someone special." You let out something between a groan and a sigh.

"God, you're the worst."

"Oh, you love me."

You chat with her for another few minutes, but the conversation mainly consists of her teasing you and taking jabs at John. When the laughter quiets, a memory comes back to you.

"By the way, have you tried accessing any of the Hydra or Brooklyn Ripper files recently?" You ask her, recalling her name in the access history. She thinks it over before shaking her head, "I don't think so. My card only works like half the time I try to access any of the Punisher files. Why?"

"It's nothing, it's just your name popped up under the history of those who last accessed the files," you mention and she scoffs sarcastically, "Great, so now my card is glitching out the system. If only Stark weren't such an ass about the budget." You hum in agreement, at ease now that that's cleared up.

"That was a good attempt at changing the subject, but you're not getting away from telling me all about this guy," she looks at you expectantly, like you better not even dream of hiding anything from her.

"There is no guy, he's just my neighbor." Your very handsome neighbor who you're in love with and who you're almost certain returns your feelings. Who's waiting on you patiently for something that can become the greatest thing to ever happen to you, but you're not ready to accept you deserve.

That all seems too complicated to explain, so you'll go with neighbor for now.

"Shut up, there is a guy and I want to hear all about it," Carol is determined to get all the details out of you, but your gossip session is cut short when Special Agent Maria Hill walks into the break room. Seeing as she's Fury's right hand woman you and Carol end your chatter there, heading out of the break room and back to work.

However, the look that Carol gives you lets you know this conversation is far from over.

When you go home that night, there's a tension in the air that's palpable enough to feel it in your fingertips. The kind of unrest that makes you want to reach for your gun and be prepared for anything that might happen next. The wind seems to whisper warnings of what's to come and it travels up your spine, making you shiver.

You find yourself picking up your pace, wanting to enter your apartment with the haste of someone who's being chased. In a moment of deja vu, Bucky opens the door to his apartment when he hears you about to enter yours. Alpine isn't in his arms this time, and there's a grim look on his face that makes your body grow cold.

"Come with me. I need to show you something," the urgency in his voice has you entering his apartment without question. Once you're inside he leads you to his living room, and suggests you take a seat before he talks. Alpine jumps on the coffee table, pacing it like even she can feel there's something wrong.

"There's no easy way of revealing this, so I'll just show you," He hands you a manila envelope, it's outwardly unassuming at a first glance. You take it from him, noticing the way there's nothing written on the outside of it. "Yori ended up getting our mail mixed up again. I found that envelope in my mail pile. There was no name written on it, so Yori probably assumed it was mine. When I went down to ask him who delivered it he couldn't remember, and coincidentally the security cameras were down when it got delivered," Bucky explains as you open the folder, reach inside, and find a multitude of pictures inside.

Pictures of you.

At the grocery store, walking into and out of work, at the coffee shop you love by the bureau, getting food from a delivery driver outside of your building, pictures of your window where you can be seen reading and cooking—all candid pictures of you dating back months ago. Even Bucky can be seen in some of them with you, but they're all mainly of just you.

Someone had been watching your every move for months.

And that someone would most likely be the Brooklyn Ripper.

The blood drains from your face, your stomach churning the more you stare at the photos. You've had moments where you felt like you were being watched, but you brushed it off thinking this case had you unjustifiably paranoid. At first glance, you thought the pictures were taken by someone working for Hydra, but after analyzing the changes in your hair, your clothes, and the environment around you—these pictures go back to over half a year ago. Almost to around the time you were assigned to this case.

"Did you ever notice you were being watched or followed?" Bucky sits next to you on couch, his stance protective, like if he could somehow protect you from this dark reality he'd do it in a heartbeat.

You shake your head, "No, but I should have. I'm trained for stuff like this, I shouldn't have missed all of this. I'm so off my game, I can't believe I let this happen." Your grip on the pictures tightens, and Bucky has to pry them out of your hands. "Don't blame yourself, doll. This guy is a professional fucking creep and he knows how to do this without being caught. I'm trained to notice stuff like this too and I didn't catch it either."

"This picture here," you grab the one that has you and Bucky walking down your home street, "the dress I'm wearing in it is the one I wore to your birthday dinner. That was seven months ago, around the time I was assigned the Brooklyn Ripper case. If he's been watching me this whole time, then why hasn't he done anything?"

Bucky grits his teeth, "Because this is some kind of sick twisted game to him. He kept an eye on you even though he was sure you'd never catch him—but that was before. If he had the guts to send you these pictures now and show his hand like this, that means you're getting close to finding him. This is his way of scaring you off." You like the idea of the killer getting nervous you're onto him, even if it meant having to face being stalked.

"You said the cameras were down when the envelope was delivered?" You repeat, and Bucky grunts in annoyance, "They were compromised. Someone managed to cut the wires at the exact moment the mail is usually delivered. It wasn't a hard fix so I fixed them up for Yori. I even went over and hijacked the cameras from Uncle Lou's restaurant across the street to keep on eye on the windows."

Your lips part, "Bucky, you did not."

He doesn't look one bit ashamed, "I did too. I don't take your safety lightly, doll. Which is why you're staying here tonight."

"I own a gun, Bucky. I'm sure he knows not to get too close," you say to lighten the tension, but in all honesty, you're not against staying here with him tonight.

"Don't make me beg, doll," he regrets those words when he sees your smile widen, giving you a look like it's not the right time to mess with him. Although, he'd prefer to see a smile on your face than anything else, so if you wanted to tease him right now, he won't complain. Even Alpine comes over and jumps on your lap to give you the prettiest eyes that ask you to stay.

Yeah, you weren't saying no to either of them tonight.

You were still shaken up from the pictures when Bucky accompanied you to your apartment to get a few things for the night. You had lost your appetite, so after showering at his place and changing into a comfy pajama set, you were ready to call it a night. Bucky had brewed you an herbal tea before bed to calm your nerves, one he said his mother made him when he was anxious. You discussed how the talk with Fury went over tea, and what the FBI was planning to do with Valentina. Bucky agreed it was a smart move, and mentioned he'd be able to get access into her private files as soon as the FBI obtained her devices.

The weight on your shoulders feels lighter after the tea and the talk with Bucky. A new sense of hope you haven't felt in a long time settles in your chest. Bucky notices you start to blink slower and your yawning gets more frequent, so he tells you to go to bed. You don't resist, sleep is calling your name like a lullaby.

You make your way to the living room, prepared to set up the couch when Bucky stops you. “You're sleeping in my room. I’m taking the couch.” Your eyebrows raise, eyes darting between him and yourself. Out of the two of you, you'd surely be more comfortable on the couch than him. “Bucky, the couch is perfectly fine for me.” 

He points to Alpine, "She’s sleeping with you tonight and she always gets the bed so,” he shrugs like that explains everything. As if on cue, Alpine makes her way over to you and paws at your feet until you pick her up.  

“She’s also—she’s good for nightmares,” Bucky utters quietly and you freeze in your spot. How did he know? You've never told a soul about them, not even Bucky who you trust the most. It was a sore subject for you that stung like an open wound. You rarely had nightmares before, but they became more frequent after seeing the first victim you worked on for the Brooklyn Ripper case back in May. What you've seen since then stays with you even in your sleep.

"I get them too, sometimes. I can tell," he whispers, reading your mind all too well and sharing another piece of himself he finds he doesn't fear giving to you. You appreciate him sharing this with you, this shared vulnerability that establishes a gentle solidarity between you on the subject. “Thank you, Bucky," you reply softly, holding Alpine a little closer to your chest, like hugging her could fix a part of you that you don't acknowledge as broken. You follow up with a small goodnight which he returns. Parting from each other reluctantly, with neither of you voicing the one word that could bring you back together.

You enter his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so Alpine can go in and out easily. You lay her on the bed gently, the moonlight coming in through the blinds casts a soft light in the room as you settle in the bed. His sheets smell of lavender detergent and something uniquely him. The scent wrapping around you like it were the blanket itself.

You close your eyes, in the darkness, the last thing you feel before falling asleep is Alpine cuddling into your side. You always seem to get a better nights sleep when Bucky is around, so hopefully tonight is no different.

Bucky was right about one thing, Alpine is good for nightmares. Minutes into falling asleep you fall into a deep slumber. One that seems will not be interrupted by any bad dreams tonight.

Alpine is, however, not good for things that go bump in the night.

It was around three in the morning when you first heard it. A loud crash in the room on the other side of the wall of Bucky's bedroom. The noise startles you awake. You sit up in bed, your heart hammering in your chest. You wonder if you hallucinated the sound, simply paranoid after the stalking revelation. Poor Alpine had jumped on the other side of the bed when you woke up so abruptly. You're about to reach out for her to comfort her when you hear something else.

A heavy continuous thump on the other side of the wall that might be footsteps, and then a rustling you can't tell what it is. The goosebumps that cover your skin happen at the realization that the room on the other side of this wall is your bedroom.

The Brooklyn Ripper is in your bedroom.

On any other day you might have believed what you heard to be a random break in. But after those pictures you received, there's no doubt in your mind who's in your apartment right now.

If you can hear him, then that means he can hear you. You're careful when getting out of bed, every step you take is as light as possible as you exit the bedroom. You open the door just enough where you can slip through. Your gun is in the duffel bag you left at the foot of Bucky's couch earlier in the night. You have to get to it, this is the closest you ever have been to catching the killer.

Through the warm glow from the lamp Bucky left on in the living room, you see him sprawled across the couch, snoring lightly in his sleep. He's shirtless, muscular chest on display with only his dog tags decorating it. The blanket messily strewn over himself barley covers the way his gray sweatpants are riding lower in his sleep.

Focus, there's a killer in your room.

As you step closer to the couch, the floor board creaks beneath you and his eyes shoot open. They take a second to adjust in the darkness before they land on you, squinting at you quizzically.

“I think the killer is in my room,” you whisper loud enough for Bucky to hear, his expression hardening. You reach for your bag, grabbing your gun and pulling it out while Bucky gets up from his couch. He's quick on his feet, grabbing his own gun from a safety box in the broom closet in his hallway. He prefers to act first, ask questions later.

You join him in the hallway, "I thought I was hearing things at first, but then there were more noises on the other side of wall," you whisper, grabbing Bucky's arm and leading him into his bedroom. You're both careful to not make the floor creak the closer you get to the wall. Alpine is gone from the room, and it's dead silent inside. Your ears strain to pick up any sound on the other side and after a few breaths of silence you hear it, the rustling is back.

Bucky wasn't kidding when he claimed the walls were thin.

You both leave his room with minimal sound. Back in the hallway you whisper, "We have to get in there, Bucky. This could be our chance to catch him." He firmly nods, "Alright, but only if we stick together. We don't know what we'll find when we get in there or what kind of weapons this guy has."

You agree, shuffling over to your duffel bag to grab your keys, taking off the one for your apartment off the ring, to avoid the extra noise. Careful with every step you take, you make it out into the hallway. You hope none of your neighbors are awake to step out and see you and Bucky with your guns drawn, you don't know how you would explain your way out of it without alarming anyone.

Bucky is right behind you when you put your ear up to your door. You listen in for a few seconds, but when you're met with silence you put the key in the lock and open the door. The lights are off just like you left them. The moonlight filtering in through the windows gives you enough light to make out your surroundings. Bucky closes the door behind you quietly, stepping forward first, his military training coming in handy making his steps featherlight.

You're one step behind him, covering his back. Your hands are outstretched with your gun at the ready, eyes darting around your home for any sign of danger. Your one bedroom apartment is small enough that there's not much space you have to clear before heading over to your bedroom.

You're both up against the door, staring at each other while you wait for a sign that the killer is still there. The silence stretches for what seems like forever, until you can't take it anymore and nod at Bucky to know you're ready to head inside. He counts to three on his fingers before you both barge in to the room.

"FBI! Show yourself!" You identify yourself, flipping the switch on your tactical light on your gun to see your surroundings better. Your window is wide open, the small plotted plants you had on your windowsill knocked over and broken on the floor. Your entire room is covered in bright orange flyers—there must be about a hundred of them, crinkling again the ground with every step taken.

Regrettably, you receive no response. Whoever broke in is now gone.

You curse under your breath while checking your closet, but the killer is not in there. You step towards your window, swearing you had it locked shut before you left for work in the morning. You don't see anyone out on the street, but he could be hiding somewhere in the shadows.

He could even be watching you right now.

You shut your window, locking it a few times before you're certain it stays. You close the curtains and turn around to look at the haphazardly thrown flyers covering every inch of your bed and floor. Bucky has one is his hand, scowling at it like he can't figure out what it means.

You pick one up at your feet. It looks exactly the same as the one on the pizza box from last week. The only difference is that this one has a bright red circle on the date, October 25th. You shine the light from your gun on the flyers, they all have that date circled.

Why would the killer go through all that effort to do this?

Bucky grabs a handful of the flyers catching your attention. He puts a finger to his lips as a warning to keep quiet, before tapping on his ear and you put two and two together. The killer had been in your room long enough to plant these flyers and maybe something else. He could've planted something in here to listen in or keep watch.

The chill that runs through you has nothing to do with icy floor beneath your bare feet.

After another quick check you leave your apartment and head next door to his. He turns on the big light to get a better look at the flyer while you put away your gun.

"First thing in the morning I'll check your entire apartment to make sure that creep didn't plant any bugs or cameras," he promises, assuring you the killer won't get to have anymore access to you. You nod along, but all you can think about is what would have happened if you hadn't stayed at Bucky's place tonight.

"Do you know why he would leave dozens of these in your room? What is it for?" He asks, holding up the flyer. You blink at it, "I don't. It's a flyer for the autumn carnival they host in Queens." That only causes more confusion to appear on Bucky's face, "Have you mentioned wanting to go to someone?" You shake your head, "No, not that I can think of. The only time I've ever seen that flyer was when I was talking to John and Lamar the night the last victim was killed."

"You had this conversation at work?"

"Yes."

Bucky glances at the coffee table where your phone lies. He strides over to it and powers it off. "This guy has been watching you for months. He might have tapped your phone and your devices at work. I'll check your phone in the morning too and see if its been compromised." You're feeling sicker by the minute.

"He's starting to escalate, sending the pictures and then breaking into my room. He must have figured out I wasn't there tonight and that's why he left all those flyers instead," you conclude based on everything so far. Bucky's hand balls into a fist when he thinks of what could've happened if he hadn't offered for you to stay here tonight. It's not a thought he wants to dwell on when you're standing here with him, safe.

"You're close to getting him," he motions to the flyer in your hands, "he circled the twenty fifth. I have a feeling he'll be there that day, and he wants you to be there too." You came to the same conclusion. The Brooklyn Ripper wouldn't exert all this effort for nothing. It was clear he was inviting you on some sick twisted kind of date, one to end things once and for all.

For you or him.

"If that's what he wants then that's what he'll get. I'm sick of this guy and I'm ready to put an end to this." Nothing would stop you from being there on Saturday.

"You'll want to send in back up to monitor the entire perimeter. Maybe even an undercover operation on a larger scale," Bucky suggests, but you shoot that idea down instantly, "No. The FBI can't find out about this."

"Why?"

You gnaw on the inside of your lip, "There's been something nagging at me from the moment I saw those photos. Especially the one from the day of your birthday dinner," you walk over to the TV stand, the photos from the envelope are neatly stacked in one pile on top of it. You look through them, finding the one you're looking for and then handing it to Bucky.

"This picture is from March. The only people who knew I was assigned to this case were part of the FBI. The public knew the FBI took over the case, but only the agents at the bureau knew me and Laura had been assigned to it." Bucky takes the picture from your hand and goes down the same line of thought you have, "Then the killer might be working for the FBI. That would explain why he's so well at covering up evidence, and why he always seems to be five steps ahead of everything."

"I'll have to do this off the record without FBI involvement. At this point, I have to assume anyone at the bureau could be a suspect—even Fury," thinking about one of your colleagues being the killer makes your heart sink all the way to the bottom of your stomach. The way you could have passed them through the halls or had small talk with them in the break room, all meanwhile they were planning their next kill. Any innocent inquiry of your day or about the case could have been their way of taunting you. It was a hard pill to swallow.

"Then, I'll be going with you. You'll need the backup," he states, crossing his arms like he's ready to hear you protest, but you give him none. Instead, you give him a condition, "Only if you promise me you'll run if at any point your identity could be compromised." Catching the Brooklyn Ripper was important, but not worth jeopardizing Bucky's entire life over.

He takes a step closer to you, if he reached out he could touch you, "Not if it's between choosing saving my ass or yours. I'm choosing you every time."

"James."

"No," he echos your name like you did his, "If I get caught then let me face the consequences of my own decisions. I'm choosing to help you. I'm choosing to be there. It's my choice." His stance on this is unwavering and your voice comes out quieter than you wanted to when you reply, "I'm asking you to promise because I care about your safety too. I won't let this monster take away something else from me or anyone else. He's taken enough."

His eyes soften, and he takes another step to shorten the space between you. Yours instinctively rest on his chest, while his right hand raises to cup your face, "I know, doll, but that's something I can't promise, I'm sorry." You sigh, your head falling to his chest, the heat of his skin warming your own.

"Sometimes you can be really stubborn and it's frustrating."

He chuckles, "I can be stubborn? Have you met yourself?" Your reply is a pinch to his hip causing him to laugh again, "Someone's grouchy when they're tired. Go back to bed, doll. We can continue this conversation tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight," you're about to dismiss yourself, finding yourself annoyed at him, but he stops you by gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you into him so you're close enough for him to plant a soft kiss on your head.

"Goodnight."

You're able to sleep just fine the rest of the night.

The next morning, Bucky checks every corner of your apartment, and fortunately finds the Brooklyn Ripper didn't plant anything anywhere. He cleans the mess the killer left behind, changing the lock on your bedroom window, and making a mental note to buy you new pots to replace the shattered ones. In the meantime, he salvaged what he could and gave the plants temporary homes in plastic cups.

Bucky had also scanned your phone and found it wasn't tapped, furthering the theory that the killer is one of your colleagues. You checked in on Laura while Bucky was busy in your apartment, feeling guilty you had forgotten about her this past week. As discreetly as you could, you tried to pry and figure out if she had received anything interesting in the mail too. You were relieved to find out it seemed the Brooklyn Ripper had only been after you this whole time.

Now you were busy preparing pancake batter for breakfast. Bucky came back by the time you were starting on your first pancake.

Bucky had to take a second when he saw you in his kitchen, morning sunlight highlighting your features to make you shine like an angel. You looked peaceful, happy for once like the weight of the world wasn't on your shoulders.

He'd do anything to keep you like that.

When you notice him, your face lights up making his heart stutter in his chest. You call him over and you fall into easy conversation as he steps in to make some scrambled eggs beside you. The case eventually gets brought up. and Bucky asks you if there's anyone at the FBI you suspect.

"I can't really think of anyone. But there is this one weird guy in the tech department, Quentin Beck," your nose scrunches in disgust when you think of the guy, "He's known to be sleazy, always trying to get women drunk at office events to get them to sleep with him, and now that you mention it, my friend Carol, her access ID stopped working half the time, and the system recorded her ID accessing some files she hadn't."

Bucky stirs the eggs in the pan, "The magnetic stripe on the card could've been messed with. Someone like him would know how to duplicate her card." The idea of the killer being one of your coworkers solidifies itself more and more, getting harder to stomach every time. Bucky can see the shift in your demeanor, so he decides to change the subject.

"You know what this reminds me of?" he says softly, reaching in to the cupboards to grab another pan to start on the bacon.

"Hm?"

"To the day we first met."

You look down at the bubbling pancake and laugh, "That's right. When Alpine snuck into my apartment through the window and scared the living hell out of me. She caused me to burn a perfectly good pancake.

He scoffs, "She did not. She's innocent."

As if knowing she's being talked about, Alpine meows in the distance like she agrees with Bucky. You shake your head at both of them, "She is not! She even caused the fire alarm to go off. You were so grumpy when I told you what she had done."

"That's because you woke me up almost knocking my door down the way you we're banging on it," he justifies his attitude back then, remembering with a smirk, how flustered you were that day when he opened his door in only his boxers. In his defense, he really had just woken up.

"Now you're just exaggerating."

"I'm pretty sure there's still a dent on the door from that day."

You both laugh at his teasing. The memory of that day now fresh in your minds like it happened yesterday. When the laughter dies down to a comfortable silence, you can't seem to look away from each other. A fondness in both your expressions that makes time stand still. He leans into your space and your heart skips a beat. Your eyes fall to his lips for a split second and he notices. The corner of his lips tug into something coy—something magnetic—and when his arm reaches around you, you think you know what's about to happen next.

He uses his wooden spoon to turn the half burnt pancake in the pan.

"Try not to burn these pancakes too, doll," he winks at you, grinning cheekily like he knows exactly what he's doing. You gawk at him as he takes a piece of cooked bacon and eats it, continuing as normal. Even when his expression gave away just how much he was enjoying this.

Bucky will kiss you eventually. This isn't the frist time he's held back from doing so, but he knows the first kiss between you has to come from you. You haven't been as forward as he has with affection, and he doesn't want to push you into anything you're not ready for. So, he'll patiently wait for your move, and when you make it—he'll stop holding back and show you the kind of passion they write about in books.

The rest of the morning into the following days are filled with small moments of normalcy stuffed between extensive hours of planning, prepping, and collecting all the evidence of the case into one new theory. The one involving one of your colleagues being the killer. You end up having to lie to Fury and call into work sick with the flu to give you extra time to prepare for Saturday.

Fury is upset about this as he wanted you to be in there with him to question Valentina, but he wishes you a quick recovery. When they manage to get her on Friday over a parking ticket violation, John and Lamar are the ones to question her. And to no ones surprise, she lawyers up as soon as she's in police custody.

Her counsel? Alexander Pierce.

Fury is not happy about that at all.

The envelop filed pictures, and apartment break in proved to be a better lead than Valentina could have provided anyway, so you aren't mourning the loss of that lead.

In addition, there's one thing that Bucky discovered before Saturday comes that will prove to be crucial for Saturday's showdown.

He reviewed the security footage from Uncle Lou's restaurant from the night of the break in. The suspect was covered in a black outfit from head to toe—gloves and all—so Bucky wasn't able to get a good look at him. However, what he did catch was the suspect getting injured on his way down. As he raced down the fire escape, the drop down ladder got stuck, causing him to have to jump down to get away. The distance itself wasn't high enough to cause a serious injury, but it was high enough that he had to be careful with his landing.

Fortunately for you, he wasn't. It's clear from the security footage he doesn't make the landing right, and slips on his way down putting the most pressure on his right knee and shoulder to break his fall. When he gets up to leave, he clutches his shoulder and there's a limp when he attempts to run. The injuries are severe enough that they won't be healed by Saturday.

This discovery might have just saved your lives.

You hope the next time you go to an autumn carnival is under better circumstances than today. The sun is well past the horizon, with the full moon taking it's place in the sky. There's colorful fairy lights strung to illuminate every path, although the multicolored lights from the rides are enough to light up the entire carnival with its festive glow. Children's laughter blends in with attendee's screams of thrill that invite you to come in and see what the fun is all about.

You and Bucky are dressed in your average fall attire to blend in. To everyone else you look like a couple on a date. However, on the inside of your leather jacket you had your gun and badge neatly tucked into a pocket. As for Bucky's leather jacket, who knows what's hiding in it. Even after all this time, you don't know the White Wolf's preferred method of weaponry.

Your first plan of action is to roam the grounds, scan the place, and get familiar with it. Just enough to locate and block out the different sections: food, games, and rides.

Starting at the entrance, you are greeted by rows of booths with carnival games and smaller rides that taper out to the bigger ones on the outskirts of the carnival. In the middle is a large red and white striped tent with magician and clown shows playing at every hour. And at the very far end is a large family area filled with picnic tables to sit at by a large wall of food trucks and stations with endless amount of choices for food to pick from. All in all, the festival was large, but nicely organized in a way that you and Bucky could make a mental map of it the first time walking around.

Sometimes you thought you caught a glimpse of someone you recognized from work, falsely placing the association on a random stranger if you didn't look close enough. To say you were on edge is an understatement. Meanwhile, Bucky seems to be more composed than you. Even stopping to buy some cotton candy from one of the vendors. He offers to buy you one, but you decline, so Bucky resolves to sharing.

He looks like a kid with the boyish grin he's wearing as he takes a bite of the pink sugary fluff. "You sure are enjoying yourself," you tease him with mirth. He hums pleasantly at the taste, not hiding his delight.

"I'm blending in."

"Right."

"You should try it," he tears away another bit of fluff before offering some to you. You can't remember the last time you had cotton candy, so decide to take a page out of Bucky's book and enjoy yourself for a bit. You pull at the sticky treat, getting a nice little ball of fluff to try. The sugar strands melt in your mouth as soon as it hits your tongue.

"Good right?"

"It's pure sugar, Bucky. Of course its good," you giggle, and Bucky's grin only widens with your response. You're on the second round of walking through the carnival grounds, sharing the fluffy treat when Bucky spots you looking at some of the prizes offered in the carnival games.

"You want one?" He points to the prizes.

"A prize? No, they're like impossible to get. All those games are rigged." You don't think it's worth the money while Bucky looks at you like you've challenged him, "Nothing's impossible when you've got the right skills. Tell me which one you want and I'll get it." You don't take him seriously until he stops walking and waits for you to choose one.

So you stop and look around, there's your generic animal plush prizes, the franchise licensed ones, the ones that cater to kids, and the autumnal themed ones. You skim through them, only one of them catching your eye.

"The bat," you point to it, a plush prize for one of those balloon dart games.

He looks to where you're pointing, "The bat? The one with the grumpy face? You sure?"

"Yeah, it's cute, looks like you," at your comparison, Bucky's face falls and you can't help but laugh. He looks even more like the bat now.

"See, you've got the same expression and everything."

Bucky grumbles something under his breath about how there's no way you just described him being as cute as a bat. He honestly doesn't know if he should be offended or flattered.

You both head over to the game stall. He hands you the almost fully eaten cotton candy treat while he tells the game operator he'd like to play and points to the bat as the prize he wants to win. The operator explains to win the bat, Bucky has to at least pop two balloons in a row. While you do have faith that Bucky is excellent with his aim, you have no faith that this game is set up fairly.

And yet, you should never underestimate a man on a mission. Bucky is handed two darts and throws them back to back, popping two balloons in a row leaving the operator stunned. He gives the bat to Bucky and Bucky hands it to you proudly.

You hold it like it's something precious, the polyester smooth to the touch. No one's ever won you anything before. "I can't believe how fast you won that. Even the operator was shocked," you comment, squishing the bats face over how cute it is. He shrugs like it was nothing, adoring the joy it's brought to you, "Would never want to disappoint you, sweetheart."

Your heart does a little flutter at the term of endearment. As a thank you, you plant a quick, but sweet kiss on his cheek. "Thanks, Buck." You don't miss the way his ears tinge pink, and he smiles at you like you're the only reason for his happiness, "Anytime, doll."

You take his hand, leading him down the rows of carnival games to keep looking around. Every step you take is a little lighter, almost forgetting why you were here in the first place.

By the time you make it back to the family area, Bucky excuses himself to take head to the bathroom quickly. You agree to wait for him by the funnel cake stand while you scan the area for something to eat. When Bucky is out of your sight, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

Someone's watching you.

You examine the droves of people around you, no one seems familiar to you, but you know you're not being paranoid, someone is definitely watching you. And they waited for you to be alone to make themselves known. It's not until your eyes dart back to the entrance of the family area that you spot him. Your first instinct is to smile at him, and you're about to wave him over, but something stops you.

He's not smiling back.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes rake over your body like he's trying to get one last good look at you.

And most chilling of all? When he turns to leave there's a limp to his step that confirms your worst fears.

It's John Walker. He's the Brooklyn Ripper.

In your state of shock, you lose him in the crowd.

Your feet move before you can reconsider your actions. It shouldn't make sense—John being a cold blood killer—it shouldn't, and yet it does. As you push through the crowd of people to catch up to him, all that races through your mind are the pieces of evidence connecting themselves to each other with red threads.

Carol's card, Hydra's connections, his dates that always seems to go bad, the many times he insisted helping you with the case, the frequent check ins to make sure you were doing okay really being excuses to see what you knew about the case, and the way he got upset when you found out about Valentina. Logically, it makes sense, but your heart is lagging behind on reconciling the reality that a friend of yours—someone you would have trusted with your life—was the killer you were searching for all along.

Your head whips around frantically as you try to locate John. Some of the people around you look at you strangely, you must look like such a sight right now.

Should you call Fury? Carol? Should you warn them? Calling in backup means surrounding this place with law enforcement and putting Bucky at risk. That might have to be on the back burner until there was no other choice. To accuse John of being the Brooklyn Ripper requires solid proof, and right now you have none. And it's not like you won much merit with Fury after disappointing him so many times.

Plus, you still don't have a lot of answers like his motive, why the first three victims were different, or what caused him to break. John was in the military before being recruited to the FBI, so he does fits some of the profile, but the rest? The rest are pieces of a puzzle you don't even know if they fit.

By the time you get out of the crowd you worry you've lost him, but the rambunctious shriek of clown laughter catches your attention. You manage to catch John heading inside a funhouse while the teenager who runs it yells at him. John has already made his way in by the time you make it to the clown head entrance.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you can't cut the line and you can't go in there right now." The teenager who is most likely not getting paid enough to deal with as many problems as he has tonight, stops you from going in. You reach into your jacket, taking out your badge and it flashing to him. He looks like a fish out of water.

You glance at the name on his tag, "Peter, is there anyone else in that funhouse besides the man that just walked in?" He shakes his head adamantly, "No ma'am. I'm not supposed to let anyone in while it's not fully operational. One of the generators went out, so no ones allowed inside until maintence is done fixing it." You're relieved to hear it'll only be John waiting for you inside.

"Okay, listen here, kid," he straightens up at your words, "The man that just went in there? He's a possible suspect, so I'll be going in to arrest him. How long does this funhouse take to get through?" Peter has an answer right away, "Twenty to thirty minutes depending on how fast you go."

You nod, making a mental note of that while reaching into one of your pockets and taking out your business card. "If I don't come out in twenty, you call this number," you point to the number below yours, the FBI tip line, "You give them my name and you tell them I need backup urgently. And absolutely under no circumstance do you let anyone go into this place, do you hear me?" He takes your card with a shaky hand, "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh and kid," you give him the grumpy bat Bucky won for you, "hold onto this for me. You guard this bat with everything you got or so help me I'll lock you up myself." Peter's eyes go wide in fear, "Yes ma'am—of course, ma'am." He hugs the bat so tightly to his body it's like he's trying to make it a part of him.

You face the funhouse, looking up at the enormous clown head, it's mouth an open wide entrance. Never having been inside a funhouse before, you have no idea what awaits you.

You step inside, pulling out your gun in perfect position as you walk forward. The clown's mouth leads to a neon spinning tunnel. The glow and the dark green swirls contrast with the blues and purples. They spin round and round, encircling you with the intention of making you dizzy as you walk across a metal platform. Peter mentioned there was only one generator out, so you had to hope which ever ones were fine powered enough things inside to help you get through the funhouse and catch John.

You have no idea how far in he is already, so you push onward. Switching on the tactical light on your gun to light your surroundings better. You're halfway through the metal platform when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know who it is, you know it's Bucky, but you don't have the time for a call. John could be watching you right now. So instead, you quickly take out your phone—ignoring the five texts Bucky sent you prior to calling you—and you send him your live location. He'll be able to find you in no time.

The tunnel isn't hard to get through, and it takes about a minute to complete. The end of it is the start of a mirror maze that seems to have been impacted by the power source. It shuffles through solids colors sporadically—some lasting longer than others. And unlike the tunnel, there's carnival music being played, but it's faint, like someone forgot to turn up the volume.

Your light glares distractingly against the mirrors, so you turn it off before heading in. The strip of lights on the ground are red, your figure reflecting on a myriad of prisms. In the distance there's something that's akin to a chorus of laughter, but you're not sure.

You keep your arms outstretched, using the barrel of your gun to tap on the space in front of you as you navigate the maze. You swipe your legs strategically to feel for what path to take. And it's in the midst of the lights changing from red to purple that you hear someone call out your name.

You whirl in the direction of the sound and three reflections of John stare back at you. You point your gun on them, but you can't tell which one is the real one. He disappears before you can find out.

"John!" You yell out, picking up your pace and accidentally bumping into a wall, "Tell me it's not true. Tell me you're not who I think you are!" You're demanding answers. Not from the killer, but from the man you thought was your friend.

The lights switch to blue.

"You know who I am. You've known me long enough to know." His voice sounds like it's somewhere to your left. You can't rely on your sight in here, so you'll have to rely on getting him to talk to follow his voice.

You bump into another wall, but you brush it off quickly. "I thought I did! A part of me still doesn't think it's true, but tell me John, how did you injure your foot?"

There's a loud metallic clink that echoes to your right—or was it your left?

"You're asking me, but you sound like you already know how," he sounds closer, the lights flashing to green, then yellow, then back to red in a matter of seconds. It's jarring.

"Do I?" Do you?

"You do," there's a sinister undertone to his words that you can't mistake for anything else. John is showing you his true colors and it's hitting you like a slap to the face.

You grow frustrated, whether it's at yourself for not seeing what was right in front of you or at him for betraying your trust, you can't tell. It's probably both.

"But why? How could you do that? Those women didn't deserve it!"

"They did! Those bitches got what they deserved and so will you!" The malice in his shout startles you as much as the crash following it does. It's easy to locate the source, one of the mirror panels was shattered with bits of glass all over the floor. In his anger, he must have punched it, there's a blood smear on the area of impact. That's good. The more he injures himself, the easier it'll be to take him down. You're not military trained like he is, so you'll take any advantage you can get.

The exit to the mirror maze is up ahead, the laughter getting louder the closer you get to it. Past the mirror maze is a room that looks straight out of a clown horror movie. There are big sacks of what looks like cotton candy, swinging back and forth forcibly like it's purpose were to knock you into the wall. They're sticky to the touch, and hung randomly from the ceiling like they were a maze of their own.

If that wasn't enough, there was a constant strobe light illuminating the room in harsh flashes while carnival music blasted in your ears with hounding waves of clown laughter. The room was designed to be disorienting and overstimulating, and you were feeling that and more right now.

You move throughout the room as best as you can, trying to doge every swinging obstacle, but still managing to get hit a few times. You can't tell if John is still in the room with you, so there's an extra edge of fear to every movement you see in the corner of your eyes.

Toward the end, the big puffs of cotton candy stubbornly stick to your body like they're trying to drag you back into the room. The music and laughter seem to be getting louder and the flashes of light more bold and frequent—it's throwing you every which way—you're losing your sense of direction.

When you step into the next room, you are welcomed by darkness. Your eyes are having a hard time adjusting after being battered by lights, the ghosts of them lingering behind your eyelids with every blink. The laughter and music are now faint and blocked out by the partition separating the rooms. It's so silent, the ringing in your ears is the loudest thing in here.

You switch the tactical light on your gun back on, the spotlight reveals a sight that has you grateful you didn't step further into the room.

The entire floor is a ball pit.

From up above you can't tell how deep it goes, but it's at least twenty to forty feet long—about your average pool size—or at least that's what your scattered mind comes up with. It's like a giant rainbow sea, one big enough to hide a man like John inside, and you have a gut feeling that while you were navigating the previous room, he hid somewhere in here—ready to catch you off guard.

You crouch down, slowly making your way inside the ball pit—feet first—knowing you had no choice but to go through it. Whatever twisted game John was playing with you, he was clearly enjoying. He couldn't outrun you and he has too many injuries to take you down as easily as he's used to with his previous victims. He needed to give himself the element of surprise to get the upper hand on you.

The light on your gun reflects off the obnoxious yellow colored walls surrounding the ball pit. You submerge yourself all the way in, the plastic balls surprisingly icy to the touch and coming up all the way to just below your chest.

As if the light wasn't enough for him to know your exact location, you couldn't take a step in the pit without making noise. There was no way you could navigate your way through this quietly. So you needed to do something to make him reveal his location, to make him slip and take away the advantage he has right now.

You swipe at the colorful balls at the surface, they bounce off each other like waves and land somewhere a couple feet ahead of you. You scan the pit with your light, eyes focusing hard on the slightest movement, but you get nothing.

You're going to have to do something riskier like provoke him. John was never good at taking criticism, and if you go at him hard then maybe that would be enough to rattle him and reveal himself.

You take a step forward, firmly gripping your gun, "You know, I didn't believe it at first, but the more I think about it the more it makes sense. You don't have many friends at the bureau, and even the ones you do don't like you. Carol always thought you were pathetic loser for never getting past the first date with someone. She was right."

Another step in the pit, another moment of silence.

"Is that why you killed them? Because they didn't give you enough attention?" you spit out the question, another harsh swipe of the plastic toys.

Nothing.

"You couldn't keep a date, so you had to make it everyone's problem? Not man enough to keep a woman by your side, are you?" you taunt him, but it's clearly not enough. You have to hit him somewhere it really hurts.

A few more steps in, you're getting nearer to the halfway point, "And to think you have a son," you scoff, "What is he going to think, John? What will he say when he's old enough to know about all of this and realizes his dad wasn't the hero he claimed to be—just some dead beat fucking loser?"

You think you hear a heavy exhale, but it was too quick and quiet, you honestly could have imagined it. Or maybe it was your own breathing that seems to get heavier by the minute.

Another scan with your flashlight, another step, "With such a poor excuse of a father and man that you are—no wonder Olivia divorced you."

That right there hit a nerve. Everything after you said that happened fast, like if you had blinked in that moment you would have missed it.

There was a slight rustle, a shift in the ball pit to the right of you. You whip your gun in that direction, the light barley catching his eyes from where he was hidden underneath. That slight glint in them visible from where you stood, was the last thing you saw before you felt your feet being swiped from under you.

You're being pulled down into the pit, hands scrambling to get a steady grip on something to pull you up from drowning. In the midst of being pulled you drop your gun, its location visible to you only by the light on it. You don't have time to panic, you push your way through the pit, swiping furiously to get to your gun. Then you feel John's hand grab your ankle and pull you harshly to drag you towards him. You kick back, but he's able to get you close enough to hook an arm around your waist. You kick and elbow him blindly, your lack of visibility affecting you in this moment.

You know his M.O., he'll be aiming for your neck.

You can't let him get that final grip or it's all over.

If there's one thing you're not about to do, is go down easily. You thrash harshly in his hold, ignoring any strain it causes on your body, only focusing on how it detriments him. You recall the locations of his injuries, and try your best to aim your attacks there, but you miss more than you'd like in the dark.

"You think you know everything don't you?" he grunts, scrambling to get a good grip with his injured hand, "A goody two shoes pretentious know it all, who's really just a good for nothing agent that couldn't tell her killer was sitting right next to her every day," his cold ridicule unfurls an insecurity in you like taking off the bandage on an unhealed wound. "I didn't even have to try that hard to gain your trust. Practically offering it to me on a silver platter just because I was fucking nice to you. You want pathetic? Honey, I'm looking at it," he snarls into your ear, shaking you, and it's enough to get you to lash out at him, your anger fueled. You grab a few balls from the pit, twisting in his hold to shove them in his face. They're plastic, so they won't do much damage, but it's enough to disorient him for a moment.

You use that moment to land a proper punch to his face. Unfortunately, it wasn't with your dominant hand, so it's not as powerful and you'll definitely be feeling it later, but it does the job. He barks out a curse, head thrown back and grip loosening slightly. You don't let him catch his breath, almost instantly after, taking as much force as you can muster to side kick him in his injured knee.

The pain knocks the wind out of him and he cries out, no longer being able to properly hold you. You push him forcibly, scrambling to locate your gun and lunging at it when you do. But he only takes a fraction of what you thought to recover, nails scraping at your shoe while you try to kick him off, throwing waves of the balls around you at him like it were water. He uses his good foot and shoulder to propel himself forward practically pouncing on you. You swipe at his face, but he gets a good grip on your hair, good enough to pull you up with him.

You cry out at the pain and in a matter of seconds, his right arm wraps around your neck, his elbow under your chin. His other hand cradles the back of your head, your entire life in his hands. Your hands shoot up to grab him arm and tug at his jacket, but he gives your neck a light squeeze as a warning for you to behave. You go still.

"You have been a pain in my ass since you started to go off script with this case," he grits in your ear, causing you to shiver. "You weren't supposed to do that, darling. You were always a good girl, followed the rules, did everything by the book before you got transferred—what changed?"

You're shaking, both out of ire and fear and he can feel it, his left hand petting your hair in his sick attempt to calm you , "It was never supposed to go down like this. As long as you were kept in the dark you were safe. When Fury connected the cases I thought I could finally pin this on one of those Hydra bastards once and for all now that I would know your every move."

He pulls in his elbow, tightening the grip on your neck for a second to cut off your blood flow. He lets go, laughing sardonically—he's toying with you—relishing the power he holds.

"You know, that Hydra case was supposed to be my big chance at a promotion. The kind that would get my wife to stop bitching about our finances. I worked my ass off for my wife and kid. I stayed back for longer shifts, putting in more hours in the field than any other agent. I did all the shit no one else wanted to, and for what? No matter what I did, it was never good enough." The hollowness in his voice speaks of years of this hatred building up in his heart.

"John, this isn't—" he doesn't let you finish, the hand that was cradling the back of your head now being slapped over your mouth. "You got your chance to talk honey, it's my turn."

He shakes his head, "You're all the same. Never appreciating me, never letting me get a word in," he goes off like a mad man, like he's lost it—letting out what's always been within. "Not my wife, handing me divorce papers on my fucking birthday. Not Valentina's pretentious girls who always charge extra for mediocre shit. Not Fury who calls me in at any goddamn hour because I'm so reliable, but can't even give me a pay raise. And not you, sabotaging my plan to connect the cases so that Hydra went down for it all and I'd finally get the promotion I'm owed. But that's okay, I'll use your death to bury the truth. When I tell Fury one of Hydra's lackeys killed you, and I witnessed it all bravely trying to save you, I'll get the recognition I deserve, " He says that last part with a heated hatred for you. For ruining the one and only chance he had to fulfill his purpose. And yet, being the one thing that can save it.

He's seething, you can practically feel the heat of his anger roll off of him in droves into you. His grip around your neck tightens and you let out a strangled gasp. You think this is it, he's finally going to do it. But he either backs out or something else happens, because he doesn't get to hold you long before you're falling forward into the pit.

The balls break your fall somewhat, and you're stumbling to get a grip on what's going on. You register John crying out, a bit of groans, and the sound the plastic clashing from flying everywhere from an obvious struggle. You don't know what's going, but the light coming from your gun gives you something to focus on. You crawl your way to it, feeling relieved to finally have it back in your hands. With shaky footing, you stand up, gun pointed to the struggle, and you could start crying at the sight of your savior.

It's Bucky. The bottom half of his face is covered by a black tactical mask, but you know those eyes anywhere. Neither of them are getting many hits in, but they're also not going completely unscathed either. Bucky seems to be wrangling John in like he's some wild animal losing control, while John scrambles to get rid of whoever is in his way. He might be injured, but he's still putting up a fight.

Their struggle is a blur and you can't get a clear hit to John without getting Bucky caught in it too. Your mind races on what your next move should be when suddenly, something shiny reflects in John's left hand. It's a knife, most likely the one he's used on every single victim and your heart sinks at the sight of it. You know he intends to use it on Bucky, so you have to act fast before it's too late. Thinking on your feet, you shoot a round at the wall that causes them both to stop at the sound. You take that opening to shoot John in his injured shoulder. He wails out a curse before falling backward into the pit. You ease knowing he won't be able to get out of here on his own.

The gunshots still ring in your ears, but you don't care, you're already trudging over to Bucky when John is out of sight. He does the same, rushing over to you like his life depends on it. You practically throw yourself on him in an embrace, and Bucky holds you so tightly you doubt he'll ever let go again.

"I told you not to do this again, doll. You had me thinking the worst," his voice is muffled by the mask, but you can hear the anguish in it. You start tearing up, your entire being finally catching up to what just went down. "I know, I'm sorry. He just appeared out of nowhere and I felt like if I didn't act right away I'd lose him."

The lights in the room turn back on, and you have to blink a few times to adjust to the difference. You both inspect each other at the same time in the light, desperate to find out if the other is okay. Bucky pretty much looks unscathed, but his eyes harden when he notices the redness and swelling on your hand from when you punched John.

"So that piece of shit, he's been the Brooklyn Ripper this whole time?" He says it like he's sorry he missed it. Like if he knew he would've gotten rid of John a long time ago for you.

He knew he never liked the guy for a reason.

"Yeah, he was, and I…I mean it's—it's all over," your energy depletes as the adrenaline starts to wear off. A hint of the pain that's coming your way from exerting yourself in the fight starts to show itself. You fall into his embrace again like it's the only thing you need right now to keep you from falling apart. He can feel the way you sag against him, and it makes him wish he would've gotten here sooner.

Your reunion is sadly cut short when the music is shut off from every room in the funhouse, letting you hear the sound of distant shouting and sirens. You pull away from Bucky, scurrying to push him out of the ball pit. He finds it amusing that you can barely make him budge, even more so when you glare at him.

"Do not fight me on this," you warn him, thinking back to the one thing he wouldn't promise, "This place is about to be filled with federal agents, and I'll be dammed if I lose you to this, James Buchanan Barnes," you whisper his full name so only he can hear it. It should intimidate him, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes his heart jump in his chest like it's trying to escape and run home to you.

"You won't, sweetheart. I'm with you till the end," he declares softly, eyes shimmering with the kind of promise only pure devotion knows the language of. It leaves you speechless, giving him the kind of look he would only dream of before. The thumping of boots quickly approaching gets louder, and he hesitantly makes a swift exit. His parting words sticking with you when Fury, along with a team of agents, make their way inside the room, guns drawn.

You know you must look a sight, disheveled and torn in the middle of a children's ball pit.

"What in the hell is going on?"

From the moment Fury asks this question you act on autopilot. Switching to a more detached version of yourself, the one you were used to dawning on before working on this case. A professional version of yourself that helps get you through the job.

Maria and Fury help you out of the ball pit, back into the room filled with puffs of cotton candy, expecting answers and yet not being prepared for the ones you give them.

You tell them about the stalking, the break in at your apartment, and how the suspect injured himself in the process. How the Brooklyn Ripper challenged you to be here. You tell them how John Walker exposed himself as the killer, and during a fierce struggle, revealed to you a lot of damning things. You start to connect the dots for them. The divorce, the connections between cases, how the evidence lined up, Carol's card, the stalking—reliving it all was making your head throb. There was still a lot to make sense of, but those are questions John would have to answer for.

John Walker, a man who chose his vices and then punished them for not filling the void inside him. Drowning in his own insecurities and who was now being carried out on a portable stretcher by a team of paramedics. He's lethargic, mumbling incoherences about a monster in a mask.

The Brooklyn Ripper doesn't seem so scary in this light.

"When I asked you to never do anything like this again, I meant it. This is the second time you've disobeyed me," Fury dawns on that disappointed father demeanor again, but this time you're too exhausted to care. "I know, but once there was a suspicion it could be anyone at the FBI, I had to do this alone."

He sighs, crossing his arms, "We'll have to get your story straight later for the report and the higher ups. You did a good job tonight, but if anyone asks, this was my idea." You hum displeased, but you know why he's saying that. He's saving you from getting fired. An insubordinate agent isn't one the bureau would want to keep around, and even Fury has someone he has to report to.

"Yeah, I get it."

Fury gives you a couple orders he's not letting you disobey tonight. He instructs you to go get checked by one of the paramedics, he'll send a member of the crime scene unit to get photographs of all your injuries for evidence, and then you're heading straight home once you're cleared. John's injuries will have him stay overnight at the hospital, and he might not be conscious for an interview until tomorrow. So for now, Fury will stay behind with the crime scene unit and collect as much evidence and witness statements as they can. You have no issue following these orders.

You walk out of the funhouse, every step feeling heavier than the last. You catch Peter's eye and he grins proudly, showing you the bat in his arms all safe and sound. You had almost forgotten about it.

"I kept it safe, just like I said I would." You grab the bat from his hands, feeling a strong urge to hold it close. "Thanks, kid. You keep my card, okay? If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call." He thanks you in wonder that you'd offer him that.

You don't know how you make it over to one of the ambulances, but eventually you're sitting on the edge of one with an EMT scoping out your injuries and giving you a routine check based on everything you told him happened. Just like Fury said, a crime scene unit member comes over to collect evidence of tonight's events. By the time they're all done taking pictures, swabbing, and prodding at you—you're at your limit.

You're eventually cleared to go home. You look at the chaos across the field, flashing colored lights from the law enforcement vehicles dance across the faces of the evacuating guests of the carnival, the people recording on their phones for social media, and the local news station reporters. All a symphony of chaos you want to run away from.

And then in the field approaching you is your solace and refuge all in one.

"I want to go home," you whisper, and Bucky reaches his hand out for you to take. "Come on then, let's go home," he says softly while you take his hand, the gentleness in which he holds you is such a contrast to the stories the scars on his hand tell. You run your thumb over them absentmindedly, causing Bucky to glance at you and notice something.

"I'm glad to see the bat made it out okay," he comments to lighten the mood. You look down at it, "The kid managing the line kept it safe for me. I knew things would get rough in there with John, so I had to make sure he was safe. I mean, John even gave you a hard time," you point out and Bucky scoffs like you insulted him, "Sweetheart, make no mistake, that was me going easy on him. I could've killed him for laying a hand on you." You frown, not understanding why Bucky would hold back, putting himself on the line if he could have ended things quicker.

His car is in sight when he notices your confusion, "I went easy on him because if I hadn't there would be a lot of injuries you wouldn't have been able to explain and you would've gotten in trouble. John is only alive for your sake." The sincereness in his tone should frighten you, but it doesn't. Not when you think back to the way John had intended to fatally wound Bucky with the knife. If John had been successful, would you have been able to stop yourself from pulling the trigger?

You'll never know for sure, but your heart knows what you would've done.

Bucky doesn't expect you to say anything, but the way you lean into his side before you reach his car is enough to assure him he didn't scare you off. Things had been easier between you before this case. He was the one who was hard to get close to at first, who had too many shadows of his past haunting him. And yet, you never gave up on him even when he wasn't ready or willing to open up to you. So when the tables turned, he always tried to be the light in the dark you had been for him, and patiently waiting for the moment you would let yourself live again.

He hopes you can find yourselves back to that place now that it's all over.

Bucky opens the passenger door for you, helping you inside and then heading over to the driver's seat. He starts the car in no time, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot while the other reaches over to keep your hand in his.

You don't let go.

Bucky's apartment is starting to feel more like home to you than your own. You're staying there tonight, of course. Neither of you had to mention it to know it was happening.

Bucky leads you to his bedroom. You sit on his bed putting the bat beside you on the nightstand. He heads over to his dresser, taking out a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt for you to change into. He puts them next to you on the bed before grabbing a pair of black sweatpants from his dresser and stepping out of the room to give you privacy.

You barely make it past shrugging off your jacket when your starts to protest. It's the only thing you manage to take off when attempting to lift your shirt over your head, burns your skin with an intense ache. Every movement you make suddenly feels like you need double the strength and effort to do, as if you had been hit by a truck.

When Bucky comes back into the room he's half surprised to see you still haven't changed clothes, until he sees the way you wince when turning to face him, and a somber expression overtakes him. He walks over to you, gently brushing your hair out of your face, "Want me to help?"

"Yes."

Bucky gently, and very carefully, helps you out of your clothes, the act intimate in a way only soulmates would know. He softly brushes past parts of your body that are tender and hold signs of how hard you fought before he got there. He swallows hard, looking at the signs like they've stung him.

"Don't do that. Don't blame yourself." It's written all over his face.

"I can't help it. I'll always blame myself for stuff like this." You sit with the weight of that as he finishes helping you get into his clothes. His dog tags dangle from his bare chest when he tucks you into bed.

You grab his wrist before he can leave, "Stay with me."

"Always."

Bucky turns off the lights, joining you on the bed and pulling you into him. You lay your head on his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a safety net. You feel like you can finally breathe—like you're finally allowed to. And then it all hits you suddenly at once, everything you've been holding back from tonight crashing full force into you.

Bucky can feel the shift in you, the way you start to tremble in his arms before you let out the first sniffle. His hand brushes up to wipe a tear away, whispering your name like an oath in the dark. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. You're safe. I got you, doll. I got you. You can let it out." The soft spoken assurance of his words release the floodgates. Your sniffles turning into sobs as you cry into his chest. He holds you close, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and whispering sweet nothings into your ear that come out as an I love you and I'm here in more ways than one.

Time seems to drag on while all your emotions drain out of you. You don't know how long it takes for you to calm down, but when you finally lift your head from his chest, you feel a familiar longing ache in your chest. You lean into him silently asking for something you've both wanted for a long time. He looks into your eyes as if searching for an answer, and all he finds is a plea that falls between an I love you and I need you.

In the end, you don't know who kisses who first. It's pure and ardent all in one—like it could consume you both if you let it—getting lost in a haze that's all you and him. A kiss that promises the kind of future you've been looking for all you life, but is your salvation for now. Something to tether you to this world and remind you there's still good in it. Nothing outside matter right now except what finally falling into place between you now.

You pull away to catch your breath, snuggling into his chest to listen to the beat of his heart—a beautiful lullaby. He feels you melt into his arms, lowering his head to plant a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Rest now, you deserve it." he whispers of something far more then just tonight, and it doesn't take long after that for you to fall asleep.

There is no rest for the wicked or those who live to stop it, but tonight, you may rest.

Tomorrow will be a new day.

a/n: I always appreciate any kind of interaction, but I would really love to know your thoughts on this one! 🫶🏼 Did you guess who are killer was? 👀

Thank you all again for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

lovelies who asked to be tagged: @star-yawnznn @sebastians-love

bucky masterlist || fic playlist || trick or treat event

[barnesonly]

BARNESONLY MASTERLIST ⏾⋆.˚

Welcome to my Masterlist! Here you can find all of my works.

disclaimer: some of my posts are 18+ and contain explicit content, MDNI. Please read at your own risk and If you feel uncomfortable just stop reading. You have been warned. divider credit @cafekitsune (edited template).

⋆⁺₊✧ NAVIGATION: ♡ smut | ❀ fluff | ☾ angst | 𖦹 dark themes | ᯓ★ fan favorite

⋆⁺₊✧ ONE SHOTS

A Night from the Past ⇢ bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ❀ ♡

summary: you take bucky to 40s’ themed bar

Yearning ⇢ bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ❀ ♡

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

ghosted ⇢ bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀ ♡

summary: who says Halloween night has to feel lonely? your super soldier boyfriend might be “on a mission,” but that doesn’t mean you can’t haunt his inbox… just make sure not to ghost him, he gets impatient very easily. featuring some of the avengers… 👀

bad idea ⇢ bucky barnes x avenger!reader ⇢ ♡

summary: Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you all mission and when you catch him moaning your name back at the safe house, you make sure to give him exactly what he’s been craving.

Unspoken ⇢ bucky barnes x avenger!reader ⇢ ♡ ☾

summary: You and Steve share a steady, unshakeable friendship — nothing more, nothing less. But Bucky’s feelings for you have been quietly growing since Germany, and a mission where you and Steve get a little too close sparks something he can’t ignore.

Bambi ⇢ dad!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀

summary: yours and bucky’s toddler daughter visits avengers tower for the first time and immediately becomes everyone’s favorite. alexei is obsessed. yelena is chaotic aunt. bob is shy. bucky comes back from a mission and goes full soft dad mode. chaos and fluff ensue!!

Miss Rabbit ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡

summary: Congressman Barnes always finds the little bunny you hide in his suit. This time, he finds it mid-meeting, right before a big vote. When he calls you to his office that night, you know you’re in trouble… 🐰💼💋

National Anthem ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader ⇢ ♡ ☾

summary: Your first days as Congressman James Barnes’ assistant are supposed to be all work, schedules, and meetings—but nothing prepares you for the tension simmering beneath his professional exterior.

lust for life ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader ⇢ ♡

summary: you knew working for a congressman would involve long hours, fancy events, and lots of stress. what you didn’t know? that you’d end up tucked away at the gala, trying and failing to stay quiet while your boss fucks the shit out of you.

merry christmess ⇢ ceo!bucky barnes x assistant!reader ⇢ ♡

summary: you’re working late, trying to get the end-year reports done by Christmas but your boss has a different idea.

Five-Oh! ⇢ cop!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ 𖦹 ♡

summary: small town life always felt suffocating, but nothing could prepare you for sheriff james buchanan barnes showing up at your door. everyone in town knows he owns it—owns you, too, if he decides to.

Days of Silence ⇢ boyfriend!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ☾

summary: Bucky’s the best boyfriend — sweet, gentle, trying so hard to be good. But sometimes his trauma speaks louder than he does, and he snaps without meaning to. You’ve always been understanding. you know it’s not really him but this time, it hits too close to old wounds.

First Time ⇢ boyfriend!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ❀ ♡

summary: you tell Bucky you’ve never had sex before and he makes it his mission to show you what it means to feel safe, wanted, and loved.

guns and roses ⇢ boyfriend!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡

sumamry: you should’ve known better than to bet against a century-old assassin at the shooting range. but your ego said “no way i’ll lose” and now here you are… paying up in a way bucky couldn’t be more happy about.

Night Ride ⇢ possessive!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡

summary: you’re being a brat on a car ride so you leave bucky no choice but to put you back in your place.

Obsession ⇢ possessive!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡

summary: You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.

Teasing ⇢ possessive!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ♡

summary: there’s non. this fic is pure, filthy porn. look at the warnings!

Round Two ⇢ possessive!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ♡

summary: Tension explodes in the training room when Bucky walks in on you sparring a little too close with Walker. He doesn’t say much but when he takes over the session… well. Jealous!Bucky Barnes it is.

Half-return ⇢ dad!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ related to “forwards beckon rebound”, ☾

summary: your daughter skips school to visit Bucky’s — her father’s — grave.

forwards beckon rebound ⇢ 40’s!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ related to “Half-return”, ♡ ☾

summary: You finally found love. Found your place in the world, as your brother’s best friend fell for you with a kind of devotion that made life feel safe for once. But everything changed when he got drafted to war and you refused to be left behind.

✧ BLURBS ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ .𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆ DRABBLES: Bear Hug dad!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀ Warrior ⇢ dad!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀ Birthday Moon ⇢ boyfriend!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ❀ Heart Monitor ⇢ husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ❀ Unboxing ⇢ roommate!bucky x reader ⇢ Touch-Starved ⇢ grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader ⇢ ♡ Sink In ⇢ grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader ⇢ ♡ ☾

⋆⁺₊✧ SERIES

Illegal ⇢ mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reade ⇢ ᯓ★ 𖦹 ❀ ♡ ☾

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

Little Dove ⇢ winter soldier x empath!reader ⇢ 𖦹 ❀ ♡ ☾

summary: Hydra sends you—a broken empath—into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

Lust ⇢ professor!bucky barnes x reader ⇢ ᯓ★ ♡ ☾

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor—brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

⋆⁺₊✧ MINI-SERIES

Serial Killer ⇢ steve kemp x reader ⇢ 𖦹 ♡

summary: you shouldn’t want this. shouldn’t crave his hands, his mouth, the way he worships you like you’re something holy. he’s dangerous. wrong. but he makes you feel things—in his own twisted, obsessive way.

go go dancer! ⇢ congressman!bucky barnes x stripper!reader ⇢ ♡ | Part Two

summary: out of all the possible places in the world, the congressman ends up in a strip club. he tries… really tries to stay composed, yet the moment his eyes land on you… it’s over. but one private dance cannot cause any harm… right?

Crimson Hearts ⇢ vampire!bucky x reader ⇢ 𖦹 ❀ ♡ ☾

summary: At a grand ball, looking for a husband, you meet James Barnes—a mysterious and handsome stranger. One dance is all it takes for him to capture your innocent heart and vow to win you over. Shortly after you find out the truth about who he really is.

⋆⁺₊✧ COLLABS AND EVENTS...

buckyverse ⇢ welcome to the buckyverse—a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy! @firingstars

bwatober ⇢ one, two, bwa is coming for you… what’s scarier than one bwa collab? another bwa collab! welcome to our rendition of kinktober/flufftober, a collection of 17 bucky fics featuring select prompts. the only thing more terrifying than our deadlines is the emotional coin-toss you’ll be playing with each fic… so what will it be: dick or sweet? @houseofhyde

kinktober ⇢ it’s that magical time of year where the leaves are crunchy, the lattes are pumpkiny, and apparently my brain thinks bucky barnes deserves to be put through different kinds of filth. welcome to my kinktober—aka four excuses to thirst publicly over a fictional man.

once upon a time... ⏾⋆.˚ ⇢ “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a man named Bucky Barnes. Some say he was a devoted prince, others whispered of a pirate adrift on wild seas, and others claimed he was an ugly beast cursed by ruin. Yet no two tales of him were ever the same, for not every story follows the path as old as time.” @superbassbuck

⋆⁺₊✧ OTHERS...

from behind ⇢ bob reynolds x reader ⇢ ♡

god complex ⇢ bob reynolds x reader ⇢ ♡

Prize ⇢ bob reynolds x john walker x reader ⇢ ♡

Hatred ⇢ john walker x reader ⇢ ☾ ♡

summary: You hated John Walker. You fought him before, nearly killed him for carrying the shield. Years later, you’re forced to work with him again—and when he saved your life, the hatred cracked.

the chains of eywa ⇢ varang x reader ⇢ ♡

summary: you have never felt like you belonged to this body. trapped by eywa, you find your way to salvation—fire and it’s leader.

Burning Desire ⇢ baelor targaryen x reader ⇢ ❀♡

good morning, i love you ⇢ baelor targaryen x reader ⇢ ❀♡

summary: your husband finally comes back home, and you’re more than delighted to see him.

Last Updated: April 14th 2026

[stardustrider]

Bucky Barnes x female!reader 💥most read (over 2K notes) 🌟 over 1K notes ⭐over 500 notes

Looking for something quiet SMUT 18+, oral (m receiving), AU set somewhere after Civil War where Bucky lives in the Avenger's tower basement, virgin!Bucky. You don’t fit in at the Tower, you don’t fit in with Tony Stark as your dad, but you do fit perfectly beside the one person who looks like he’s been waiting for a friend as badly as you have

January Jumble Scribbles masterlist

I can see you staring at my ass SMUT 18+, suggestive, teasing, oral (f receiving), after Thundebolts timeline. A teasing game in the Tower kitchen slowly escalates into something unexpected.

Can you be quick? SMUT 18+ , p in v, unprotected sex, practically porn with a bit of plot 😅 You didn’t become the youngest Secretary of State in history by being soft. You’re direct, to put it mildly, and everyone in D.C. knows you and the freshman congressman from Brooklyn can’t stand each other. But in politics, and in matters of the heart, there’s always more than meets the eye…

⭐Trying Counts based on this request, fluff, angst, SMUT 18+ , oral (m receiving), p in v, Bucky Barnes doesn’t believe in kindness. Even wounded and bleeding, he flinches from your touch, expecting pain, not comfort. Can your gentleness reach the part of him that still hopes? Can you show him that not every hand means harm… and that some are worth holding onto?

Lessons in assertiveness, fluff, angst, SMUT 18+ yeah, it's all in again 😅 and a lot of overthinking and self doubt on both sides, your first day as the Thunderbolts’ lead physiotherapist ends in tears. You’re not cut out for this, not for authority, not for giving orders, not for standing your ground. So when Bucky Barnes unexpectedly offers to help you grow more assertive, you say yes. What choice do you have? Are you playing with fire? Absolutely. The only question is… who’s going to get burned?

Almost a Fairy Tale, fluff, SMUT 18+, Bucky is a bad cook, like very bad cook - so you're warned, Bucky comes home late after another chaotic day in his new job as a congressman just to find out he had completely forgotten your wedding anniversary 😲 Will he manage to make things right again?

💥Point Break fluff, angst, SMUT 18+ , canon typical violence, mention of blood and wounds, Bucky’s taking quite a few knocks, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), p in v, Bucky had fallen for you from the first sight, but kept his distance for months, telling himself it was safer that way, until the day Hydra took you, and the choice wasn’t his or yours anymore. Some deals are made knowing they’ll break you

I’ve got you, baby fluff, mild SMUT 18+, just Bucky being the sweetest and most caring boyfriend one can wish for and taking care of his overstimulated girlfriend

⭐Don't wake me fluff, angst, mild SMUT 18+, some canon typical violence during a fight, Bucky being adorably sweet and lost, haunted by his past and self doubt. He never meant to be seen, hiding in the shadows of Bucharest, Bucky lives a quiet, fractured life until the neighbor next door knocks on his door asking for sugar, and everything begins to shift.

Sweet surrender fluff, SMUT 18+, edging, orgasm denial, oral (m receiving), suby Bucky, soft dom reader, mention of restraints (but it's Bucky who's restrained and it doesn't really count as he could brake free anytime he wants, if he wants 😅), Bucky loves the way you wreck him, he's all yours.

⭐Good morning fluff, SMUT 18+ Plot? Never heard of it, just pure, tender smut. Bucky loves waking up with you tangled in his arms, and he needs you. Now.

Killing you softly fluff, SMUT 18+, angst, gets a bit cheesy towards the end 😅 Based on this request – The mission was clear: infiltrate the New Avengers, get close to Bucky Barnes, eliminate the target when the time comes. Easy… until it wasn’t. You keep telling yourself it’s just the job until the order drops, and suddenly you’re no longer sure which side you’re on, but do you really have a choice?

⭐Sweet on you fluff, SMUT 18+, lots of sugar and a bit of suppressed feelings Decorating cupcakes for Mel's bridal shower should’ve been a simple task until Bucky Barnes offers to help. One frosting fight, a kitchen full of chaos, and a few stolen kisses later, it’s clear the tension between you isn’t just in your imagination.

⭐Home SMUT, fluff, a bit of angst, mentions of blood, pain, bruises and wounds, implied domestic abuse in the past It’s been another rough day, one too many, and Bucky’s just looking to forget. No comfort, no connection, just something simple, physical. You weren’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to want more. It wasn’t supposed to get complicated. But it did. It's what happens when neither of you know how to say what you feel.

⭐Late sweet boyfriend Bucky, ruined coffee (it's surely a triggering point for me 😅) fluff, some mild smut Bucky has recently moved in with you and is turning your strict morning routine upside down, making you constantly late because he’s too tempting in the mornings, wearing that sleepy grin, stealing your toothbrush, and cuddling you back into bed every time you try to get up

One Step Away fluff, self-doubt, some mild angst, nightmares Bucky’s been hiding his nightmares and his feelings until you catch him outside your door in the middle of the night

[stardustrider]

Point Break

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: based on this request. Thank you, dear Anon, for this awesome request! I had so much fun writing this, so much that I got completely carried away🙈

Warnings: fluff, angst, SMUT 18+ I really went all in with this one 😅. Canon typical violence, mention of blood and wounds, Bucky’s taking quite a few knocks. Mention of male masturbation, oral (f receiving), p in v. Sunshine reader and Bucky being total Winter Grouch at the beginning, completely lost in his feelings and self-doubt. It's quite a ride and the cherry on the cake comes at the end 😅 Set in the after Thunderbolts timeline

Word Count: 17 K ( I know and I'm sorry 😓)

Summary: Bucky had fallen for you from the first sight, but kept his distance for months, telling himself it was safer that way, until the day Hydra took you, and the choice wasn’t his or yours anymore. Some deals are made knowing they’ll break you.

The jet landed with a metallic shudder, its hydraulics hissing as the ramp descended and exhaust curled into the cool evening air. You were already waiting, standing at the base of the landing pad with your med bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. 

Another completed mission, another set of bruises and egos to tend.

Yelena was the first off the jet, smirking despite the tear in her sleeve and the dried blood on her temple.

"It was just a tiny explosion," she was saying over her shoulder.

“Tiny?” Alexei grumbled behind her. “Then why did you have to use me as a shield?”

He stomped down the ramp with his usual flair, arms spread like a war hero returning from glorious battle, except he was covered in soot, and one of his boots was clearly cracked at the joint, barely clinging to his foot, threatening to give up with the next step. His suit was dusty, torn in at least three places, and he had a cut just above his brow that had left a streak of blood drying down his cheek.

Still, he was grinning.

“Ah! Little one!” he beamed when he spotted you, gesturing broadly. “I took the brunt of it! Protected the children!” He nodded backward toward the others. “You should have seen it! Fire everywhere, rubble falling, and me, holding up half the building!”

“You also tripped over your own foot and fell into a table,” Yelena added as she walked past, deadpan.

Alexei ignored her.

You smiled warmly as he approached, already reaching for a cloth to gently dab at the blood on his face.

“You’re lucky you’re made of bricks, Alexei,” you said softly, scanning him for more injuries. “Looks like you took more than a few hits.”

He puffed out his chest. “Yes, but look! Still standing. Still beautiful.”

You laughed under your breath, cleaning the cut with careful fingers. “Mostly beautiful. Though I think your nose might be crooked again.”

He gasped theatrically. “No! Not the nose! How will I charm the nurses now?”

“You’re in luck,” you said sweetly, patting his arm. “We’re immune to your charms but I still want you in the med bay, please. Let’s get that arm checked out and your ribs, too. You're favoring one side.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Anything for you, solnyshko.” His grin widened as he winked his eye at you. “You patch me up, I’ll tell you all about how I saved everyone. Twice.”

“Deal,” you said with a smile, stepping aside so he could follow the others down the hallway.

You shook your head, watching him lumber off, humming cheerfully, even bruised and dusty, Alexei was still a big child beneath all that bluster.

While Alexei disappeared down the hallway, already beginning his dramatized retelling to a passing tech, gesturing wildly with his good arm, you turned back toward the jet, just in time to see Ava stepping off the ramp with a quiet grunt, one arm wrapped tightly around her middle, the other clutching the railing like it might float away. She moved gingerly, each step measured, the pain clear in her posture, even if she was doing a great job of pretending otherwise.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Ava,” you called gently, jogging a few steps closer, “you’re limping.”

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice was calm, too calm, and she didn’t look at you directly.

“You always say that when you're not,” you replied, already lifting your comm to your mouth. “Medbay, I need a wheelchair to Hangar One. Now, please.”

“I don’t need…”

“You do,” you said firmly but kindly, cutting her off with a smile. “I can see your ankle from here, and I think it’s trying to leave your foot.”

She huffed out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the woman who just fell through a collapsing stairwell and landed like a superhero with a pulled ribcage and a twisted ankle. I heard the whole thing over comms, including the extremely creative swearing,” you smiled at her innocently.

That earned you a small smile in return.

The wheelchair arrived within a minute, pushed by a medtech who looked vaguely terrified of Ava. You gently coaxed her down into the seat, ignoring her muttered protests, as you squat beside her to check the swelling at her ankle.

“It’s already puffing up,” you murmured. “We’ll need x-rays, just to be safe.”

She sighed, clearly embarrassed. “I was trying to phase through the floor to break the fall.”

“And you phased into a fridge instead, didn’t you?”

“I... may have misjudged time and space a little bit.”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, fighting a smile as you gave her knee a gentle pat.

“Please don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I would never,” you said sweetly, then added with mock seriousness, “but I will offer you a deal. No disappearing in radiology this time, okay?”

Ava blinked. “I was nervous last time. I didn’t mean to vanish.”

“You ghosted the technician mid-scan. She still talks about it.”

“That’s not my fault,” she muttered, cheeks pinking.

“Let’s just keep you visible until we get a diagnosis, yeah?” you said with a wink, tapping the edge of the wheelchair lightly.

Ava sighed again, but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Fine. Only because it’s you.”

You smiled warmly in return.

As Ava disappeared down the hall, and not literally this time, you turned to find Yelena leaning against a supply crate like she’d been waiting for her moment.

“I didn’t get so much as a hello,” she said with mock offense, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “And I only got half blown up.”

You let out a soft laugh, walking over to her and gently brushing away a bit of ash clinging to her sleeve.

“I saw the blood on your temple. You sure you’re okay?” you asked, your voice already laced with quiet concern.

She shrugged. “Tiny cut. I’ve had worse hangovers.”

You gave her an approving once-over anyway, just to be sure. “Well, you still look good.”

Yelena grinned. “I know.”

Behind her, John Walker strode over, looking smug and sore in equal measure as he adjusted his shoulder strap with a wince, then paused beside the two of you.

“I don’t need patching up,” he said immediately, like it was a point of pride.

You raised a brow. “That’s why you’re walking like your spine was replaced with rusted springs?”

“I’m just sore. That wall came out of nowhere.”

Yelena snorted. “Walls do that, don’t they? Sneaky things.”

You offered him a friendly smile. “Glad to hear you’re unbreakable. Still, I’ve got an ice pack with your name on it, just in case that ‘soreness’ turns out to be something pulled.”

John chuckled and held up his hands. “No need, Nurse Sunshine, but thanks for the concern.”

Yelena’s smirk deepened. “How do you do this? Even the Boy Scout over here likes you.”

“I don’t like her,” John protested weakly, then glanced at you. “I mean, I do. You’re nice. Just… not like that.”

“I’m flattered either way,” you replied with an easy laugh, the warmth in your voice never faltering.

Yelena gave you a fond little nudge on her way past. “Don’t let the Winter Grouch give you trouble,” she murmured. “He’s bleeding and brooding. Prime Bucky mood.”

“Noted,” you whispered, drawing in a deep breath as you prepared to turn and face the inevitable but Yelena caught the subtle shift in your mood and paused.

She tilted her head, studying you with that sharp, perceptive gaze of hers. “Hey, you’re smiling,” she said, “but you’ve got that look.”

“What look?” you asked lightly, fiddling with the strap of your med bag.

“The one you get when someone’s been a jackass to you and you’re pretending it doesn’t bother you.”

Your smile wavered for just a second. “It’s nothing. I just… sometimes feel like I’m in the way. Like I’m being annoying. I know they’re all tired and hurt and don’t want someone hovering but I’m just simply here to help.”

Yelena frowned. “You are not a nuisance.”

You blinked.

“I mean it,” she added, stepping closer. “You walk into the room, and it actually feels lighter. We’d all be dead or grumpier without you and Bucky’s just... well, you know. Bucky. Don’t take him seriously.”

A soft laugh bubbled out of you. “Bukcy grumpier than he already is? That’s a terrifying thought.”

“Exactly, so do your thing, patch us up! Smile at us. Fuss over us. We need it, even when we pretend we don’t.”

You looked at her, clearly touched by the sincerity in her tone. “Thanks, Lena,” you murmured with a smile.

She gave you a quick, awkward shrug and started backing away. “Don’t get weird about it.”

“I won’t,” you teased, eyes shining. “I’ll just journal about it later.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, shaking her head as she walked off, leaving you alone in the almost empty hangar. Almost. 

You knew he was still there, watching from just out of sight in the shadow, hoping that you might forget him and leave. 

You didn’t need to look to know where he was – slightly to the left of the jet, behind one of the grounded transports, where the shadows ran deepest. You sighed, so this time it was the hide and seek tactic. 

He had a whole repertoire of avoidance tactics by now. He’d beeline for the far exit the second the ramp dropped, trying to slip past you in the blur of disembarkment. He’d stride with a confident grimace on his face as if late for something important, trying to hide the limp in gait and muttering ‘I’m good’ without meeting your eyes, hoping you'd be too busy to stop him. Once, he barked at the mechanical crew about malfunctioning weapons so loudly it echoed through the entire hangar, like this could distract you from seeing his dislocated shoulder. 

He’d timed more than a few disappearing acts to the exact moment you were wrapping gauze around someone else’s arm, his absence marked only by a faint smear of blood on the floor.

The thing was: none of those tactics had ever fully worked.

You almost always caught him, not because you were fast, but because you were constant. You didn’t chase; you simply watched, patient and unwavering, and somehow ended up beside him just when he thought he’d shaken you off. And every single time, it ended the same way: a grumpy exchange, his voice clipped and curt, your smile trying its best to stay steady… and then him following you to the med bay with all the warmth of a snowstorm.

And today was not going to be an exception. 

You took a deep breath, adjusted your med bag on your shoulder, and started walking toward him, calm, unhurried, like this was the most natural thing in the world, because it was, because he was hurt, and even if he didn’t want kindness, he still needed care. 

“I can see you, you know,” you said gently as you rounded the transport.

Bucky didn’t move, he stood with his back to you, one hand braced against the metal side of the jet, the other pressed to the steadily bleeding wound on his side, his dark hair was damp with sweat, a smear of grime streaked across his cheekbone – a man made of iron and exhaustion.

“I’m not in the mood for lectures,” he muttered.

You smiled softly, stepping closer. “Lucky for you, I don’t give them.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted trying to pass you by, but the dark smear of red spreading across his t-shirt just beneath his arm was hard to ignore and in addition to that he was walking a little too stiffly, jaw tight.

“No, you’re not.”

You quickened your pace and managed to step in front of him, blocking his path before he could make it to the elevator. You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, those sharp, tired eyes, and gestured toward the wet patch on his side.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

“I’ve had worse, they all heal,” he muttered, barely meeting your gaze.

“That doesn’t make this one any less important.”

He exhaled like you were the most exhausting person alive. “Go patch up someone who actually needs it.”

You just gave him another warm smile, the one that always got under his skin, the one that said I’m not going anywhere, Barnes.

“Oh, I am,” you said. “You.”

He gave you a look that could freeze lava. “I said I’m fine.”

“Let me look,” you asked quietly. “Just look.”

He finally turned his head toward you, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something raw, cornered, tired and angry. 

“Why do you always do this?” he snapped. “Why can’t you just leave it?”

The words weren’t loud, but they hit harder than they should have, you swallowed, keeping your expression steady and your voice gentle.

“Because you’re bleeding, Bucky, because it’s my job, and because I care.”

He winced.

“Come to the medbay,” you said, nodding toward the corridor behind you. “Please, let me help.”

He stared at you like he didn’t understand why you were making such a fuss about it, but eventually, wordlessly, he started slowly moving in the right direction.

You walked in silence, a careful distance between your shoulder and his, not too close, never too close. He didn’t like that, or maybe he didn’t like you, and the thought of your arm accidentally brushing his was too much. You weren’t sure.

You used to tell yourself he was like this with everyone and to a certain point that was true, Bucky Barnes didn’t exactly ooze warmth with the rest of the team either, but somehow… somehow it felt different with you - colder and sharper.

At first, you thought it was just because you were new. People like him took time to open up, to let others into their world but time passed, it was six months now, and nothing had changed or maybe it had, maybe it had gotten worse. 

You tried not to dwell on it, but your brain kept cataloging every moment he flinched away from your touch, every time he refused to look you in the eye when you smiled, every muttered “I didn’t ask you,” or clipped “Just don’t talk”, and you tried, you really, really tried to let it slide off your back, to tell yourself it wasn’t personal.

But it felt personal, because you didn’t just care about him as a medic, or even as a teammate. You liked him, even more than that.

There was something steady in him, something tired, yes, angry and closed-off and jagged, but steady and kind, in these brief, flickering moments that he seemed to hate himself for.

You saw that, you felt it, and you liked him, quietly, fiercely, which made the way he shut you out all the harder to swallow.

You wanted to believe he didn’t actually hate you, that it wasn’t your voice or your warmth that irritated him, but something else, some fear or scar you weren’t meant to understand. And yet, every time he pulled away or acted like you were unbearable, it left a bruise in a spot no bandage could reach.

You glanced over at him as you reached the hallway leading to the med bay. He was walking stiffly, blood still blooming through his shirt, jaw clenched like stone, as if he were headed for an interrogation room, not a place meant to help him heal.

He very obviously didn’t want to be here, not with you.

You swallowed hard against the familiar ache in your throat and forced on that small, professional smile, the one you’d worn too many times before.

Don’t take it personally… don’t make it anything… just do your job.

Because if he really did hate you for whatever inexplicable reason… you didn’t think you wanted to know.

The med bay was quiet, even Alexei’s booming voice was absent, which could only mean one thing: everyone else had already been checked, patched up, and cleared. This time, the injuries hadn’t been serious.

You set your bag down and pulled on a pair of gloves, while behind you, Bucky hovered just inside the doorway, tense as a loaded spring.

“You can take the cot,” you said softly, nodding to the padded bench where you treated most of the team.

He hesitated, as if the simple act of sitting felt like surrender but eventually, without another word, he crossed the room and lowered himself stiffly onto the edge.

You pulled out gauze, saline, antiseptic, scissors.

Bucky flinched slightly at the sound of the tray rattling into place, but his face stayed neutral and cold, just as usual.

“I’ll start with your arm,” you offered gently. “Then I’ll take a look at your side.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my side.”

You glanced up, his jaw was locked, lips pressed into a thin line and his vibranium fingers flexed against his thigh.

You kept your tone warm and steady. “You’re still bleeding, Bucky.”

“It’s not deep.”

“It’s bleeding through your shirt.”

“It’ll stop.”

You swallowed and carefully seated yourself in front of him to reach his arm, gently taking his flesh wrist to begin cleaning the cut that ran jaggedly along his forearm. You worked in silence for a few seconds, watching the way his muscles stayed coiled under your touch like he was resisting the urge to bolt. It was nothing new, he always did. 

You spoke softly, eyes still on your work.

“I need to check the wound on your side.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

His voice sharpened. “Don’t push this.”

“I’m not pushing,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I just… I care if something’s wrong and it is.”

Something flickered in his expression – not quite anger, not quite fear, you couldn’t name it. 

“Let me help you to pull it off,” you offered and reached for the hem of his T-shirt.

“I can handle it,” he muttered, already shifting, fingers hooking the edge of his tattered black T-shirt. “You’ll see it’s nothing.”

You leaned back slightly, watching as he tried to pull the shirt over his head, his breath hitched mid-motion, a soft sound of pain escaping before he could swallow it down, while the fabric stuck to his side where the blood had dried, tugging at the skin.

You stepped forward quickly. “Wait, don’t hurt yourself more. Let me…”

“No.”

His tone was harsh as he shoved your hand away, his arm still raised, shirt half-bunched around his ribs, every line of his body stiff and defensive.

You froze, a beat passed, then another.

“Bucky, I just want to help you,” you said, desperately trying to bite back tears that threatened to well up in the corners of your eyes. 

He didn’t move, but didn’t say anything either, so you reached for the scissors on the tray, holding them up between you, giving him time to see and react if needed. 

“I’ll be careful.”

Another silence.

Then, finally, a barely audible: “Fine.”

You moved close again, as you gently slid the cold edge of the scissors beneath the hem of his shirt. You felt, rather than saw, the way he tensed, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the unsteady rhythm of his breathing.

The sound of the scissors snipping through fabric seemed too loud, too sharp. Bucky kept his eyes locked on the wall across, teeth grinding together to keep anything else from slipping out. You worked in silence, peeling the shredded, blood-soaked shirt from his body piece by piece, the fabric clinging to the wound at his side, warm and wet and sticking.

He hated this. Every second of it.

Hated the way the air touched his skin, hated the way he could feel your eyes taking him in, even if they were just scanning for damage, hated the way he sat there like a goddamn puzzle you had to piece back together again, like he couldn’t even take care of himself, couldn’t manage that on his own.

He would rather charge into enemy fire than sit here under your hands and let you see him, let you see all of it - the battered, bruised chest, the old lacerations across his ribs, the jagged web of scar tissue where his shoulder ended in steel.

It was disgusting, he knew it was, he saw it in the mirror when he dared to look, saw it in the way people hesitated when their eyes caught on the place where man became machine.

He waited for that from you, waited for the breath that hitched too long, for your fingers to still, for the quiet, involuntary reaction you didn’t mean to give because no matter how warm your smile was, no one wanted to look at this.

And God help him, he didn’t want you to.

He could’ve taken it from anyone else, from a stranger, a medic without a face or a voice but not you, not when he’d spent months trying to build walls between himself and the unbearable ache of wanting you that was driving him mad every single day.

Because if things were different –  in another world, another life, he still dared to dream of from time to time – you wouldn’t be tending to him like this, you’d be touching him differently.

He’d feel your delicate fingers splayed across his stomach, slow and teasing, tracing lazy patterns over his skin just to hear him groan. 

You’d climb onto his lap in soft cotton sleepwear, fingers curling into his hair, lips brushing his ear and he’d have your legs around his waist, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as he rocked into you slow and deep, swallowing every whimper and every sigh from your perfect, plush lips.

And maybe, maybe there’d be mornings where you’d wake him with kisses against his jaw, sliding under the sheets to trail your mouth lower, lower, until he was gasping your name and fisting the sheets, your voice humming sweet praise against his skin as you ruined him with nothing but your mouth and that sunshine-soft devotion in your eyes.

In another life, he’d earn the sound of you falling apart underneath him and he’d memorize it, worship it. But in this life?

He was just a grumpy, half-broken supersoldier bleeding on your floor again, a silent burden with a history no one wanted and a body no one could love, something to fix and release, stitch and forget.

He flinched when your fingers brushed the raw edges of the gash on his side.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

He didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

He hadn’t stood a chance.

Not from the very beginning, not from the first moment you stepped into the med bay, bright-eyed and steady-handed, soft-spoken but somehow commanding the whole damn room without raising your voice once.

Warmth rolled off of you like sunlight through glass, not the loud kind, not the fake, performative shit that cracked when it was tested. You were real, you were constant, you remembered names, remembered birthdays, brought people coffee the way they liked it without asking. 

They’d started calling you “Sunshine” within a week, even Alexei, loud and blunt and impossible to embarrass, had switched to calling you solnyshko in his thick Russian accent, like it was second nature. 

And Bucky?

He’d been gone for you the moment you touched him.

He remembered it too well. The first time he’d been sent to you: reluctant, annoyed, still bleeding from some rooftop mess in Prague with a shallow cut above his brow that wouldn't stop dripping into his eye. He expected antiseptic, cold metal tools, instructions barked without eye contact.

Instead, he got you.

Smiling up at him like he wasn’t some grim relic dropped into your workspace, you’d stepped close, murmured something about how the cut made him look very “stoic and tortured, like a brooding detective” and stood up on your tiptoes to reach him properly, steadying yourself with one palm on his chest, while pressing a patch to his brow.

Plaster, you’d joked, the strongest glue known to mankind, emotionally and medically.

Your breath had ghosted across his cheek, your fingers, so soft and casual, had brushed just under the line of his jaw and Bucky had gone hard so fast it made his stomach twist with panic. He’d stood there frozen, every muscle locked, fighting instinct with sheer will, horrified that you might glance down and notice the unmistakable bulge straining against his suddenly-too-tight pants. 

And two hours later, drenched in sweat and halfway through beating a heavy bag to pulp in the training room, he still hadn’t shaken the feel of you off.

He tried, every day, tried to unsee you, to pretend that he didn’t care, to spook you away with ignorance, tried to forget the sound of your voice saying “you’re okay, I’ve got you” like it was true, like it could ever be true for him. 

He tried to avoid being treated by you whenever he could. It was simply too much to bear, in some ways even worse than anything he’d endured in HYDRA’s basements. Having you so close, breathing against his skin, your touch light and careful… and not being able to touch you in return – it was torture of its own kind.

And now, with your fingers skimming the raw edges of his side, your face so close again, eyes filled with concern that couldn’t possibly be meant for him… he simply wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Bucky shifted in his seat again, trying to breathe normally, trying to think, and the leather creaked beneath him, betraying every twitch of tension in his body. 

You moved back to the tray beside him, picked up a syringe, and checked the vial like you always did.

“I’m going to give you a local,” you said softly. “Painkiller and a bit of anesthetic. Should take the edge off before I start stitching.”

“No.”

Your head lifted slightly, surprised by the sharpness of his tone but you didn’t flinch.

“Bucky…”

“I said no,” he snapped, eyes locked ahead, jaw grinding tight. “I don’t want anything in my system, not now, not ever. I can take it.”

You just nodded. “Alright,” you said. “Then I’ll be quick. Let me know if it’s too much.”

Too much.

It already was. Not the pain and not the gash.

You.

Your fingers were back on him a moment later, brushing near the edges of the wound, wiping away blood with sterile gauze. The contact was brief, barely pressure but it didn’t matter. It never did.

The moment your hand touched his skin, his body betrayed him.

Heat flushed beneath the surface, cruel and immediate, his breath caught in his throat and his cock throbbed helplessly in his tactical pants, already half-hard from the second you'd knelt in front of him to examine the wound earlier. Now it was worse, aching, twisting up beneath his belt, too present and impossible to ignore.

Fuck. No. Not again. Not here.

He shifted, subtly, or at least as subtle as he could manage with adrenaline roaring in his veins and you so close he could smell the hint of citrus from your tee on your lips.

You moved in closer to thread the needle, and his gaze dropped for a fraction of a second not by choice, but instinct, and there it was again: the way your lips parted slightly in focus, the way the curve of your jaw tilted just so, the shape of your fingers, the slope of your throat, the warmth radiating from you.

And all he could think, all he could fucking think right now, was what it would feel like to have you straddling his lap, your thighs tight around his waist, grinding down against the ache in his jeans while he held you steady by the hips. How would it feel to have your hands buried in his hair, tugging hard, needing him closer, needing more and him giving it to you, gladly, worshipfully, with a hunger he hadn’t let himself feel for anyone in years.

How he’d grab a fistful of your shirt, shove it up, bare your stomach and your breasts to his mouth and kiss his way down until you were shivering, hot and soft and completely at his mercy. 

How you’d moan for him, sweet and desperate, head tipped back, your voice already wrecked from whispering his name like it was the only thing you could remember.

And when you’d finally start to sink down on him, taking him in inch by inch, deep and slow and ruinous, he’d hold your hips down and take his time, grinding slowly up into you until you were crying for him, clawing at his back, writhing under the need for him.

He wanted to hear you beg with voice cracking, breath stuttering, he wanted to see you come apart for him with tears in your lashes and his name spilling from your lips like prayer.

He’d mouth at your throat, your shoulder, sink his teeth into the delicate line of your collarbone just to hear how you’d whimper at the edge of pain, only to soothe it a second later with his tongue.

He wanted to know what kind of sounds you’d make for him, what kind of mess you’d become under his mouth, what it would be like to feel your smile against his skin while you writhed beneath him.

God, he’d give anything, anything just to know how you tasted.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to force his breathing even, trying to shut it all down.

There was no place for thoughts like that, not here, not now, not ever and not with you.

Not when he was a mess of scars and steel, and dark memories still keeping him awake at night, not when all you’d ever seen of him was what was broken. 

He was a soldier, not a man, something salvaged and repurposed, not someone you would ever choose to touch unless it was necessary. Certainly not someone you’d ever moan for, arch for, someone you would want.

Bucky swallowed hard and tried to focus on the sting of the needle entering his skin,  anything to keep the tension from turning visible.

Because if you noticed… if you so much as glanced down… if you knew that your fingers brushing his skin made his breath hitch not in pain, but in desperate, pulsing want.

If you knew that the way you leaned over him, the slope of your collarbone just inches from his mouth, had his thoughts unraveling into a mess of things he had no right to imagine.

If you knew that every time you smiled at him he wanted to drop to his knees and bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you forgot your own name.

If you knew even a small fraction of all that … he wasn’t sure he’d survive the humiliation.

The needle dragged through his skin, a sting, then a tug, again and again, your hands were steady as ever, moving with focus and care. You didn’t rush, you never did and he welcomed the pain, it was at least somewhat distracting.

At some point he must’ve shifted a little too sharply because you paused and looked up at him, brows knitting.

“You alright?” you asked softly. “Is it hurting too much?”

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly, too sharp.

You kept your eyes on him, studying his face, and he swallowed hard, blinked once and looked away.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped.

You returned to your work, lips pressed together, gaze dropping to the wound as you continued stitching in silence.

Bucky stayed still as stone, blood thundering through his veins, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, focused on the rhythm of your hands, the even glide of the needle, the way your fingertips ghosted over him as you wiped away the excess blood.

You were nearly done. Just one more stitch, just one more soft sweep of gauze to catch the last streak of blood, just one more whisper of your fingers along the edge of his ribs. 

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, just for a second, and out of a sudden it was simply too much. You were too close, eyes warm and full of that open-hearted care you gave everyone, but that somehow always wrecked him more than anything.

He could feel himself slipping, unraveling under your touch, under the heat of his own skin, under the pulse pounding between his legs and the ache twisting in his gut like punishment.

You moved slightly, reaching for the tape to dress the wound and your hip brushed his knee, barely, barely, but it felt like fire, and he snapped.

Before you could speak again, before you could even exhale, Bucky shot up from the cot like he’d been burned. The stool beneath you scraped across the floor as he moved, too fast, too rough, and his shoulder caught yours in a hard shove.

You stumbled back, shocked, almost tumbling from the stool.

“Bucky!”

He didn’t hear the rest, didn’t want to, he just bolted through the door and didn’t stop moving, didn’t dare to stop, because if he did, if he let even one more word sink in, he might’ve turned around and done something he couldn’t take back. 

By the time he reached his quarters, his hands were shaking.

He slammed the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, rattling the frame,  pressed his back to it and then just stood there, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched at his sides, heart thundering against his ribs, blood rushing loud in his ears.

Everything was too much, no, you were too much and yet, all he wanted was to run back to you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

He was so hard, so painfully, furiously hard, his cock straining against the inside of his pants, the fabric already damp with precum, throbbing in time with his pulse like it was punishing him for letting you near him again..

It had never been this bad, it was unbearable.

He stumbled into his quarters and barely made it to the couch, fingers shaking as he fumbled with the zipper of his pants, nearly tearing it in the rush, as he slumped on it heavily, dragging his boxers down just enough to free himself, already slick, already leaking so hard it hurt.

His hand wrapped around himself, and he groaned, low, ragged, desperate, head falling back against the cushions. He squeezed tighter, trying to relieve the ache, but it only made the tension worse, the pressure coiling tighter in his gut.

He bit down on another desperate groan, and your name slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

"Fuck, Sunshine…"

Bucky hissed through his teeth, head tipped back, sweat beading at his temple, fisting his cock with rough, tight strokes, eyes clenched shut as image after image tore through his brain.

You on your knees between his thighs, looking up at him with that soft, open smile, your hands trailing up his legs, patient and warm. The sweet flutter of your lashes as you leaned in, the heat of your breath against the head of his cock, your lips wrapping around it, and the aching reverence in your eyes like you wanted him not because you were kind, not because you pitied him, but because you craved him.

You in his bed, flushed and gasping, sheets tangled around your waist as you rocked beneath him, saying his name in that same soft voice you used when stitching him up, only now it was broken by pleasure, by need. He’d have his hands on either side of your head, holding himself there, watching your eyes roll back and your face twist with each thrust, feeling you flutter around him, close, so fucking close.

You bent over the counter in his kitchen, your scrubs still on, pants pushed just low enough for him to take you, your hands braced against the tile, back arched, moaning like you belonged to him while he drove into you from behind, rough and deep, gripping your hips like they were the only thing keeping him sane.

He could practically hear the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you, your heart-shaped ass arching back into him, wiggling just right as his palm landed on one cheek with a sharp smack, your breathy curses spilling into the air, broken and desperate, the sweet, wrecked little “please” before his fingers slid between your thighs, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your clit.

And then… you straddling him in the dark on the sofa, chest to chest, your arms around his neck, your mouth at his throat whispering, “You’re okay, I’ve got you.” Not because he needed saving, but because you meant it, because in this dream, you weren’t afraid of him, you held him tight, rode him slow, deep, grinding your hips down on him, needy moans, spilling over your lips as he came inside you, shaking and undone, filling you to the brim with his cum.

He jerked faster, harder, chasing it, chasing you, the dream of you, the one thing he would never have, not really, not the way he wanted.

Thick, hot ropes of cum painted his belly and hand, his grip still tight around his cock, milking out every last desperate pulse. His chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths as he slumped back against the couch, utterly spent, his hand sticky and trembling, and looked down at the mess across his stomach. He scrubbed his metal hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his hair with a groan. 

For the next few days, Bucky avoided you like his life depended on it. He disappeared before you entered a room, skipped mealtimes, changed his training hours, and if your footsteps echoed down a hallway, he took the nearest exit. It wasn’t subtle, and it certainly wasn’t kind, but it was the only way he knew to keep the need from consuming him every time he saw your face.

But he couldn’t avoid you forever, so when avoidance stopped being an option, whatever fragile balance had existed between you before suddenly to your surprise shattered into something far more painful.

Bucky had always been gruff, distant, unreadable, barbed around the edges. You could live with it, you had lived with it for months and never taken it personally. You kept telling yourself he was like that with everyone.

But now… it wasn’t just coldness anymore, it was something meaner, something much sharper.

Bucky wouldn’t even look at you when you walked into a room, wouldn’t speak unless he absolutely had to, and when he did, his words were clipped and flat, like they left a bitter taste in his mouth. The warmth you kept trying to offer, the soft smiles, the careful concern, were now met with eye rolls, snorts, and outright dismissal.

And you couldn’t understand why.

You played the conversations back in your head every night, quietly lying in bed long after the tower had gone still. Had you said something wrong? Had you touched a nerve you didn’t know existed? You weren’t pushy, you didn’t force your care on anyone, you just wanted to make sure he was okay, that he knew someone was looking out for him, even if he didn’t ask for it.

Especially because he didn’t ask for it.

And maybe that was the mistake.

But God, you couldn’t stop trying. Every small kindness was an attempt to bridge the gap, every careful word was another thread you cast across the distance he kept growing between you but it never landed.

Instead, it drove him further, every kindness seemed to piss him off more, like he couldn’t stand you caring, like your presence was some cruel trick he couldn’t figure out the punchline to.

Sometimes he glared at you like he wanted to shout, like he was choking on something he couldn’t say, and the only way to survive it was to shove you away as hard as he could.

And still… still, you stayed and kept wondering why on earth the man you had so stupidly fallen for was such a jackass towards you.

You’d never said it aloud, not to anyone, not even to yourself, but it was there, thick and painful in your chest every time he walked into the room, every time he stood too close, every time he looked at you like your love was a burden he hadn’t agreed to carry.

And that, more than anything, made your heart break in silence.

You tried to hide it, God, you tried, but lately, you were tired in a way you couldn’t patch not with excess of coffee and not with sleep, that had started to avoid you too. Your smiles wavered a little more often, your hands hesitated, and slowly you started to wonder if maybe he was right, maybe you were just hovering, just annoying, just… too much.

One morning, you’d brought fresh bandages down to the gym during training. You always did and everyone appreciated it.

Except him.

“We don’t need your charity,” Bucky had muttered as you knelt to check on Ava’s twisted wrist. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

Everyone had heard it.

John had cleared his throat loudly, muttering something like “Jesus, man” under his breath. Ava had looked away, clearly uncomfortable and Alexei had offered you a gentle, apologetic shrug before loudly demanding you to check his very serious (imaginary) injury instead.

Yelena had walked straight over and planted herself between you and Bucky, glaring up at him with a force only she could wield. “Say thank you,” she’d said flatly. “Now.”

But Bucky had just walked off, face like stone, jaw grinding as he pulled his sweatshirt over his head.

Later that day, you’d tried to bring him fresh ice packs after training, you hadn’t even said anything, just offered them quietly, gently, like you always did.

He hadn’t even looked up.

“Don’t hover,” he said, voice low and sharp. “I don’t need them.”

That one had cut deep.

You hadn’t answered, just turned and walked out, your chest hollow, the ice packs still clutched in your hand.

The others noticed, of course they did, and they did their best to soften it, to shield you where they could.

Ava stopped by the med bay more often, even when she didn’t need anything. John lingered longer during patch-ups, tossing you dumb jokes to make you smile, even Alexei, blunt and bumbling, started bringing you terrible coffee and terrible compliments in the mornings.

Nothing of it made the sting go away.

You kept doing your job, quietly, kindly, as if the person you’d fallen in love with wasn’t tearing you down piece by piece until the day he finally broke you.

It was during a briefing, the entire team gathered around the table, mid-discussion about the next mission. You were there to offer medical assessments, speak up when necessary. You always stood off to the side, out of the way.

Bucky had been tense from the start, pacing, arms crossed, clearly on edge, and then you’d made the mistake of speaking without being asked. 

You had noticed that the structure they were infiltrating had weak points that might collapse under heavy stress and that the team should avoid the northwest stairwell if possible, because if that broke there would be no way medics could reach them.

You barely got the words out before his voice cut across the room like a whip.

“Oh, thank you, Sunshine,” Bucky said mockingly, turning toward you with a sneer. “I’m so glad we have a fucking ray of light here to tell us how to do our job. Maybe next time you can bring cookies to the field too. You know. For morale.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

No one breathed.

Your throat tightened, heat prickled behind your eyes, too fast, too sudden, you blinked quickly, trying to smile, trying to laugh it off, but your lip wobbled.

“Bucky…” John started, his tone edged in disbelief but it was too late. 

You pressed a hand to your chest like it could hold the pieces of you in place, gave a soft, choked sound, and turned on your heel.

You left the room as fast as you could, but the tears were already falling before the door even hissed shut behind you.

Bucky just stood there with an annoyed expression on his face before turning around and leaving in fast strides.

Yelena stared at him in silence, then she moved, fast.

She caught up with him in the hallway as he stalked off, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Hey,” she snapped, grabbing his arm and yanking him around. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Back off, Yelena.”

Bucky yanked his arm free but didn’t move away, he didn’t answer either, didn’t even look at her.

She stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “No. No walking away from this. You’re gonna stand here and tell me what the hell you’re doing.”

“Leave it alone, Yelena,” he muttered.

“No.” Her voice was sharp, deadly. “You’re not just being a grump anymore, you’re hurting her and that deliberately. And for what?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

“She didn’t do anything to you,” she went on. “Nothing. She’s the only person in this whole tower who’s never asked for anything back, she’s gentle with you, she’s kind and you treat her like she’s poison. Why?”

He said nothing, just stared at a point past her head like he could will himself somewhere else.

Yelena jabbed a finger into his chest.

“She came in every day this week and smiled at you. She brought you clean wraps, asked how your stitches were healing, even after you walked by her like she’s an empty air.”

His jaw flexed, his shoulders tensed but still, he said nothing.

Yelena stepped closer.

“You’re not just being an asshole anymore. You’re being cruel, you made her cry in front of the entire team.”

“I didn’t mean…” he snapped, then caught himself.

She narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t mean to, what?”

He looked away.

“Bucky.”

Silence stretched and his hands flexed at his sides like he was holding something back with everything he had.

Finally, he spoke. 

“Because I can’t stand it.”

Yelena blinked.

“Because she’s just so fucking nice and bright, and I’m…”

He stopped.

Yelena tilted her head. “You’re what?”

His lips twisted. “I’m this… broken, dark, unnecessary, unlovable something,” he ground out, eyes flashing. “And she’s just… Sunshine. All the damn time.”

Yelena said nothing.

“How can someone be so…” He stopped again, swallowing hard. “So stupidly sweet? So lovely just by breathing? It’s like she doesn’t even know what kind of world she’s in. Like she thinks if she’s kind enough, soft enough, people will stop bleeding.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “She’ll get herself killed trying to be loved by everybody.”

Yelena’s voice was low, cutting. “She doesn’t want to be loved by everybody.”

Bucky froze.

The air between them went still, almost fragile, waiting for one wrong word to shatter it into pieces too small to sweep up.

He didn’t speak.

Yelena stepped closer, her eyes narrowing, sharp with understanding now. “She wants you.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

“Bullshit.”

“No,” Yelena said, firm. “It’s not.”

He swallowed hard, jaw grinding like he could chew the words down before they ever reached his throat. “She’s just…” His voice cracked. “She’s kind. She’s like that with everyone.”

“She’s kind,” Yelena agreed, nodding. “But she’s not careless with it. She doesn’t give pieces of herself to just anyone.”

She paused, looking him dead in the eye.

“And you’re not just anyone, you matter to her. More than you think, more than she’d ever say out loud.”

Her voice softened, just slightly.

“She loves you, Bucky. Even if you’re too scared to see it.”

“Don’t.” He turned sharply, like he couldn’t bear the word.

Yelena didn’t flinch.

“Don’t you see it?” she pressed. “The way she looks at you? Like you’re something worth waiting for, like she’s hoping you’ll let her in? But every time she smiles at you, you just look away like it hurts.”

“Because it does,” Bucky snapped, finally meeting her eyes. “Because I don’t know how to take it, because she wants someone whole and I’m not. I’m not some sweet fucking project she can fix with soft hands and careful words.”

Yelena didn’t move.

“I’m not the good guy,” he hissed. “I’m not soft, or stable, or someone who deserves someone like her. I’m a weapon with a retirement plan. That’s all.”

“You’re not.”

He ignored her. “And she, God, she walks around here like a goddamn sunrise, like nothing’s touched her, like she still believes in something.”

“She believes in you.”

“Yeah. Well, then it’s her mistake.”

The words exploded out of him, echoing through the corridor.

He turned away again, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing like he could outrun the way his chest was tightening. Like he could shove the image of your tear-streaked and hurt face out of his mind if he just moved fast enough.

You folded your stuff with trembling hands, but it wasn’t the nerves.

This was heartbreak, settling into your chest like a quiet and cold frost.

You didn’t even know why you were folding things so neatly. It wasn’t like you owed this place a tidy exit but maybe it was instinct, or maybe you just needed to hold on to something you could control while everything else crumbled around you.

You blinked down at your bag where your hoodie sat on top, the soft one you liked to wear on chilly days, the one he had once glanced at for a second too long. You hated that you remembered that, that you still cared.

But God, you did. You cared too much.

You loved him and that was the worst part. You’d fallen so stupidly, quietly, deeply in love with a man who flinched every time you got close, who looked at your kindness like it burned him. who spoke to you like you were a wound he didn’t ask for.

You sniffed, angrily wiping your sleeve across your eyes.

Because damn it, love or not, you weren’t going to keep letting him crush you.

You weren’t someone’s emotional punching bag. You weren’t going to keep showing up every day with soft smiles and careful words just to be told you were too much, too sweet. too naive, too present.

If Bucky Barnes hated you that much, if your love, your existence was so unbearable to him, then fine – you wouldn’t force yourself into his life, and you certainly wouldn’t beg.

You zipped the bag shut, you were retreating, yes, but this wasn’t weakness, this was grace in the face of cruelty, a self-respect.

You paused by the door, glancing once, only once, around the space you’d come to think of as yours. 

It was the place where you’d laughed with Yelena, where Alexei had once shown up with a massive toolbox and a mission, declaring your wobbly desk chair “an insult to your delicate spine” and then spent a whole afternoon fixing it.

He’d left behind a chair that somehow creaked louder than before, but you hadn’t said a word, especially not after he had patted your shoulder and told you in that booming, earnest voice, “You take care of all of us. Someone has to take care of you.”

It was ridiculous and so oddly touching, and had made you smile for hours that day.

And it was also the place where you had sat on your bed in the quiet, wondering how someone so closed-off could have eyes that held such storms.

No more wondering. You were done.

You stepped into the hallway with shoulders squared, holding your chin high, and you kept your eyes forward, even as your chest caved in around the ache.

You were leaving. You loved him, yes, but you loved yourself too, and that meant knowing when it was time to go.

You woke up with your head literally splitting.

That was the first thing you registered – pain, blooming and hot at the base of your skull. Every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of nausea through your gut, and your limbs felt heavy, wrong, disconnected.

The pain pulsed behind your eyes, throbbing down your neck and into your spine. It was a slow, creeping kind of pain, the kind that made it hard to tell where it ended and where your body began. 

The floor beneath you seemed like a smooth metal, cold and way too perfect to be concrete, and the air smelled of dust and oil and something burnt.

There was something over your head, rough canvas brushing your lips, warm and stifling as you could feel your own breath bouncing back at you, too fast, too shallow.

A bag, there was a fucking bag over your head.

Your pulse spiked, dizzy, hot, and you forced yourself to take a slow breath, then another. Keep the panic down. Think.

Your last clear memory was… what? Packing. Leaving. Walking to the garage.

And then… nothing.

Your heart stuttered as faint footsteps echoed in the distance, muffled voices threading between them. Metal groaned, a door, maybe, and the voices grew closer, sharper.

Fear overrode pain as you tensed, every muscle coiling. Keys rattled. A lock turned.

You barely had time to brace before rough hands clamped around your upper arms. The startled cry that slipped from you was pure instinct, but it didn’t slow them.

“On your feet,” one of them barked.

You were hauled upward with no gentleness but your legs buckled immediately and for a moment, you thought you’d crash right back to the floor but a hand gripped under your arm, holding you up as you swayed, half-upright, your head lolling forward.

And then the hood was yanked off.

Your eyes burned at the sudden brightness, not blinding, but after the suffocating dark, it felt like staring into the sun. Shapes swam in your vision and it took a few seconds to focus, to blink back tears and pain.

Concrete walls. Exposed, rusted metal beams stretching into a high, very high, ceiling. Hanging lights flickering overhead. A warehouse. Old, industrial. 

And men – three of them, from what you could see, all unfamiliar except for one – the new tower technician that loved chocolate cookies and always had a silly joke ready to throw your way.

But it wasn’t any of their faces that made your stomach twist, it was the cold, heavy pressure at your throat.

You tried to look down as much as your position allowed and saw it, or rather felt it – a thick metal collar around your neck, black and seamless, with a faint green flicker pulsing just beneath the surface.

You instinctively tried to jerk back, to fight, but your legs didn’t cooperate and the man holding you only tightened his grip, steadying you like you were some auction object that needed to stay upright for display.

“What is this?” Your voice came out hoarse, scraped raw by the bile clawing up your throat. “What… what the hell is this? What do you want from me?”

You were bait, that much was obvious, but for who? It didn’t make any sense. Who would be reckless enough, stupid enough, to walk into this? You had no rich, no powerful friends. You had nobody.

A commotion stirred at the far end of the space, too distant for you to see. Footsteps pounded and another man appeared, breathless.

“He’s here. He’s coming.”

You lifted your head as far as you could manage, straining against the weight in your limbs, as you watched figures emerge from the shadows. There were more men with guns and between them, moving at a controlled, deliberate pace, was someone who made your heart lurch violently in your chest.

You blinked, once, twice, as if your vision had blurred and needed clearing before you almost choked on your own breath.

Bucky?

What the hell was Bucky doing here? The one man on Earth who’d made it perfectly clear he’d rather chew glass than be in the same room with you. The guy who could turn the air in a hallway to ice just by glancing your way. And yet here he was, and your stupid heart still tried to sprint straight out of your chest like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

His hair was tousled and his shoulders taut, every line of him coiled in barely restrained fury. His eyes scanned the room, and the moment they landed on the cage you were standing in, he stopped. 

Not the stop of surprise, not even shock, but the kind of stillness that comes when something deep inside snaps tight, when every nerve and every muscle strains against the need to act.

His eyes found you instantly, locking on like a sniper scope, and didn’t move. The air around him seemed to hum with the effort it took not to launch himself straight at the men flanking your cage. You’d never seen him look at you like that before, so fierce, unblinking, like nothing else in the room existed but you.

After a moment of hesitation he moved again, coming closer, so close that you could clearly see his slow and unblinking gaze sweeping over you, taking in every detail. It lingered at your throat, on the strange collar biting into your skin, at the faint bruise you felt pulsing along your temple, at your bare feet, the cage. Each detail seemed to hit him like another blow to the ribs, and his jaw clenched so hard you thought it might splinter.

You watched Bucky’s fists clenching at his sides, metal fingers flexing with quiet violence, his eyes never leaving you, not even for a second, and you could see it  – the crackling rage just beneath his skin, the split-second decision he wanted to make, to rip through every one of them, collateral be damned.

 “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” a man stepped forward from the shadows, his tone almost conversational, though the smug curl of his mouth made your stomach turn. “You can’t save her.”

Bucky’s stance shifted, subtle but unmistakable the barest lean forward, like he was calculating the distance between himself and the man’s throat.

The man’s smile widened. “See that collar?” He pointed lazily, as though he were pointing out a piece of artwork. “It’s wired. One signal from my friend up there,” he jerked his chin toward a figure on a metal catwalk above, hand resting on a small trigger device, “and her head comes off before you even make it to the bars.”

He rapped his knuckles against the cage. “And this? Vibranium. You could throw yourself at it all day, soldier, and it wouldn’t make a dent.”

Your skin went cold, but you couldn’t look away from Bucky. His jaw worked, his breath sharp through flared nostrils.

“So here’s how this goes,” the man continued, voice dropping into something slicker, deadlier. “You surrender, now, and maybe she walks out of here. She’s unimportant, just a leverage. Hydra only wants its asset back.”

The word asset made Bucky’s face flicker, just for a second, before his expression shuttered again.

Bucky didn’t move at first, his chest rose and fell slowly, his expression almost as if carved from stone, but you could see it, the hesitation, the desperate search for any way out that didn’t end with you hurt.

The man’s smirk widened, sensing it.

“So… what’s it gonna be, soldier?” he drawled. “Or maybe you’d rather take your time deciding? We can make it… educational for you.” His gaze slid to you, and his smile turned wicked. “Maybe let my men have a little fun with that sweet little thing before you come to your senses.”

The man standing at your side shifted, and before you could react, his hand clamped hard around your jaw, forcing your face toward him. His breath was hot and foul as he leered down at you.

“Get your hands off her,” Bucky’s voice was low, almost too quiet to hear, but it carried like a gunshot.

The man didn’t so much as glance at him, instead, he crushed his mouth to yours in a greedy, bruising kiss, his other hand shoving hard against your breast.

White-hot disgust and fury surged up your throat as you screamed into him, twisting in his grip, fighting to wrench free. His fingers dug harder into your cheeks, and unable to get free you just bit down as hard as you could.

The man yelped, jerking back with a curse, blood streaking his mouth, but your small victory lasted all of a heartbeat before a sharp crack split the air, his open palm connecting with your jaw. Your head snapped to the side, the world tilting, and a sharp buzz filled your ears as they rang.

Bucky moved before the sound had even finished echoing. It wasn’t a lunge, but the kind of forward step that made the men around him stiffen, guns rising a fraction higher. His hands fisted at his sides, the vibranium fingers flexing, as if remembering what it felt like to crush bone.

“Touch her again,” he said, voice low and steady, “and I will paint these walls with you.”

The leader’s smirk didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered just for a heartbeat toward the figure high above on the catwalk, the one with his thumb resting lazily on the trigger.

“Temper, temper,” the man drawled. “Make no mistake, Barnes, you’re not in a position to make threats. Every second you stall, she pays for it. You want her breathing? You want her in one piece? Then you get on your knees like the obedient little dog you are, and put your hands where we can see them.”

You caught it, that split-second flicker in Bucky’s eyes, the one that said he was about to do something catastrophically stupid. 

This was insane. What the hell was he thinking? For all the ice between you, all the sharp words and cold shoulders, there was one thing you couldn’t deny: you still loved that man. 

You loved him. God help you, you loved that grumpy, stubborn, impossible man, loved him so much that the thought of Hydra’s claws sinking back into him made bile burn the back of your throat. 

You’d heard enough about what they’d done to him, seen enough of the shadows in his eyes, to know he’d never survive it again, not really. And if he got dragged back there because of you… you’d never forgive yourself.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You wanted to scream at him to turn around, to not let these bastards use you to drag him under, to tell him you weren’t worth it, but your mouth had gone completely dry and felt as if it had never known how to speak, leaving the words stuck in your throat.

“Bucky, don’t…” you managed to sob, stepping forward, fingers curling desperately around the cold vibranium bars like they could hold back what you already knew was coming.

“Shh, Sunshine.” His voice was soft, steady, and the smile he gave you was something you’d never seen before, surely not from him, and never aimed at you. It was warm, reassuring, achingly tender, like a sliver of sunlight breaking through a storm. You hadn’t even known he could smile like that, let alone at you.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, low and certain. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“Bucky, no…” you whimpered, the plea scraping raw in your throat, tears blurring your vision. “Don’t do this. Please. I’m not worth it.”

“Sunshine,” he said, quietly but with such certainty in his voice, like he was telling you the simplest, truest thing he’d ever known. “You’re the only thing in this whole damn world that’s worth it. Nothing else matters. Nothing ever has.”

He didn’t look away, not once, as he moved.

One knee hit the ground first, the dull thud of it echoing through the cavernous space, and for a fleeting, desperate second you thought he might stop there, that maybe he was feigning it, buying time before striking. That maybe you wouldn’t have to watch this but then the other knee lowered, slower, heavier, deliberate, as though every inch cost him something he’d never get back. 

His shoulders stayed square, spine locked in stubborn defiance, even as the posture stripped him of the power he’d fought for years to reclaim. The sound of his breathing filled your ears, controlled, measured, but a little too sharp at the edges.

For one last heartbeat, his hands remained loose at his sides, before he lifted them, palms open, offering himself up to the men surrounding him.

Astonishment twisted with guilt in your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs. It wasn’t surrender. You felt it in your bones, it was a bargain, a trade – him for you. And God, it hurt.

The man who had spent months keeping you at arm’s length, who had made you believe you meant nothing to him, was putting his life in their hands for yours, and all you could do was stand there, caged and useless, as he gave himself away.

Two men stepped in close, one on each side, and grabbed his wrists, yanking them back hard enough to strain his shoulders. You saw the small flex of his biceps, the subtle shift in his posture, the instinct to fight still there, before he forced himself to go still.

The click of the first cuff was sharp, the second came with a twist of his arm, pulling the joint past its natural range. It must have hurt, and you saw it in the slight hitch of his breath, the subtle tightening in his jaw.

One of them gave the cuffs an extra jerk, forcing his arms higher, his shoulders arching uncomfortably, another man stepped in and shoved him forward a fraction, making him bow just enough to strip the last illusion of control from him.

He still didn’t look at them, his eyes stayed locked on you, steady, unflinching, that impossibly warm smile refusing to fade, as if he could will you into believing this was all right.

It wasn’t. God, it wasn’t. It was wrong in every way that mattered, a twisting, aching wrong that hollowed you out from the inside.

And it was all your fault, because you hadn’t been careful enough, because you weren’t strong enough. Yelena wouldn’t have been caught like this. Ava wouldn’t have. You knew it, and you hated yourself for it, you hated that you were the weak link he was about to destroy himself to save. 

The first blow came almost before they’d even stepped back. You screamed, clutching the bards of your cage.

A heavy, gloved fist smashed across Bucky’s jaw, the crack of impact echoing in your ears. His head snapped to the side, a thin ribbon of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.

The second strike slammed into his ribs, making his bound shoulders jerk, as he doubled slightly, the pull of the cuffs biting into his wrists, but he forced himself upright again, breath sharp through his nose.

"Welcome home, Soldat. Hope you’re enjoying the welcome party," one of them sneered, and a boot drove into Bucky’s side. His muscles jerked under the blow, every tendon straining as he fought to keep his balance.

The hits kept coming, fists to his face, elbows to his back, another kick to his ribs. They didn’t pause, didn’t give him a second to brace. 

Then another kick drove into his side, harder than the rest, and his balance finally broke. He hit the floor on his shoulder, the breath punched out of him, as he sprawled on the cold concrete.

“Stop it!” you screamed, your hands clutching the vibranium bars with knuckles turning white. “Leave him alone! Cowards! He did what you wanted.”

“Not so tough now, huh, Soldier?” one of them sneered, kicking him in the back as he crumpled to the floor.

Bucky didn’t make a sound, he took the hits in silence with nothing more than a grunt when a fist connected with his jaw just right or the smallest, roughest exhale when his head was snapped back by an uppercut.

“Look at him,” a voice jeered over the sound of another strike. “All that muscle, all that metal, and still just a bitch on a leash.”

“Bet she’d scream louder for me than she ever would for him,” someone else laughed.

A kick landed in his back, forcing another breath out of him. 

“Look at you,” one of them said, crouching down to grab a handful of his hair and wrench his head back, making him meet his eyes. “Kneeling like a good little dog for some wet hole. Don’t you worry, we’ll treat her right. We’ll put that pussy to good use, and you’ll get to watch. You’ll get to watch every second of how we’ll fuck all her holes.”

It all stopped as abruptly as it started.

“Enough!” the leader’s voice cut through the room, and the others stepped back instantly. “There’ll be time for more fun later. Get ready to move. We leave in ten.”

They filed out in a loose cluster, footsteps fading until the warehouse fell quiet again.

You dropped to your knees.

The tears came fast and hot, blurring your vision as you pressed your hands to the barrier between you. You didn’t care that your shoulders shook, or that your voice broke when you whispered his name.

“Bucky…”

He stirred. One eye was already swelling shut, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, his chest lifting in uneven gasps.

Tears slipped down your cheeks. “You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have surrendered. Why did you do that? You hate me.”

A beat of silence followed and you were already afraid he had passed out, but then finally his voice reached you, hoarse but clear.

“Hate you?” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady enough for you to catch every word. “Oh, Sunshine, I’m just a fucking idiot. The biggest damn idiot alive, and I can’t…” He broke off, jaw tightening. 

“I need you to understand something before they… before anything happens,” he went on, each word slow, like dragging glass through his throat. “I don’t hate you, I never did and I never… I never meant to hurt you.”

Bucky inhaled deeply and continued, “Every time I was cold, every time I cut you down or walked out, it was just me trying to get some air, to keep myself from drowning in this thing I can’t shut off. You walk into a room and I forget how to breathe. You smile at me and it feels like the first warm day after years in the snow, and I … I just simply don’t know what to do with that.”

There was no hesitation in him, just that raw, stripped-bare honesty you’d never thought you’d hear from him, not in this lifetime.

His mouth twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I knew I didn’t have a chance with you,” he went on. “You’re everything I thought was gone from the world. You are so warm, so kind, too damn good. And me? I’m the thing they built in the dark to kill people like you. So I figured it’d be easier, if you just stayed away from me. For you and for me. That if I made you hate me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much, that maybe I could survive watching you give that smile to someone who deserved it.”

Your pulse thundered, your fingers tightening around the cold bars until they ached.

“But the truth is,” he went on, voice breaking in the middle, “I love you. I fucking love you, and I’ve never loved anybody like this before, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, I wouldn’t give, or do, or trade, to keep you safe. If they take me now, I’m fine with that, but if they lay a hand on you…” his breath shuddered and faded away.

“Oh my God, Bucky…” you sobbed, shaking your head, not believing any of this could be real.

“Listen to me,” he cut in. “Listen carefully! Whatever happens, stick to Ava. She’ll get you out. Promise me.”

“I… I don’t understand.” You covered your mouth with a trembling hand, choking back another sob.

“We just needed a clear view on where they were keeping you,” Bucky said, his tone almost mocking before it hardened. “And those cocky, self-sure idiots were so wrapped up in the idea of bagging the Winter Soldier, they didn’t bother to check me for anything else, just took my guns.” His lips twitched in a smirk, but it didn’t last, as in the next heartbeat, his expression turned deadly serious.

“Remember, no matter what happens, you follow Ava.” His voice was low, urgent, almost a growl. “Promise me.”

“Bucky…”

“Promise me,” he cut in, steel in his tone. “I need to hear it.”

“I… I promise,” you breathed. “But Bucky…”

His head dipped once in relief, “Good, and Sunshine … I’m sorry I hurt you,” he murmured. “I’m so damn sorry.”

You were crying openly now, hunched low against the bars, hands trembling, tears coming in hot streams that blurred the room into streaks of shadow and light. You tried to swallow it down, to find some semblance of control, but your breath hitched and broke in uneven bursts and your bottom lip trembled so violently it hurt with nose running and cheeks wet and blotchy, and you didn’t even care.  

“Bucky, listen to me…” you managed, your voice cracking so badly it didn’t even sound like your own. But the rest of the words wouldn’t come, they just died in your mouth, swallowed by the chaos that suddenly ensued.

It started with a flicker in the corner of your eye, a shimmer in the air, and then she was there.

Ava.

Her form snapped into view inside the cage, crouched beside you, eyes sharp and scanning.

“Hey,” she breathed, quick and urgent. “Hold still.”

“Ava…?” you mouthed, still stunned.

“No time,” she muttered, already reaching for the collar at your throat, her fingers moving with brisk precision. “We’re getting you out of here.”

You barely heard the shouts that followed, the sound of boots pounding, of something crashing, open gunfire, grunts that sounded an awful lot like John, the deep roar of Alexei rising above it all like a battle cry and Yelena’s sharp commands slicing through the din.

They’d come for you. All of them.

But your eyes were on Ava, whose hands shimmered in and out of phase as she tried to disable the collar. She hissed when her fingertips sparked off the tech.

“Shit. This is custom made.”

“Can you…?”

“Yeah. Just…give me a second.”

You nodded, trying to stay still despite the chaos, you couldn’t see Bucky, you just knew he was somewhere just out of your line of sight, still cuffed on the floor where they'd left him.

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

With a sharp click and a sudden hiss of pressure, the collar snapped loose and you gasped as Ava pulled it off, tossing it behind her like a venomous thing as she instantly turned her attention to the lock of the cage. It gave in much more quickly and with satisfied huff she turned back to you.

“Come on,” she said. “We’ve gotta move.”

But you weren’t listening because from the corner of your vision just past the open door of the cage you saw something – the leader of the HYDRA men, positioned just beyond the falling debris and shadows with his gun raised and aimed at Bucky. 

Bucky had managed to get back to his feet but his hands were still bound with the vibranium cuffs that refused to yield even to his strength no matter how much he struggled against them. 

Yelena had spotted the gun too, you could see it in the way her shoulders coiled, but she was too far, her path blocked by the chaos.

Bucky saw him too and then… he just stopped struggling, his arms fell still, all resistance gone. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet the cold, smirking eyes of the man about to end him.

He looked… so calm, unimpressed, almost bored, with a smile on his lips, like he’d already made his peace with what was going to happen. It seemed he almost dared the man to pull the trigger.

“No!” you screamed, and your body moved before thought could stop it.

You shoved Ava aside and bolted through the door.

Your legs screamed in protest, but you didn’t stop, not for the fear, not for the ache, not for the warning shouts that followed you as you dove forward, the world slowing around you.

The gun fired. 

But you were already there, just in front of Bucky.

The impact slammed into your side like a sledgehammer and you screamed as fire exploded through your ribs.

You hit the floor hard, hands pressed instinctively to your side, something warm and wet seeping through your fingers… blood… so much blood…

The warehouse tilted around you.

Somewhere far away, Alexei roared, a deep, thunderous sound, and the ground seemed to shake as he barreled forward. The gunman didn’t even have time to scream before Alexei’s fist smashed into his chest, sending him airborne into the wall with a sickening crack.

The body dropped. The gun skittered across the floor. 

Yelena appeared in your periphery, face pale, hands shaking as she pressed down on your wound. “No, no, no… stay with me…!” and through the ringing in your ears, another sound cut through – raw, savage, and nothing like a human voice.

“NO!”

Bucky was there, fighting against his restraints like a man possessed until Ava freed him with a sharp snap of the cuffs. His arms were around you instantly, pulling you into him, holding you as if he could shield you from the damage already done.

You turned your head toward him, as you tried to give him a smile, but failed.

“Bucky…” Your voice was thin, trembling, each word tasting of copper. His eyes found yours – those beautiful, deep blue eyes, wild and glassy with terror.

“I love you,” you breathed, coughing red onto your lips. “I love you too. Always have…”

And then the world went black.

Bucky’s boots echoed hollowly against the linoleum floor, back and forth, back and forth.

Pacing. Always pacing.

His bruises were already fading. Supersoldier healing worked as perfectly as always, but he looked somehow worse now than when he had left the warehouse all covered in blood. Your blood. 

He was pale, his jaw tight with tension, and his fingers kept threading through his hair, over and over again, like maybe if he yanked hard enough, he could wake himself from this nightmare.

He had asked.

Then begged.

Then threatened.

But they still wouldn’t let him in.

“She’s in surgery,” the nurse had said gently, hands folded like she knew exactly who he was and how little comfort her words offered. “They’ll update you when they can.”

He’d nearly broken the doorframe when they said "it’s a tough situation". His hands had clenched around the edge of the metal table and crushed it against the wall before anyone could stop him. 

So now, they were keeping him outside, pacing like a caged animal.

Yelena came in quietly, holding a cup of coffee. She crossed the room with that cautious kind of grace, like approaching something volatile. 

“Here,” she said simply, holding out the cup.

Bucky didn’t take it at first, just stared through her like he was still seeing the blood pooling beneath you on the warehouse floor. Then he blinked, hand jerking out to grab it. His fingers trembled around the paper cup.

He didn’t drink.

“Any news?” he rasped, voice barely there. “Yelena, I’m… I’m going mad. I need to see her.”

Yelena leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression was softer than usual, even sad.

“I know,” she said. “But maybe next time don’t throw a metal table at a wall when the doctor says it’s a ‘tough situation.’”

Bucky flinched.

“They’ll tell us when they know something. You need to be patient.”

“I am patient,” he growled, dragging both hands through his hair again, the cup completely forgotten and trembling in one hand. “I’ve been patient for months. I just wanted the best for her. Can you understand that?”

“I know you did,” she reassured him with a small nod. 

“Why did she do it? God! Why? Why would she take a bullet for someone like me?”

“Because she loves you, you moron!”

“Dear God, you were right. She does, she really does. She said that when…” Bucky’s voice cracked as if that revelation was the most unbelievable, impossible thing in the world. 

Yelena looked at him, long and steady, he turned away, jaw tight, teeth grinding.

A beat of silence passed before heavy boots entered the room.

Alexei.

“Any news?” he asked, voice gruff but careful.

Bucky didn’t answer.

“She’s strong,” Alexei said, easing into a chair that creaked under his weight. “They’ll fix her up. She’s tougher than you think.”

“She shouldn’t have had to be,” Bucky said, staring down at the cracks in the tile. “If I’d just…”

“Hey.” Alexei leaned forward. “You blame yourself, you’re gonna drown in it. She needs you here. Not spiraling.”

Bucky didn't look up, as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

Another pair of footsteps entered.

John.

Even he looked subdued, uncertain, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes darting awkwardly around as if seeking for threat.

“Barnes,” he started, cautious. “Hey, I…I just wanted to say…”

Bucky looked up slowly, eyes sharp and wild, and bared his teeth.

“Don’t.”

John stopped mid-step, the snarl in Bucky’s voice was quiet but dangerous.

“Don’t say anything comforting. Don’t tell me it’s gonna be okay. Don’t act like you know a single damn thing about what this is.”

John blinked, opened his mouth and closed it.

Yelena lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, probably not your moment, Cap Junior.”

Alexei huffed. “Let him snarl. He’s scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Bucky snapped, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears.

He sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, metal fingers digging into his scalp, human hand curled tightly around the forgotten, crushed and leaking coffee cup.

“I’m… fucking terrified.”

The room went still.

“I love her.”

It came out like a confession and a collapse all at once, the kind of truth that had been rotting in his chest for too long, finally clawing its way out.

“I love her,” Bucky said again, more desperate this time, as if he had to convince himself that saying it out loud might make it more real.

“I’ve loved her from the moment she smiled for the first time at me like I wasn’t something broken,” his voice crack.

“She’s the only sunshine I’ve ever had. The only good thing. The only thing that made all the noise go quiet.” 

A bitter, humorless laugh tore from his chest.

“And I pushed her away. Treated her like shit because I thought if I kept her at arm’s length, I’d be safe.”

His voice faltered, the words catching. “And she… she loved me. She fucking loved me all along. Me…”

He looked up with a stunned, hollow expression on his face that told he still couldn’t believe it, that he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that it was possible, that someone could really love him.

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “I… I don’t know how to live without her.”

The silence that followed was deafening, sharp and suffocating. Quiet glances darted between Yelena, Alexei, and John, each of them catching the other’s eye, then shaking their heads almost imperceptibly, as if daring anyone to speak, but knowing there were no words that could make it right, no comfort that wouldn’t sound like a lie.

The door swung open, the sound slicing through the silence like a gunshot and Bucky sprang to his feet so fast the chair behind him skidded with a screech and hit the wall.

The doctor, a young man in his forties with soft hands and weary eyes, froze in the doorway, eyes going wide like he’d just walked into a lion’s den.

“No,” Bucky said, already breathless, with uneven steps striding toward the doc.

“No… no… no… don’t tell me she’s…”

The doctor actually flinched.

Bucky surged forward, and Alexei instinctively stepped in front of him, holding out a hand like a shield.

“Easy,” he muttered. “Give him a second.”

Doc peeked nervously from behind Alexei’s shoulder, adjusting his glasses with fingers that visibly trembled. “She… she survived the operation.”

Bucky froze mid-step and the whole world seemed to stop with him.

“What?” His voice broke, low and hoarse, almost too afraid to believe it.

“She made it,” the doc said, gently now, peeking around Alexei to look at Bucky. “There was internal bleeding and a rib fracture, but the bullet missed her lung by a few millimeters. We stabilized her. She’s unconscious but…” He swallowed. “She’s stable.”

For a long second, no one moved.

Then Bucky staggered back and dropped into the chair like his legs had given out, eyes glassy, mouth open in silent shock as he covered his face with both hands, shoulders shaking, and… wept… no shame, no restrain… just two hot streams running down his cheeks.

Two months had passed since you were finally cleared from the med bay, and in that time Bucky had appointed himself your full-time caretaker, and by caretaker, you meant prison warden disguised as a Victorian nursemaid. 

You weren’t allowed to lift a grocery bag, open a door, or even pour your own damn coffee. If your eyes flicked toward the top shelf for more than a second, he was already there, plucking whatever you wanted down like some grim-faced butler with shoulders that could block out the sun.

It didn’t matter if you were perfectly capable, Bucky read your needs straight from your lips and was halfway to fetching them before you’d even realized you wanted them. 

At first, it was sweet, then it was… smothering, and by now you were starting to feel less like a recovering human being and more like a particularly delicate crystal vase he was convinced would shatter if left unsupervised.

And you were horny. 

Suddenly, you had the hottest, most ridiculously built, dangerously attractive supersoldier boyfriend… who insisted on treating you like you might snap in half if he so much as breathed on you too hard. Which was, frankly, a torture, especially when you’d wake up to find him shirtless, hair mussed, sipping coffee like a damn Calvin Klein ad and not doing a single thing about the ache he’d put in you.

It came to a head on a lazy Saturday morning.

You woke to find him already out of bed, hair a glorious mess, standing at the kitchen counter in nothing but a pair of sweatpants slung low enough to make you forget your own name. He was stirring sugar into your coffee, because of course you weren’t allowed to make your own, humming under his breath like some brooding, muscle-bound guest star on Desperate Housewives, the kind who has every bored suburban wife on the block peeking over the hedge just to watch him move.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he murmured, setting the mug carefully in front of you as you came closer like you were a patient in an ICU. “Careful, it’s hot.”

That was it, that was the moment you decided you’d had enough.

You took a slow sip, eyes on him over the rim, letting your gaze linger on his chest, his shoulders, the trail of hair disappearing under those sweatpants and without warning, you reached out and hooked your fingers into the waistband, tugging him a step closer.

“Sunshine…” His voice went wary, but his body didn’t move away.

You tilted your head, giving him your sweetest smile. “I’m healed, remember?” Your hand smoothed over his abs, nails scratching lightly, just enough to feel the hitch in his breath. “And unless I’ve forgotten basic anatomy, I’m pretty sure this,” your palm slid lower, “isn’t a danger to my recovery.”

“Not the point,” he muttered, though his voice had gone rough, his pupils blown.

“Feels like the point to me,” you whispered. “You’ve spent two months treating me like glass, Barnes. But I’m not glass. I’m flesh and blood. And right now, I’m very, very warm flesh in need of…” you pressed your mouth to his ear, “…attention.”

He swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides like he was fighting himself. “You keep this up, Sunshine, and I’m not gonna be responsible for what happens next.”

You grinned, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, your voice dropping to a purr.

“Good. I’m not asking you to be responsible, Bucky. I’m asking you to fuck me, and… I want you to do it right.'

You let the pause hang, then tilted your head, teeth catching your lower lip in mock innocence.

'I’d say you owe me that… seeing as I took a bullet for you.”

That was when the dam finally broke.

It happened fast. One second you were smirking up at him, the next his mouth was on yours, hard enough to steal the breath right out of you, and his vibranium hand slid up your thigh, fingers squeezing possessively, while the other gripped your jaw, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. 

He kissed like a man starved, his tongue swept against yours, deep and claiming, swallowing every little gasp you made as his grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make your pulse race.

“Oh, I will fuck you,” he muttered against your lips, the word low and rough, before kissing you again, harder this time, his teeth grazing your lower lip until you whimpered. 

That sound must have done something to him, because his hand on your thigh moved higher, hooking beneath your knee to drag your leg over his hip. 

The kiss never broke, it only deepened, messy and consuming, until you could taste your own ragged breathing between his. When he finally pulled back, his lips red and eyes pure hunger, it was only far enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, down the column of your throat, where his teeth scraped lightly over your pulse point.

“Do you have any idea,” he rasped, lips ghosting over your skin, “how many times I’ve gotten myself off thinking about this? About you?” his voice roughened with every word he spoke. “For months, Sunshine… I’ve been picturing the way you’d sound… the way you’d taste… the way you’d feel, clenching around me.”

Shit, it was too damn hot to hear, the filthy image his unfiltered confession conjured in your head sending a shiver through your whole body, running so deep he felt it. His answering groan was pure, unrestrained want as his hand slid between you, cupping you through your thin pajama pants, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles over your throbbing clit.

“Believe me Sunshine, I will fuck you so good you will forget your own name. Gonna show you,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your neck, as he scooped you up like you weighed nothing, “exactly how much I’ve been wanting you.”

Your legs locked around his waist on instinct as he carried you back to the bedroom. You caught sight of the half-finished coffee cooling on the counter, the sun spilling through the blinds and then his shoulder slammed the door shut with a finality that made your stomach twist in anticipation. 

The next thing you knew, you were flat on your back, his weight settling over you, all heat and muscle and weeks of coiled need. His fingers pushed your shirt up and over your head in one smooth, impatient motion, his eyes darkening at the sight of bare skin.

“Still sure you’re okay?” he asked, but it didn’t sound like hesitation this time, it sounded like a warning.

You hooked your fingers in his hair and pulled him down. 

“Not glass,” you murmured, crushing your lips against his. 

“Not glass,” he repeated with a low growl, and the look in Bucky’s eyes was anything but gentle now as his hands slid slowly down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants, tugging them off in one smooth motion.

Before you could even gasp, he was kneeling between your thighs, pushing them wide, spreading you open for his gaze. His tongue darted over his lips like a starving man confronted with a long-denied feast.

The cool glide of his metal fingers traced through your slick folds, lingering just long enough to make you shiver before his thumb found your clit, teasing in quick, perfect circles. Your back arched off the mattress with a moan you couldn’t bite back. God, you were more than okay, you were trembling, aching, soaked for him, almost embarrassingly so, every nerve tuned to the first real touch you’d been craving for what felt like ages.

“Beautiful, so fucking beautiful,” he whisperred as his hands gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking once before he leaned in, his breath warm against you and then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue made your hips jolt, a gasp tearing from your throat. He groaned in approval, the vibration shooting straight through you as he licked deeper, slower, savoring you like he’d been dying for the taste.

Bucky’s grip was firm, keeping you spread for him, every flick and swirl of his tongue deliberate, unhurried like he was going to wring every single sound out of you before he let you go.

“Sweet,” he murmured against you, his voice rough, “knew you’d be.”

When you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, he growled low in his chest and sucked harder, making you cry out. He didn’t let up, working you with his mouth until your thighs trembled and your breath came in short, desperate gasps.

“God, Bucky…” you choked out, but he only hummed, sending another shiver through you, his tongue pressing exactly where you needed it.

Your fingers fisted in his hair, pulling, urging, but if you thought that would make him hurry, you were wrong. Bucky was thorough, controlled, and so damn focused it made your head spin.

He slid one hand up to your stomach, holding you down when your hips tried to lift off the bed, while the other gripped your thigh, his thumb digging into your skin just enough to remind you who was in control.

He latched onto your clit, sucking with a slow, devastating pull that made your back arch and your breath break. You whimpered his name, and the sound must’ve been exactly what he wanted, because he growled against you and the vibration made your toes curl.

“Bucky… oh, shit… yes… yes… oh God…” you mewled, hips jerking in an instinctive plea for more.

“Shhh, my sweet girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing your slick heat as the words ghosted over you. “Take it easy… let me take care of you.”

Before you could even process that, his tongue slid lower, teasing at your entrance before pushing inside, deep and relentless. Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t seem to mind, if anything, his grip tightened, pinning you in place while he fucked you with his mouth.

You could feel him moan into you, like your taste alone was making him lose his mind and every slow drag of his tongue, every flick against that aching spot, built you higher, tighter, until the pressure in your stomach was unbearable.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice ragged as he pulled back just enough to wrap his lips around your clit again. “C’mon, baby. I’ve been starving for this.”

Your vision blurred, heat flooded you and then you broke, the orgasm ripping through you so hard you cried out, your whole body shaking as he kept going, licking you through every aftershock like he had no intention of stopping.

Only when you had turned into a whimpering, moaning mess, trying to push at his head, to escape the devastating onslaught of his lips and tongue, did he finally relent and sat back on his heels, lips and chin glistening, eyes dark and hungry as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath. Still on his knees between your legs, Bucky crawled up over you, the bed dipping under his weight until his chest pressed to yours. His mouth found yours instantly, hot and hungry, and you tasted yourself on his tongue, heady, intoxicating, intimate in a way that made your cheeks flush and your pulse race.

You whimpered against him, and he swallowed the sound greedily, one hand sliding up the side of your body to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over the hard peak until you arched into him. The other hand found your hip, holding you in place as his hips rolled, letting you feel every inch of the thick, hard length straining against his sweatpants.

“Feel that?” he murmured against your lips, voice a low growl. “Been like this for months… every time you walked into the room, every time you touched me, drove me fuckin’ insane. That time you patched the gash on my side…” his mouth curved in a breathless smirk, “…I bolted right after because if I’d stayed one more second, I would’ve come in my pants like some desperate fuckin’ teenager.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, savouring every drag of his lips against you, before his hand slipped back between your thighs. You gasped at his touch, as his metal finger parted your folds and slid inside you.  

“Still so wet for me,” he said, almost in awe. “Still ready.”

Your hands fumbled for his sweatpants, urgency replacing every other thought. 

He shoved his pants down just far enough for his cock to spring free – thick, flushed, and already dripping precum that smeared against your thigh.

Jesus, he was gorgeous. Heavy and perfectly shaped, a thick vein running along the underside, pulsing like it was just as desperate as you. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling the heat and weight, and his groan was deep enough to make your toes curl.

You tried to guide him to you, pressing the broad, leaking head to your entrance, but his hand closed over yours, firm and commanding.

“Not yet,” he rasped, eyes dark and locked on you.

He took over, sliding himself through your folds in long, unhurried strokes, the wet sound obscene in the quiet. Every pass rubbed your clit just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you want to scream.

You bucked your hips, desperate for more.

“Please,” you hissed.

Bucky just smirked, finally pressing the thick head into you… only to pull back again. Then he did it again, and again, slow, shallow, infuriating.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging the tip against your swollen entrance before retreating. “So beautiful, so fucking needy you’d take it all without thinking. You want it that bad, Sunshine?”

“Yes…God, yes…”

But instead of giving in, he kept up the torturous rhythm, the head of his cock breaching you just enough to stretch, to burn, before he denied you again until you were shaking, nails digging into his ass, trying to drag him forward.

“Beg prettier,” he growled, pressing in one last shallow thrust that made your breath catch. “Then maybe I’ll give you what you’re so fucking desperate for.”

Your nails dug harder into his ass, your voice breaking as you pleaded, “Bucky… please, I need you. I need all of you. I’ll do anything, just… fuck me.”

Something in his eyes changed, the smirk fading, replaced by something darker, hungrier as his fingers tightened on your hips, the metal one biting just enough to make you gasp.

He slammed into you in one brutal, perfect thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch made your mouth fall open in a soundless cry, your whole body clenching around him as your back arched.

You both moaned in unison.  His was low and broken, yours high and desperate as he filled you completely, stretching you until the air caught in your throat. He stilled there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in, feeling the tight flutter of your walls around him.

“Fuuuck,” Bucky groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his voice rough and wrecked. “You feel… unreal… better than I ever let myself imagine.”

The first thrusts were deep and heavy, slow enough to make your nails bite into his skin, forcing little gasps from your throat, but the longer he kept that pace, the rougher his breathing became until the restraint shattered, and he started to drive into you harder, faster, like every second apart had been fuel for this moment, and he was burning it all in you.

His hips snapped forward with a sharp, relentless rhythm that drove you into the mattress, and every sound he made, the low grunts, the hiss of his breath, the occasional broken moan, wound you tighter. 

“You wanted it, Sunshine,” he rasped, fucking you like he meant to prove it. “So take it. Take every…” 

a sharp thrust stole your air  

“... fuckin’ ...”

another made you moan in pleasure as your nails clawed at his back

 “... inch.”

You could barely answer him, your voice dissolving into needy, incoherent moans and pleas, and he was eating up every sound, fucking you harder, chasing both your pleasure and his like he’d been starving for this.

Your moans grew higher, sharper, as his thrusts turned downright punishing, the kind that had the headboard thudding in time with his hips as every inch of him was inside you, claiming, wrecking, ruining you in the best way possible.

“Common, Sunshine…,” he groaned, sweat dripping down his temple, his eyes dark and locked on yours. “let me hear you… let me hear you scream.”

And you were screaming now, or maybe moaning, you couldn’t tell, the sounds tumbled from you without control as he pistoned into you, each thrust harder, faster, his cock dragging over that perfect spot until you were a moaning, drooling, whimpering mess beneath him.

Your nails scored his back, leaving hot trails of sting in their wake, and he just growled at the pain, driving into you harder. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just desperate little sounds, your thighs trembling around him.

“Yeah… that’s it,” he panted, thumb finding your clit and circling it in hard, perfect strokes. “You gonna come for me? You gonna soak my cock like I know you want to?”

“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your entire body winding tight, the pressure coiling low in your belly ready to snap.

“Do it,” he hissed. “Come on, Sunshine. Let go, I want to feel it.”

You shattered, your vision went white and your mouth opened on a cry as the orgasm tore through you, pulsing around him, every nerve on fire. You felt him groan into your neck, hips slamming forward as if he could get impossibly deeper, his rhythm breaking into ragged thrusts.

“Fuck… fuck, I’m gonna…” he choked out, pulling you tight against him, and then he was gone, spilling hot and thick inside you with a deep, wrecked moan on of your name as he held himself there, buried to the hilt, shaking from the force of it.

For a long moment, the only sound was your combined breathing, ragged and uneven. His forehead rested against yours, his body still trembling with aftershocks, and when his eyes opened again, there was nothing but raw, unguarded affection in them.

He didn’t pull out right away, instead, he just kissed you, slowly, tenderly, savouring every drag of his lips against yours, until your heartbeat began to ease and your legs loosened from around him.

When he finally slipped free, you winced at the sensitivity and he immediately stilled, cupping your cheek with that careful, searching look like he was scanning you for damage.

“You okay?”

You almost laughed. “Bucky, I just came so hard I think I saw God and angels. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced, in fact, he looked downright concerned as he disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp cloth, kneeling between your thighs.

“Let me,” he murmured, and you knew better than to argue. He cleaned you gently, almost too gently, muttering under his breath about “making sure you’re comfortable” like the overprotective menace he was.

Then came the water, then the blanket adjustment, then him physically tucking you into bed like you were about to be read a bedtime story.

“Bucky, I’m not an invalid,” you grumbled, though you couldn’t stop the fond little smile pulling at your lips.

“Shut up,” he said, but there was no heat to it. “You’re my girl, and my job is to take care of you.”

You shook your head, exasperated, but when he slid in beside you and pulled you against his chest, his warmth wrapping around you like a second blanket, you simply wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and snuggled closer. His hand traced lazy, grounding circles on your back as he nuzzled against your hair.

“You know you drive me crazy, right?” you murmured into his skin.

“Yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Guess we’re even.” 

You gave a little huff. “I’m serious. All this… fussing over me like I’m made of sugar. It’s ridiculous.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “You love it.”

“I do not,” you protested, even as your fingers curled into his bare side and your head tucked closer under his chin.

“Mm-hm.” He sounded unconvinced. “That little face you make when I pour your coffee for you? Or when I carry all the groceries in one trip? Sunshine, you practically glow. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

You tilted your head back just enough to glare at him. “I tolerate it because you’d pout if I didn’t.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a grin. “Pout? I don’t pout.”

“You pouted when I tried to open my own soda last week.”

“That was different,” he said, tone all mock seriousness. “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

You laughed, unable to help it, and shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to yours in a slow, lazy kiss, “are mine.”

That shut you up, not because you agreed (you’d never give him the satisfaction out loud), but because the warmth in his voice went straight to your chest and melted every last bit of resistance. 

You just sighed into the kiss, letting him win this one.

[superbassbuck]

you make loving fun! | bucky barnes (18+)

⤷ farmer!bucky barnes x f!reader

⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, small town au, banter, neighborly enemies to lovers, pervert!bucky (stealing nude photographs), photographer!reader, fluff, sexual tension, public sex, dirty talk, degrading, breeding kink, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), size diff and kink

⭐︎ word count: 11.9k

⭐︎ a/n: thank you to my precious and dear friend @pinksplace for hosting this bwa stardew collab based on only one of the best games to exist. stardew valley. this is based on the character haley that you can romance in the game, so reader kinda has that mean, spoiled princess trope. I only ripped my hair out a million times writing this, so I hope you enjoy!

synopsis: Living in Pelican Town wasn't all that bad compared to the city life you were used to. With the big farmhouse next door unoccupied, everything was quiet, peaceful, and scenic. Then, Bucky Barnes moves in. Suddenly, you're waking up to the smell of manure, the squawking of chickens, and a farmer who's far too annoying—and far too hot—for his own good or your own comfort.

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Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.

You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.

Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.

Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.

Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring. 

It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.

Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.

Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?

With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.

Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.

The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.

Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.

And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize. 

Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

Was someone actually moving in? 

Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?

To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.

Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.

“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”

The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.

“Excuse me!”

Nothing.

You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.

You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.

“Hey! Farmer boy!”

The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise. 

He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily. 

The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.

It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes. 

Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.

“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.” 

You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face. 

“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust. 

Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand. 

Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.

When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.

But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”

You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes. 

“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.

He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.

You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”

He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”

Your shoulders tensed.

You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively. 

“H-how do you know that—?”

“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”

Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.

“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”

“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”

Your eyes widened. 

Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.

When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”

But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good. 

You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”

“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”

Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.

“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”

“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”

Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.

Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench. 

That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.

“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.

Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”

And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.

You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.

“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”

Social media? 

What kind of woman did this man think you were? 

He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.

“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”

Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth. 

Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.

You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”

On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.

When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.

“Cute panties.”

Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat. 

The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.

You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.

“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”

The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.

She wasn’t scared of you at all. 

She was smitten. 

“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.

The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!

A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing. 

Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.

“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”

“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”

Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.

“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”

Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.

“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.” 

Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.” 

You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.” 

“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.” 

“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.

Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.

“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow. 

He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”

“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.

“Explain it to me, princess.”

You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”

Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”

“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”

“And what about the men?”

Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”

It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.

“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”

You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”

Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.

He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.

“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”

You let out a short, scoffing laugh. 

He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?

Was he pulling your leg?

Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house. 

“Very funny.” 

As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”

It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.

Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive. 

He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned. 

“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”

You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”

This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.

This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve. 

While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.

You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned. 

If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.

In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.

He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”

“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”

Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.

“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”

“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”

As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.

The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.

Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.

“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.

“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.

The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.

“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”

Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.

Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.

“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”

You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”

Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small. 

Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.

Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.

Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.

“What—?”

“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”

“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”

Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe. 

“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”

He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”

For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment. 

So, you obeyed. 

You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.

Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.

“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”

You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”

“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face. 

“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”

You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.

“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.

Bucky offered a small, weary smile. 

“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”

He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.

“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”

“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.

He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.

Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.

You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.

“Wait—don’t!”

“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”

“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”

Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.

“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.

“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”

He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.

“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”

He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.

“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”

Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”

“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”

You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.

“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”

After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.

“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”

Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.

“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”

Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.

Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.

Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.

Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands. 

“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.

All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck. 

He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.

“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”

Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door. 

He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.

From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth. 

You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.

But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.

That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.

As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick. 

Why had you taken a picture like that? 

Who was it for? 

Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?

Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.

“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”

“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.

As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.

“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”

Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.

You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.

“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.” 

The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.

You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.

“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”

“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”

Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.

“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”

You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”

You blinked, finally glancing at him. 

“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”

Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.

“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”

You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud. 

You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.

“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.

When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.

The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.

To him, that just meant you were already his.

“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.

You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”

Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away. 

“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”

“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”

“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”

You bit your lip, hesitating.

When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.

“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”

“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.

He was dead serious.

He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”

Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.

To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.

But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside. 

Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.

He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.

It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.

He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.

Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.

It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.

As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.

You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.

Fuck.

You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.

Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.

You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.

“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.

It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.

Too fucking good.

He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”

“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”

You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”

Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.

“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”

With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.

But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.

“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”

Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before. 

Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”

“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”

He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.

“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.

“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”

The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step. 

His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.

As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him. 

“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”

God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.

Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”

He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.

He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.

From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took. 

It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to. 

His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.

A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.

He was wrong.

Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body. 

Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.

Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge. 

Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.

“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.

Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music. 

Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.

“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.

He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.” 

“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”

“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”

Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”

His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.

You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt. 

“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”

Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.

“Then do it,” you challenged.

“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”

Your breath hitched. His girl?

“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”

Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.

“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.

“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”

He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.

“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”

You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours. 

He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.

He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.

It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.

“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?” 

He didn’t answer.

He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either. 

His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.

Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.

You knew you should’ve stopped him.

You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.

But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue. 

How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?

Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”

You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”

He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath. 

He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.

“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”

“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.

With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.

“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.

His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.

The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley. 

His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.

“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.

You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.

As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.

“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.

He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.

One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.

“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.

He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices. 

Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.

You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”

Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”

You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”

“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall. 

Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.

He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.

“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.

“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”

His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.

“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”

“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.

You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”

Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.

“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”

With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you. 

You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.

He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.

He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”

He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”

Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.

As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.

He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.

He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.

“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.

You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod. 

He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”

He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.

“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”

“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.

He wanted more. 

He wanted to break you.

With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.

Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.

“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.

He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.

“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”

He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.

Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.

As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.

“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.

Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley. 

He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.

His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.

“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.

The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”

What was he saying?

His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”

He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle. 

“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”

“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”

His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.

“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.

“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.

Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”

Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered. 

“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”

He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.

“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”

His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.” 

He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.

“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”

The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.

You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it. 

“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly. 

He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”

Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”

You felt your breath get stuck in your throat. 

He was asking for permission?

Your body tightened beneath him.

You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.

“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.” 

Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go. 

“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.

You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.

“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”

You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.

“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”

“Just cum inside, Bucky!”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.

The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.

He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.

“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”

The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.

“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”

He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.

“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”

He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again. 

He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing. 

And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier. 

“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”

He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt. 

You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.

“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.” 

He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier. 

“Bucky?” 

“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway. 

“For my growing collection.”

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! again, please be sure to check out the stardew valley inspired masterlist if you haven't already!

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[imnotjustreadingg-volume-two]

bucky barnes faves fic 2

here's another round of faves fic! some of is are smut, while other are pure fluff.  thank you so much to all the amazing writers listed here <3

🎀 locked in towers, loved in dreams and mine by @sassandscribbles

🎀 beach time and sleepy confession by @caeruleusbarnes

🎀 freak house by @venigrantrogers

🎀 girl of his dream by @perdidosbucky-yyo

🎀 overstepping by @societyfolklore

🎀 challenge accepted and i licked it, so it's mine by @mickimoo1409

🎀 in with the rain by @singulartoast

🎀 little helper by @bkchron

🎀 birthday girl by @jamesbbcrnes

🎀 i believe in a thing called love by @juniebjonesin

🎀 first time in a long time by @tweedcola

🎀 wait, why are you on tinder? and starry summer by @w1nter-fairy

🎀 red string by @phoenix-in-writing

🎀 savior by @sunday-bug

🎀 softdark! Bucky by @vunblr

🎀 going down by @bucksangel

🎀 good boy by @godmadeaterribleerror

🎀 everything looks fine overall and newlyweds by @bucky-is-my-favourite

🎀 bucky figures you're touch starved by @belleeebelleee

🎀 say something and not meant for me by @buckybsdoll

[metal-armed-muse]

GUIDE fluff ❤︎ angst ☁︎ smut ★ my fave ‹𝟹

─── .✦ ݁˖ 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 ─ · ·

✧ BABYDOLL [53K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — bucky x camgirl!reader

➛ you swore you could keep your two lives separate: medical intern by the day, faceless fantasy online by night. but then Bucky Barnes walks in for a check-up… and later logs in to watch you strip. he knows. you don’t. and the deeper he falls, the harder it is to keep both worlds from colliding.

1 ⋆ 2 ⋆ 3 ⋆ 4 ⋆ 5 ⋆ 6

✧ LESSONS IN LOVE [38.2K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — brother’s bestfriend!bucky x inexperienced!reader {college au}

➛ Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.

1 ⋆ 2 ⋆ 3

─── .✦ ݁˖ 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒 ─ · ·

✧ SNOWBOUND [10.8K] ❤︎★ — dbf!alpha!bucky x omega!reader {werewolf au}

➛ you don’t understand why your body is reacting this way to being under the same roof with your dad’s best friend. one thing you do know is that this isn’t normal.

✧ BAD AT TALKING [8.7K] ☁︎★ — bfd!bucky x f!reader

➛ maybe blurting out “i love you” in the middle of sex was not your best moment. but he’s your best friend’s dad. shouldn’t he know better?

✧ SECOND CHANCES [19.5K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — congressman!barnes x med resident!reader

➛ one stolen night with congressman barnes leaves you with more than memories: a positive test and a man who's determined to prove he's worth a second chance.

✧ A SIMPLE FAVOUR [19.3K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — senior!bucky x junior!reader {college au}

➛ Bucky Barnes is your senior. That’s how simple it should’ve been. But when feelings come into the mix, nothing is ever simple right?

✧ A TORTURE CALLED LOVE [17.5K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — college! bucky x f!reader {enemies to lovers}

➛ You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, you’re both scrambling to pretend it didn’t change anything. What better way to save one’s heart than by breaking the other first?

✧ BAD HABITS [12.2K] ❤︎★ — dbf! bucky x f!reader

➛ What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?

─── .✦ ݁˖ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒 ─ · ·

✧ SUGAR AND SWEET [2K] ❤︎ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ you’re craving something sweet, and your boyfriend does something a million times sweeter.

✧ DRUNK ON YOU [4.2K] ❤︎ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ you drink for the first time, and your boyfriend’s there for you at every turn.

✧ DAYS WITHOUT YOU [2K]★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ your boyfriend is back home after a mission. you’ve spent days without him and you are simply too horny to care about anything else.

✧ PLAY WITH IT [1.5K]★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ you wanted to read. he wanted your mouth full. guess who won?

✧ VULNERABLE [1.5K]☁︎★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ your boyfriend shows up wrecked, lips to your stomach, whispering need into your skin. and you give him the only thing he asks for: everything.

✧ MERCY [2.8K]★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ your boyfriend gets worked up and teases you when you’re getting ready for work, but you flip the switch and suddenly now he’s at your mercy.

✧ PASSENGER PRINCESS [3.4K]★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ you are turned on by your boyfriend’s veiny arms, and decide to be a brat…so naturally he fucks the attitude out of you.

✧ MEDIA DARLING [4.3K]★ — congressman!barnes x journalist!reader {dark!bucky}

➛ you are the reporter they bring in when there are men behind chairs too powerful to fear, the one with the questions no one else dares to ask. but when the new congressman snaps, the story you walk away with isn’t the one you thought you’d write.

✧ KITCHEN COUNTER ENCOUNTER [6K] ★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ during a casual movie night with the thunderbolts, you learn that Bucky Barnes cannot keep his hands to himself. later you learn the same fact again while being pushed against a kitchen counter.

✧ WILTED ROSES [2.2K] ☁︎ ‹𝟹 — 40s!bucky x f!reader {hurt/no comfort}

➛ when bucky barnes got drafted, you didn’t realise that will be the last time you ever see him. but he did leave behind something for you. this is a story about the grief that follows death, and the love that blooms out of it anyway.

✧ SWEAT [4.3K]★ — avenger!bucky x f!reader

➛ power outage due to a stark mishap? no problem. bucky’s got other ways to make you work out. sweat never seemed to stop him anyway!

✧ SLEEPING BEAUTY [3.3K] ★ ‹𝟹 — congressman boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ your congressman boyfriend comes home after a long day to find you in the deepest slumber. who’s he to deny himself of the inviting warmth?

✧ MOMMY DAIRIES DIARIES [4K] ★ ‹𝟹 — husband!bucky x f!reader

➛ your husband has always been obsessed with you. but he seems extra with all the looks he's been throwing at you feeding your daughter. whatever is on his mind?

✧ I WANNA RUIN OUR FRIENDSHIP [2.8K] ★ ‹𝟹 — bestfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ when your bestfriend has lost his touch with how to please a woman, you’re the only person he trusts enough to help him with it.

✧ JUST THE TIP [2.8K] ★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader {college au}

➛ you know you should be studying, instead you’re in your boyfriend’s bed, while he tries to lure you in with the promise of ‘just the tip’

✧ FALLING INTO YOU [1.9K] ❤︎ — bucky x f!reader {meet-cute}

➛ something does fall when you slip on ice. it’s not your body, just your heart.

✧ ALL MY FIRSTS [6.5K] ❤︎★ ‹𝟹 — 40s!bucky x f!reader

➛ most girls dream under the covers when the house goes quiet. you’re waiting for the soft scrape of boots on the fire escape, because the boy you’ve loved forever is climbing through your window, and this time he isn’t leaving before dawn.

✧ TILL YOU’RE MINE IN EVERY WAY [5.9K] ❤︎★ ‹𝟹 — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ when bucky sees you babysitting walker’s kid, something stirs inside him.

✧ SCENT OF SOMEONE ELSE [5.4K]★☁︎ — fwb congressman!barnes x f!reader

➛ congressman barnes comes home to you with another woman’s perfume still clung to him. but what can you say? he’s not yours.

✧ WRONG NUMBER, RIGHT CALL [5.7K] ★ — bfd!bucky x f!reader

➛ One bored afternoon, one wrong contact. Now your best friend’s dad knows exactly what you look like.

✧ NEIGHBOUR BUCKY HEADCANONS [4.7K] ❤︎★ ‹𝟹 — neighbour! congressman! barnes x f! reader

➛ In which Congressman Barnes is your neighbour

✧ FIRST AID [4.2K] ★ — tfatws!bucky x f!reader

➛ What starts as first aid gets dirty fast.

✧ BUCKY BARNES VS ONE ANNOTATED ROMANCE NOVEL [2.7K] ★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ Bucky finds your romance novel. Bucky reads the highlighted part. Bucky discovers you've both been silently wanting the same thing. Bucky proves he’s incapable of acting normal about this information.

─── .✦ ݁˖ 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ─ · ·

✧ LINGERIE SHOPPING [4K] ❤︎ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ when your friend bails on you last minute, you go lingerie shopping with your boyfriend.

✧ THE GARTER EFFECT [5K] ★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ after the lingerie shopping, your boyfriend finds it hard to keeps his hands to himself, when you test his patience by wearing the garter you’d bought earlier.

─── .✦ ݁˖ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 ─ · ·

TEETH ✧ FACE SITTING ✧ TAKING ✧ BREAK ✧ 69 ✧ BRO? ✧ SALT N PEPPER ✧ SHIRT ✧ SLOW ✧ SHY AND LACE DON’T MIX? ✧ THE QUIETEST MORNING ✧ INKED, PIERCED AND BREATHLESS ✧ LEFT OUT

─── .✦ ݁˖ 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 ─ · ·

⋆ JANUARY JUMBLE SCRIBBLES

─── .✦ ݁˖ 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐒 ─ · ·

⋆ BUCKY’S DREAM HOUSE ⤷ TASTE TEST [17.8K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — executive chef! bucky x sous chef! f!reader

➛ Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.

grab your tickets here!

[heldbybarnes]

welcome to the light side of hbb!

everything here is fictional and meant to bring a little softness to your screen. please check tags and ratings before reading

ABOUT ME - REQ GUIDELINES - PROTECTION POLICY - TAG NAV

the darker side of hbb ‼️ = OC name is used | ⚠️ = NSFW 18+ ONLY Current anons: 🩵🐸🫧🫒🔮🖤🐛💐🪻🍎🔆🩰🌻 🪩😼⚓️🪷🧃🐍🦢🪵🥀🍇⚙️🌷🦌🦭🕯️🌧️🪐

SERIES CENTRAL

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ cherries In... winter | spring | summer ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

post ws. a cabin, a storm, and two broken people trying to thaw.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ink & aftershocks | part i | ii | iii ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

post ws. his hidden letters become the bridge from silence to love.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ love songs for ghosts ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

eight versions of him. eight versions of you. one love that always finds its way back.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ lingua del cuoure ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

he doesn’t speak your language—yet he listens, and falls for every word.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ the mirrorball effect ‼️ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

he joins the show for pr. you’re the pro who’s supposed to teach him to dance—not the one he’s supposed to fall for, step by step, week by week.

ONESHOTS

standalone fics with a punch of emotion or steam

DAD BUCKY & DOMESTIC FEELS

soft metal dad. chaos kids. pure serotonin

AUs, TROPES & FUN CONCEPTS

soulmates, bookstores, fake dating, and everything in between

ASK REQUESTS & WRITING DAYS

quick hits of emotion, steam, or soft chaos—bite-sized Bucky, perfect for scrolling

5+1 MOMENTS W/ BUCKY BARNES

snapshots of who he was, who he is, and the moments that stitched it all together

mdni banner: @cursed-carmine section dividers: @chateaubarnes

[superbassbuck]

𑣲SUPERBASSBUCK'S BUCKY MASTERLIST click for navigation , steve x reader x bucky masterlist

this is an 18+ space that contains bucky barnes x reader. some of these stories can be extremely wholesome, and some of these stories can be extremely dark. please take note of the warnings before proceeding. I am not responsible for your media consumption.

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

nav. ➞ 𐙚 fluff ﾒ૦ spicy ‹/𝟹 angst ⏾ dark

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 ! ʚɞ

𝐩*𝐫𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 9.7k 」 ⠀ camstar!bucky x virgin!reader

⤷ You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you. ⤷ series masterlist ⤷ part of my 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! mini-series

just don't look! 𐙚 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 7.3k 」

⤷ Bucky is the perfect boyfriend. Clingy, loving, and respectful. But months into, and you still haven’t slept together. He’s holding back, afraid he’ll lose control, but you’re determined to break that good-boy resolve. Now, in the night slip he bought you, his only defense is simple: don’t look.

𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 13.7k 」 ⠀ pool cleaner!bucky x rich girl!reader

⤷ Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it. ⤷ part of my 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! mini-series

so, this is love? ﾒ૦ ‹/𝟹 𐙚 𝓹𝓽.2 「 total wc: 35.9k 」 ⠀ king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au

⤷ The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.

𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧 ﾒ૦ ‹/𝟹 𐙚 「 mini series 」 ⠀ dirtbag!barnes x popular!reader

⤷ What happens when Bucky Barnes, the campus dirtbag, has a secret relationship (if you can even call it that) with the most popular, unapproachable girl in school? You get broken drumsticks in a fit of rage. You get smeared lipstick from heated make-out sessions. And most importantly, you get dirty little secrets. ⤷ part of my 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞-𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐬 ﾒ૦ ‹/𝟹 𐙚 ⠀ single dad!bucky x teacher!reader

⤷ Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. His world revolves around his daughter, Rebecca, and he likes it that way; steady job, cozy home, no room for romance. After a less-than-pleasant first meeting, he discovers you’re Rebecca’s elementary school teacher. He's determined to avoid you at all costs, and he definitely doesn’t plan on falling for you… especially since you’re a grade-A pain in his ass.

𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 ﾒ૦ ‹/𝟹 𐙚 ⠀ single dad!bucky x florist!reader

⤷ After your grandmother’s death, you inherit her failing floral shop and an empty house. A bad first day in town gets worse after a run-in with the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes. You instantly despise each other and vow to stay apart. But in a town this small, that’s impossible, especially when you unknowingly hire his moody teenage son to work at the shop.

𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚 ﾒ૦ ‹/𝟹 𐙚 ⠀ congressman!bucky x america's sweetheart!reader

⤷ Reformed assassin turned congressman Bucky Barnes is drowning in bad press and public distrust. Desperate to save his career, his team proposes a bold fix; a marriage of convenience to you, the beloved daughter of a decorated war hero and America’s sweetheart. The arrangement is strictly business, benefiting you both. But behind the cameras, you can’t stand each other, but pretending otherwise may be the hardest part.

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 ⏾ 𐙚 ⠀ winter soldier x reader

⤷ You were nothing more than Hydra’s gift to the Winter Soldier, a prize he claimed after every mission, a toy to use as he pleases. But when the base collapses in chaos, you brace for him to finally cast you aside. Instead, he makes a choice so unexpected it shatters everything you thought you knew.

𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! ﾒ૦ ⠀ includes house tour, p*rnstar, 40-love, need a ride?

⤷ introducing you bucky's employed era, where ❝ bucky barnes is trying to earn some bucks.❞ employers fear him, his clients eat him!

thirty, flirty, and... trying? 𐙚 「 wc: 2.4lk 」 ⠀ ⠀ bestfriend!roommate!bucky

⤷ Trying to find romance when you live with your best friend, who also happens to be a guy, is not the easiest thing ever. It especially doesn't help when the best friend in question just happens to be jealous and territorial as fuck.

first class 𐙚 「 wc: 2.1k 」 ⠀ pilot!husband!bucky x wife!reader

⤷ Bucky is the pilot everyone knows. Top of his game, perfect safety record, and no room for nonsense on his flights. He doesn't chat much with the crew—rarely even cracks a smile. He's respected, but also feared. But when you—his wife—is on board, he turns into complete mush.

everybody knows that i'm a good girl, officer ⏾ ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 3.2k 」 ⠀ cop!bucky barnes

⤷ You were driving late at night, and you got pulled over for something so trivial—it felt targeted. You think you might get away with a warning if you play your cards right, but Officer Barnes has a dark look in his eyes, and he doesn't like to be messed around with.

i put a spell on you ﾒ૦ ‹/𝟹 𐙚 「 wc: 14.2k 」 ⠀ salem witch au

⤷ Bucky never believed in love, yet you haunt his thoughts after only a few stolen words. Unable to explain the obsession, he convinces himself it must be witchcraft. And if you’re the cause of his torment, then there’s only one way to stop it… with fire.

boo!-ty call ﾒ૦ 𐙚 「 wc: 10.2k 」 ⠀ virgin!bucky x sex operator!reader

⤷ According to Steve and Sam, Bucky Barnes is a hopeless virgin with a crush on a phone sex operator. Dragged to the frat’s Halloween party to finally lose his v-card, he strikes out—until he hears a voice that sounds strangely familiar.

if your man wanna get buck wild. ﾒ૦ 𐙚 「 wc: 6.3k 」 ⠀ mob boss!bucky x mob wife!reader

⤷ After seeing your husband discreetly forward half a million dollars to a mysterious woman, you can't help but suspect Bucky isn't being loyal. So, you grab his wallet and make him pay for it all, because revenge is better than money.

I ❤️ MY BOYFRIEND ﾒ૦ ‹/𝟹 𐙚 「 wc: 4.7k 」 ⠀ beefy!bucky

⤷ Bucky Barnes never imagined he’d be ready for a relationship. Maybe he still isn't fully, but being with you has shown him just how much his world can change for the better through soft, vulnerable moments.

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 ﾒ૦ 𐙚 「 wc: 8.9k 」 ⠀ congressman!bucky x secretary!reader

⤷ Bucky Barnes never expected that his timid, shy secretary—who could barely greet “Congressman Barnes’ office!” on the phone without stuttering—would be writing filthy, inappropriate fanfiction in the workplace. The most logical thing to do would be to fire you, but for some reason, he just can’t bring himself to do it.

my congressman gave to me ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 8.9k 」 ⠀ congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

⤷ Secret Santa goes wrong when you draw your boss and nemesis, Congressman Barnes—and gift him something wildly inappropriate. What you don’t expect? He drew your name too.

once bitten, and twice shy 𐙚 ‹/𝟹 「 wc: 3.8k 」

⤷ bucky hated christmas. growing up poor meant no fancy trees, gifts, or home-cooked meals. and the snow, for obvious reasons, he despised it. unfortunately for him, his girlfriend loves christmas, and you're trying to get him into the holiday spirit: starting with decorating.

take it easy 𐙚 「 wc: 4.6k 」

⤷ Bucky hates working on the boat, but when the Wilsons’ pretty family friend is the one barking the commands, he doesn’t mind it one bit.

super-soldier problems ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 4.6k 」

⤷ After having a girlfriend, Bucky’s finally learning that there is much more that cums with the super-soldier serum than just muscle and strength.

let me in, baby ⏾ ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 5.3k 」 ⠀ vampire!bucky

⤷ After months of silence, Bucky shows up at your door in the middle of the night—bloodied, beaten, and his pupils blown wide with a hunger for you that you've never seen before. Despite everything telling you to push him away, your heart can't help but invite him inside.

table for two one. ‹/𝟹 𐙚 「 wc: 4.6k 」 ⠀ mob husband!bucky

⤷ One arranged marriage, one homemade dinner, two cold plates... and a husband who showed up three hours late, drunk, and heartless.

oh, ashen one ⏾ ‹/𝟹 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 6.6k 」 ⠀ undead knight!bucky x healer!reader

⤷ You perform the rite to awaken a soldier, a knight named Bucky Barnes, to link the fire to save a dying world and become a hero. But what happens when the soldier slowly gains consciousness and realizes he doesn’t want to be a hero, and would rather exist in the dark with you?

until I have you. 𐙚 ‹/𝟹 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 12.2k 」 ⠀ knight!bucky x maidservant!reader

⤷ A maidservant’s only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princess’s sole protector—James Barnes.

down at the bayou 𐙚 ‹/𝟹 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 14.9k 」

⤷ Sam has been trying to get you and Bucky to get along—or at least tolerate each other—for the longest time. And what better way to do that than by inviting you both back home for a weekend in Louisiana?

you make loving fun! 𐙚 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 11.9k 」

⤷ Living in Pelican Town wasn't all that bad compared to the city life you were used to. With the big farmhouse next door unoccupied, everything was quiet, peaceful, and scenic. Then, Bucky Barnes moves in. Suddenly, you're waking up to the smell of manure, the squawking of chickens, and a farmer who's far too annoying—and far too hot—for his own good or your own comfort.

nutshell ⏾ ‹/𝟹 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 11.3k 」

⤷ You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.

call me maybe ! 𐙚 ﾒ૦ 「 wc: 10.2k 」

⤷ There’s a new guy who moved in right across from you. He’s a total mystery, but his looks certainly aren't. Since he's subtly trying to get your attention, how could you not entertain him? Especially when you have your best friend, Steve, in your ear telling you to go for it.

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞! ── .✦ one direction inspired collab w/ @houseofhyde

⤷ i want you to rock me ! ⤷ do you like the way we kiss in the dark? 「 wc: 12k 」 ⤷ you say you're a good girl.

artficlly's moodboard event ⤷ keep the lambs away. ⏾ ﾒ૦ 𐙚 「 wc: 11.4k 」 ⠀ lumberjack!bucky

⤷ After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.

size difference ⟡ coney island baby ⟡ somno ⟡ crying and breeding ⟡ sick bucky ⟡ jealous bucky ⟡ bucky after a fight ⟡ domestic bucky ⟡hyperspermia ⟡ read more here

[metal-armed-muse]

LESSONS IN LOVE — the masterlist

BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER

SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.

WORD COUNT. 38.2K

WARNINGS. college au, brother’s best friend trope, MDNI, fluff, slowish burn, angst, inexperienced reader, smut, virginity loss, oral (f and m receiving), vaginal fingering, nipple play, protected pnv, more to be added.

PARTS. Chapter 1 — teach me Chapter 2 — please me Chapter 3 — love me

NOTES. Steve is going to haunt the narrative like the wife who dies at the start of a film. You can imagine reader as Steve’s adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions.

STATUS. COMPLETED

my masterlist!

coming to you every thursday… comment to be added to the taglist!

[buckyrebloggedfics]

fuck this was too cute. id do tht too if i can hold his face

im malfunctioning

HELLOOOOKMMMMM????????

[superbassbuck]

18+ mdni. smut. this whole masterlist is filthy. introducing you bucky's employed era, where ❝ bucky barnes is trying to earn some bucks.❞ — @houseofhyde™ with various job-like tropes employers fear him, his clients eat him!

main masterlist

𝐩*𝐫𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 [9.7k] ⠀ camstar!bucky x virgin!reader

⤷ You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.

Forty-love! [7.7k] ⠀ tennis instructor!bucky x reader

⤷ Coach Barnes lives by a simple motto. Happy clients, bigger pay. Most of the time, that means entertaining the old folks or pampering the rich and bored by always letting them win. Easy money. But what happens when his newest client is a spoiled little brat whose half his age, shoved on the court by mommy and daddy? Well. He'll make sure to put her in her place. Professionally, of course.

𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 [13.7k] ⠀ pool cleaner!bucky x rich girl!reader

⤷ Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it.

need a ride? [8.5k] ⠀ trucker!bucky x reader

⤷ When you stole your dad's car keys to sneak out of the house to go to a concert, the last thing you expected was to break down in the middle of nowhere. So, you do the one thing a young, impressionable woman should never do: you stick out your thumb and hitchhike.

updated 12.7.25.

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

[superbassbuck]

House Tour ❛ 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁 𝒶𝓋𝑒!

⤷ pool cleaner!bucky x rich girl!reader

⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, perv!bucky, dom!bucky, touch starved reader, sexual tension, mutual pining, dry humping, mating press, oral (f receiving), p in v, fingering, edging, begging, degrading, size difference kink, praise, dirty talk, masturbation, breeding kink, overstimulation, name calling and pet names: "slut" "baby" "pretty girl"

⭐︎ word count: 13.7k

⭐︎ a/n: wanted to write a fic based on sabrina's song house tour. i was inspired by @houseofhyde's (literally sabrina carpenter) fics and if you haven't already, read her manchild series and check out her man's best friend inspired anthology coming soon! huge thank you to my girl @wildflowersandvibranium for helping me w/ the color gradient. thank you to @heldbybarnes and @its-in-the-woods for helping me w/ the moodboard. thank you to @chateaubarnes for the divider. <3 much love. he's a busy man! masterlist

synopsis: Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it.

← previous fic | main masterlist | next fic ➜

You paused in front of the full-length mirror hanging in the foyer of your sprawling three-story house. A skimpy swimsuit was snug to your body, an expensive pair of sunglasses perched on top of your head, along with a chilled cocktail in your manicured hand to top it all off. 

You adjusted the sheer cover-up knotted loosely at your hip that revealed just enough skin…though never quite enough.

With one quick glance out the window towards your backyard, your breath hitched immediately. 

There he was again—your pool boy, hard at work. 

The usual white tank he wore clung to his chest, already slick with his sweat. His arms flexed with every pull of the pole, muscles tightening beneath his sun-warmed skin, his hair falling into his eyes as his broad back bent and straightened as he moved around. 

The sight alone sent butterflies to your stomach.

You sucked in a sharp breath, smoothing your hair and bringing your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose. Sliding open the glass door, you were welcomed with the hot sun and a slight breeze, bringing with it a faint smell of chlorine. 

“Good morning, Bucky,” you called, your voice cheery with an inviting smile. 

Bucky glanced up from the water, sunglasses reflecting you back at yourself. 

“Morning.” 

Then, a small nod before returning to his work. 

It wasn’t much, but still, your smile didn’t falter. Ever since you hired Bucky to work for you as your designated pool cleaner, you couldn’t help but grow a little… attached.

You were a single woman living in a house big enough to hold a family of ten. Or twenty. Too much money, too much time on your hands, and not enough sex.

So when a strong, quiet, devastatingly attractive man showed up to work under your roof, what was the harm in having a little fun? Watching him became your guilty pleasure, like keeping your own personal eye candy by the pool.

First, it started with harmless admiration.  

You’d catch yourself watching him from the corner of your eye, stealing glances under your sunglasses or through the window when you thought he wouldn’t notice. You’d watch very closely—the way sweat dripped down his neck and in between the crevice of his chest. 

And his arms. 

God, his arms. 

You couldn’t help but imagine how they might feel cinched tight around your waist, or how those rough, calloused hands might look wrapped delicately around your throat. 

Silly thoughts, really. Inappropriate, even. 

He was just the man you paid to clean your pool. You never said anything, of course. Just… quiet looks, very long sips of your drink, and the guilty thrill of knowing you liked the view far more than you should. 

You leaned back into the reclining chair, stretching your legs out before crossing at the ankle, your fingers idly twirling the straw in your cocktail.

“It’s so hot out today,” you said, tilting your head towards him. “But I can’t really complain with a view like this.” 

Bucky didn’t react. He didn’t even look at you either. Just a quiet grunt, his expression unreadable behind the darkness of his sunglasses.

Very typical. 

Second, it became something physical. A physical attraction. 

The mysteriousness of him left too much room for your imagination to run wild. He rarely said anything beyond the occasional “Good morning” or a low grunt, and more times than not, you found yourself aching for just a little more.

“You know, if you ever need a break, my house is always open and well air-conditioned,” you offered lightly, finishing it with a soft laugh to make it sound playful instead of… well.

Predatory.

The truth was, for all its size, your house was lonely. A word, a glance, even the smallest scrap of attention would have been enough—and somehow, the person you wanted it from was the man fishing leaves out of your pool. 

It was no different than coworkers developing crushes just from seeing each other every day—or feelings sparking within a friend group simply from being around one another so often.

So really, it was only natural to feel this way… wasn’t it?

You wanted to feel him. All of him. His muscles, his jawline, his back… 

You wondered how hot his body would be pressed to yours—how his fingers would feel sliding into you, stretching you, filling you, instead of your own. 

You hated to admit it, but you have touched yourself to that thought before. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Maybe more. 

Bucky barely looked up. “I’m okay. Thank you,” he said, voice quiet, rough, and dismissive, before turning back to the pool like the conversation had already ended before it even began. 

Your lips curved up in a sly smirk as you tried again. 

“Are you sure? Do you want anything to drink then? A lemonade? Water? Or maybe a cocktail?” your tone stayed breezy, playful, all as if you weren’t holding your breath for an answer. 

“No, ma’am,” he replied casually, eyes still fixed on the pool. And he still didn’t look up. 

You exhaled slowly, swirling your straw before taking another sip. God, he was infuriating. And yet, the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him. 

And last but not least, it became a game. A challenge. As maddening and one-sided as it seemed, you couldn’t help but crave it.

You were a rich, young and beautiful woman. Realistically, you could have anyone you wanted and you knew it. You were used to being fawned over, used to nobodies tripping over themselves just to ask for your number. But the fact that you couldn’t so much as snag the gaze of your pool boy? 

That ignited something inside you.

For once, you were the one chasing. 

And you didn’t mind it one bit.

“So, do you have any plans after this? I was thinking of making a quick lunch if you would like to join me.” 

Silence. Just the sound of water swooshing gently against the pool’s edge and the light scrape of the skimmer gliding across the surface. He paused, his eyes fixed on something in the distance, near your water pipes. His shoulders straightened like a thought came to mind.

Then, he finally lifted his head to look at you. Your heart thumped faster in your chest. 

Finally. 

“Can you come here for a second?” he asked, his voice straightforward and blunt as he set the skimmer down. 

You couldn’t help the smile creeping on your lips. You rose from your chair, setting your cocktail down on the side table. You smoothed the cover-up around your hips as you made your way over, anticipation already fluttering wildly in your chest. 

The entire time, Bucky’s gaze followed you from behind his shades. You hoped he noticed the way your bikini clung tight to your curves, the subtle sway of your hips as you moved towards him.

You flashed him a charming grin, crossing your arms over your chest—subtly accentuating the way your breasts pushed up against your arms. 

Too bad his sunglasses hid his eyes. You had no way of knowing if he had even noticed.

“Follow me,” he said, curling his fingers to motion you closer. 

“Okay,” you agreed softly, letting him guide you. 

With his back to you, you couldn’t help but admire the view—the width of his shoulders, the way he moved. You were so caught up in the silhouette of him that you hardly noticed where he was leading you until you found yourself at the side of the house, standing before the jumble of water pipes and filters.

He stopped abruptly. “Stand here.”

You moved closer, your heart beating so fast it could leap out of your chest. The way he stood there, watching you, commanding you to come up to him… it all made your skin heat up in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. 

“Closer.” 

Your breath caught in your throat, one large hand brushing against your lower back to guide you into position. The touch was casual, almost incidental, yet it was enough to make your legs feel a little weak.

He held your gaze for a moment, his hand still resting lightly on your lower back. You wanted nothing more than to reach up and remove his sunglasses yourself—just to see his eyes, to know if he was feeling the same spark you were.

Then, finally, he broke his gaze and tilted his head towards the filter. 

“There’s an issue with the filter,” he explained. “It’s clogged worse than I thought. I’ll need to check it a few extra times this week to make sure it’s running properly.”

Oh. 

Your shoulders slump slightly, the thrill of his attention immediately colliding with a pang of disappointment. 

You followed his gaze to the pool and let out a very long and disappointed sigh. “Is that so?” 

He grunted quietly, his hand retreating from your back. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “I’ll start on it. Should take a while to get it fully unclogged.”

You swallowed, trying to force a nonchalant smile. Infuriatingly dry, and yet every word, every glance—or lack thereof—only made the fiery spark inside you burn brighter. 

“How ‘bout you come inside for a second?” you offered quickly. “Cool off a little before getting back to work… I mean, look at you—you’re sweating like crazy.” You added a soft chuckle, letting the words hang teasingly in the air, hoping, praying he’d catch the bait. 

Bucky’s head tilted up, looking past you and up at your three-story house. His expression was frustratingly unreadable, leaving you guessing at what might be running through his mind. After a long pause, he finally looked back at you.

“No, thanks.” 

It was just as you expected. With a soft sigh, you masked your disappointment with a small shrug. 

“Suit yourself,” you murmured as you already turned your back away. 

“But…” 

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. 

“I’ll take a glass of lemonade,” Bucky said, his tone flat like he was granting you a concession. 

Your lips curved slowly up into a grin, that warmth coming back to life in your chest. It wasn’t much—but it was something. And with him, even the smallest thing felt like a victory.

“Lemonade, coming right up,” you said lightly, your tone playful. 

This time, when you turned toward the house, there was a little more pep in your step, the sway of your hips unconsciously enthusiastic. It felt good, being given something to finally work with—even something small.

What you didn’t see was the way Bucky’s eyes followed you, hidden safely behind his sunglasses. You missed how his gaze lingered on the curve of your ass through the sheer cover-up, how his jaw clenched once you finally slipped out of view.

From outside, he could see everything. 

The way you moved around the kitchen with far too much energy for something as simple as lemonade. How you dragged out a step stool to reach the tallest cabinet, just to pick the nicest glass for him. How you filled it with ice, frowned because you put too much, dumped it out, then poured it again until it was perfect. How you even fussed with the lemon slice on the rim like you were serving royalty and not some random pool cleaner. 

And the sight was fascinating. 

He loved watching you—a wealthy girl who could have staff do it for you—going out of your way to make a drink for someone like him.

Of course he knew about your coy smiles, your lingering stares when you think he’s not looking, the way your hips sway when you walk away, the skimpy bikinis you wore despite never once stepping foot into the pool.

He noticed everything. 

He just chose not to bite. 

Because watching you try—watching you put all that effort into getting a reaction out of him—was far more entertaining than giving you what you wanted.

As you leaned into the fridge for the pitcher, your sheer cover-up rode higher over your thighs, the thin fabric stretching to reveal the curve of your ass underneath. You bent forward slightly to grab some more lemons from a lower shelf, and… 

The sight made his throat go dry.

His cock stirred, thickening and rising slowly, an ache pressing against the confines of his work pants. He shifted his stance, trying to will the sensation away, but it was no use. The pressure was unbearable, insistent, and tight. Every movement reminded him of just how badly he needed you.

Bucky glanced toward the kitchen again, making sure you were still occupied. When the coast was clear, his hand slid to his crotch, fingers brushing over the straining fabric as if adjusting himself would ease the discomfort. 

It didn’t.

The brief contact only made his cock twitch in his pants even more. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, his hand palming his bulge through his pants. 

He had to bite back a groan as his cock throbbed, begging for more. It was so risky squeezing himself when you were only a few steps away, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

You had no idea what you were doing to him. And the cruelest part was knowing you wanted him too—that fact alone made it harder to keep his control.

Bucky knew he could easily barge in and ruin you, ruin all that polished perfection you surrounded yourself with. 

He’d dirty up your pristine house in an instant. He’d bend you over the arm of your thousand-dollar couch. He’d fuck you across all three glossy floors. He’d bury himself deep in your king-sized bed until you couldn’t bear to go to bed without him. 

His hand pressed harder against the outline of his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he growled to himself as filthy images flooded in his mind. 

He wanted to so badly drag that sad excuse of a cover-up off your body, bunching it around your bare waist and bending you over the kitchen counter that you hardly use to cook for your own. He wanted to take his time and savour you—make you finally crumble and beg for his attention instead of throwing out coy smiles and teasing comments.

His thumb circled the swollen head straining against his pants, the friction was delicious but it was not nearly enough. 

Fuck, did he want to split you open on his cock, watch your spoiled composure shatter as you clawed at him for more with those greedy, manicured hands.

He squeezed himself harder, breathing heavy, eyes locked on the doorway where you could reappear any second. The risk of being caught only made his cock throb harder.

Imagine if you walked out right now, catching him red-handed—

The sound of the door opening snapped him back to reality. He yanked his hand away, standing up straight and turning his back just as you stepped outside with his glass of lemonade with a bright and oblivious smile on your face.

“Here you go,” you said brightly, handing him the glass. 

“Thanks,” he muttered back, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest second before he took it. 

He tipped the glass back, his Adam's apple bobbing as swallowed, and you found yourself staring at his throat like you were thirsty yourself. He let out a satisfied sigh as he set the glass down on a nearby table. 

He gave you one quick glance under his sunglasses before nodding his head once. “It’s good.” 

Dry.

Flat. Like always. 

And you, of course, didn’t notice the irony that just a mere seconds ago, he had his palm against his cock, groaning your name under his breath. Now here he was, still as stone, acting like you barely existed. 

But for you, that tiny moment, your fingers brushing against his when you passed the lemonade, was enough to send your heart skipping like a schoolgirl’s. 

It was ridiculous, really, how something so brief could make you feel so electric.

You forced a small smile and slipped back into your chair, twirling the straw in your now half-melted cocktail. You tried to play it cool, but your eyes kept dragging back to him again and again.

You were hypnotized with the way his hands toyed at his belt like he was adjusting himself, the movement of his shoulders as he crouched low by the pump system near the pool’s edge—everything about him just made it harder to resist. 

Bucky leaned over the filter housing, twisting the valve to let off the hiss of trapped pressure. You watched as he unlatched the clamps holding the lid in place, muscles hard at work under his sun-warmed skin. 

With a low grunt, he lifted the heavy top free, setting it aside before reaching down into the canister. He worked quietly, pulling free a clogged-up basket stuffed with leaves, stringy muck, and god knows what else. You weren’t really paying that much attention to the filter anyway. 

“Mm,” he muttered, giving it a shake, water splattering onto the pavement. “The filter's jammed up worse than it should be. I’ll need to check on it a couple more times this week, make sure it doesn’t back up the whole system.” 

He tilted his head. “Gonna take a look at the pump’s pressure next.” 

He dropped the basket back into the filter housing and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Then, with a low grunt, he hooked his fingers at the hem of his damp white tank and lifted up and over his head. 

You nearly spilled your damn drink. 

His chest stretched out, broad and solid. His muscles shifted as he tugged the fabric free and tossed it aside. Sunlight caught on every line—the ridges of his abs, the sharp cut of his V disappearing beneath the waistband of his low-slung work pants.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, heat flooding in your belly.

Your thighs pressed together, desperate to soothe the ache between them. You wanted to keep watching, but every flex of his back as he crouched over the filter only made it worse. You pictured your hands running down the hard grooves of muscle, his body hovering over yours—

God. It was so indecent, sitting here and openly staring at him. 

You knew you couldn’t take it anymore when he started to grunt as he bent down to check the pipes. The sound was nothing but seemingly innocent, but to your ears, it came out unbearably filthy.

Clearing your throat, you scrambled to your feet, your drink wobbling dangerously in your hand. 

“Well,” you said quickly, voice rising high in pitch. “It’s getting… really hot out here, so I’ll just—” You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

You didn’t wait for an answer—not that you were going to get one anyway. With your face burning, you hurried back towards the safety of your house, desperate for cool air and four walls protecting you from the sight of his addicting sweat-slicked body.

Bucky glanced up, peering at you through his shades as he watched you scurry off inside, your cover-up lifting around your bare thighs. 

That was cute. For someone whose entire game was trying to catch his attention, you bolted the second you actually got it.

He bent back over the pipes, but his focus was shot to hell. Every few seconds, his gaze followed back to the house, tracking you through those wide, spotless windows until you disappeared past a wall… only to reappear again in your bedroom. 

The blinds were wide open, curtains parted to give him a clean view of your perfect body. You hadn’t even realized—or maybe you did, and this was your invitation for him to watch you. 

From where he stood at the pool’s edge, he had a perfect line of sight—your figure moving across the room as you wiggled out of your flimsy cover-up and tossed it carelessly onto the floor somewhere. He watched as you paced around the room, flustered and restless. 

The sunlight peeking through your windows lit you up like a goddess, a carving that was made to be worshipped by him. 

You looked edible. 

And Bucky wanted a taste. 

Just as he was about to force his gaze away to focus on the filter, you did something that made his throat go completely dry. 

You let out bikini straps slip from your shoulders. The top fell loose and he felt his chest—and his pants—tighten as you stood there, bare and unaware. But what really got him was the sight of you crawling into your bed, removing your bottoms and letting your polished fingertips glide down your bare torso and disappearing in between your smooth thighs. 

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered as his cock began to stir again. 

Watching you make lemonade earlier was one thing. But this—this was just obscene. Standing out here in your yard, shirtless, watching you touch yourself like you were putting on a show for him alone. 

It should’ve felt wrong. He should’ve felt like a creep—like a pervert. But it didn’t stop him.

Because this was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to stare at you? After all, you were likely touching yourself to the thought of him anyway, so it was only fair for him to watch you in return. 

Your hair sprawled across white silk pillows, your legs stretching open as you began to work yourself with desperate little touches. Bucky’s cock strained with every twitch of your fingers. He could already imagine it—how wet you’d be for him, how tight. 

If it were his hand between your thighs instead of yours, you’d be clawing at him, begging to keep going—or to go easy. 

Fuck. Watching you earlier had been bad enough, but this? This was pure torture.

He could already imagine it, how wet you would feel against his fingers, how easily you would open up for him if it were his hand between your thighs instead of your own. 

His cock pressed hard against his zipper, begging for just an ounce of relief. Palming himself wasn’t enough, and if he wasn’t going to storm upstairs and fuck you into your mattress, he’d have to settle for his hand instead. 

You had your head tossed back against the pillow, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth hung open. Bucky couldn’t hear you, but God, he wished he could. 

With a low growl, he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, zipping his fly down quickly and desperately. His hand slipped into his waistband, pulled out his cock, already warm and heavy in his palm. The rush of cool air against his swollen tip made him hiss through his teeth, and his fist tightened around the length.

Bucky watched as you rolled your hips against your own fingers, your lips parting to gasp, he couldn’t hear but could damn well imagine. 

His fist worked over his cock, giving himself small and teasing strokes. But the longer he watched you, the harder he pumped himself. His breath hitched right along with yours, even if you couldn’t hear him. 

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he rasped under his breath, this thumb sliding over the leaking tip of his cock. “Fuck yourself nice and deep… open up that pretty pussy for me.” 

You gasped again, your head sinking deeper against the pillows, and he groaned, imagining it was because of him, because of the way he would sink his cock into you and split you wide.

“Bet you’d be so fucking tight around me,” he grunted, hips rocking into his hand as he pumped faster. “I’d stretch you out so good, make you scream my name instead of keeping it all quiet like that.”

Every shake of your body, every subtle move of your wrist, only made him harder, needier. His balls were tight and aching, but still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t drag his eyes away.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he muttered, voice strained. “So perfect… so fucking sweet—thinkin’ you’re in control all the time.” His hips bucked into his fist, precum smearing over his knuckles as he stroked harder. “You’ve got no idea, do you? How bad I wanna ruin that pretty little image of yours....”

Your thighs trembled, your lips parting in another voiceless cry, and he groaned deep in his chest, pumping himself faster. You were getting close, he just knew it. 

“I’d fuck you stupid, baby,” he hissed, gaze locked on the way your legs started to shake. “Have you begging, drooling, makin’ a mess all over my cock until you couldn’t even say my name without whimpering.”

He braced one hand against the edge of the filter housing, knuckles going white. 

“You’d be mine. Only mine. I’d keep you tucked away in this big house, fuckin’ you on every damn floor until you forget anyone else even exists,” he growled. “I’ll make sure you have no one else over but me.” 

His hips jerked, strokes getting messier as the image of you whimpering beneath him filled his head. Through your window, your back arched, your eyes squeezing shut as your fingers moved frantically between your legs. 

“Yeah… that’s it, baby,” he hissed quietly. “Cum for me, cum on my cock like I’m right there…” 

Your body trembled, chest rising up and down rapidly. Bucky felt his own release rising hard and fast. The sight of you—silk sheets wrinkling beneath you, hair sprawled out over the pillows—tore a groan clean out of his chest. 

Good thing you couldn’t hear him. 

You turned your head, cheek brushing softly against your tousled hair, looking like a goddamn angel.

Then your eyes fluttered open. 

Straight out the window. 

And Bucky’s stomach dropped. 

Shit. 

He immediately yanked his hand off himself and stuffed his cock back into his pants, turning his body toward the filter like he had been working on it the whole time. His breathing came hard through his nose, heart beating fast as he grabbed the nearest tool and pretended to check the pipes, praying you hadn’t seen him. 

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. His heart was thudding in his ears, his cock still aching—slick and completely unsatisfied in his pants. 

He sucked in a deep breath as he tried to steady himself, trying to look like he hadn’t just been seconds away from blowing his load all over the pool deck. 

Play it cool. 

Work the pipes. 

Don’t look back up. 

Meanwhile, from above, you lay your back against your pillows as your gaze swept out the window and down to your pool. 

Bucky was still out there, bent over the filter and hard at work. His broad back was gleaming with sweat, and even from here, you could see his chest rising and falling heavily, his breaths coming in sharp.

A faint smile tugged at your lips. Of course he looked wrecked—he had been out there all morning, under the sun, hunched over pipes and skimmers and God knows what else.

He was really, really hard at work. 

Your smile dropped to something… guiltier. Poor guy, out there sweating through his work while you’ve been upstairs, sprawled out in silk pristine sheets, doing… well, not much of anything useful.

And even though he didn’t ask for it, he deserved another lemonade. 

You sat up and threw on a simple shirt and shorts this time. It wasn’t like you were going for a swim with the filters all messed up, and it wasn’t like that bikini had done much to catch his attention anyway.

You stepped outside, the glass of lemonade slick with condensation. The sun hit you right in the face, forcing you to squint as you raised a hand to shield your eyes.

“Round two!” you called, your sandals smacking lightly against the patio. 

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened before he stood up straight and turned to you. He cleared his throat, his fingers brushing over yours for the briefest second before he took the glass.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice raspy and thick. He looked down at you, sunglasses hiding his eyes. His jaw clenched—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, or…  more like he didn’t trust himself to speak. 

You were a different sight than before. Your hair was a little mussed, you had on a plain shirt—a few sizes too big—hanging over your body. It was so big that he barely noticed your tiny shorts riding up your thighs. 

No skimpy hundred dollar bikini. No sheer cover-up. And this time, no obvious attempt at allure. 

And still, he wanted you. 

Because even like this—especially like this—he was still hard, still unsatisfied, his cock pressing hot and heavy against his zipper. 

He swallowed hard before tipping the glass back. He downed the lemonade in one long chug, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow until the glass was completely empty. 

You smiled, hands behind your back. “Better than the first time?” 

He exhaled slowly, handing the glass back to you. 

“Yeah.” 

It was another sweltering afternoon, and you were sprawled out on the pool chair with a book in your hands—a book you hadn’t turned a page in for the last fifteen minutes. Your eyes kept straying past the print, landing on Bucky where he knelt by the water pipes.

Today was even hotter than yesterday, and he was out there shirtless, sweat dripping down his skin as he worked. You had on a different swimsuit—still skimpy, still expensive—and the heat was making you sweat right through it.

Honestly, if it weren’t for the view, you would’ve already given up and gone inside to the comfort of your AC.

You set the book down on your lap. “Bucky,” you called, tilting your head towards him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside? It’s okay to take a break, it’s so damn hot out here.”

He didn’t even glance up from where crouched. He twisted a wrench, the metal clinking sharp against the pipe. 

“I’m fine,” he muttered. 

But the sun was glaring down on you both mercilessly, beads of sweat sliding down his temple, down his throat and over his chest. You were already burning up just by sitting still—so with him out there working, he seemed anything but fine.

You wiped at your damp forehead with the back of your hand, moving uncomfortably against the recliner with a huff. The heat was unbearable, and the bikini that was supposed to make you feel sexy felt sticky, suffocating, and gross. 

“Bucky,” you tried again with a weary sigh, “come inside. Just for a minute. I’ll crank up the AC and grab you a drink. You’re going to pass out if you stay out here. The filter can wait.” 

He didn’t bite. He never did. Even your own patience felt like it was melting under the sun. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he said roughly, tightening the wrench with another twist. 

He still didn’t look at you.

Normally you would laugh it off, throw out another playful line his way, and try again until you wrung even the smallest reaction out of him. But the heat, the sweat, and the mounting frustration of constantly chasing his attention had you clenching your jaw instead.

“Fine,” you muttered, sharper than you intended, snapping your book shut and rising to your feet. “Suit yourself.” 

Without another word—or even glance—you turned and marched back into the house, letting yourself be greeted by the cool air over your skin as the door clicked shut behind you. 

Bucky froze from where he crouched, wrench going still in his hand as he watched you stalk off and shut the door in a way that clearly indicated you were not coming back. 

What the hell was that about? 

You never just… got up and left.

You usually retreated in the house with a smile on your face, and every single time, you kept coming back, circling him with that playful little persistence of yours. 

His jaw clenched, tossing the wrench aside with a heavy clatter. He dragged a hand down his sweaty face, cursing under his breath. 

He stood up slowly, letting out a little groan at the strain. Sweat was dripping down his temple and soaking through the waistband of his pants. The sun was cooking him alive, and maybe that was why he was starting to feel a little frustrated himself. 

Because the truth was, he wasn’t fine. 

The heat was suffocating, and his head was spinning with an irritation he couldn’t quite put down. It wasn’t just from the sun—it was you. 

The way that bikini clung to your curves, the shine of sweat down your chest, the needy whine in your voice when you begged him to come inside. 

Christ. He was hard again, cock straining against his sweat-damp pants. He hated how quick it happened. He hated how easily wound up he got every time you looked at him, and he hated how you walking away only made it worse.

The pool gurgled behind him, the filter still clearly needing work, but his focus was all over the place. 

All he could picture was you inside, cooling down with that little frown on your lips—disappointed that he wasn’t in there with you. You were probably already stripping out of that bikini. Maybe laying down, legs pressed together, trying to take the edge off the way you had yesterday.

And because of those thoughts—those relentless, stupid thoughts—Bucky lasted all but five minutes. 

Five full minutes of pacing along the pool, knowing the pipes needed his full attention when all he could focus on was the tight ache in his chest and the heavier one pressing against his zipper.

When his gaze inevitably looked up towards the house, there you were through the spotless windows.

Laid out across the couch, your skimpy bikini straps were digging into your skin as you slouched against the cushions—not even caring that you were dirtying up the expensive furniture with your sweat. 

You crossed your legs at the ankle as your eyes fluttered shut, chest rising and falling softly. You weren’t even looking at him.

And fuck—he couldn’t take it anymore. 

He tugged off his work gloves and tossed them by the skimmer, muttering something grumpily under his breath that even he couldn’t catch. His boots stomped heavily against the patio as he made his way to the back door. 

He paused at the door, his eyes glued on your body through the glass. He should knock. Hell, he should turn around and get back to the pipes before he did something stupid. But despite his thoughts, his fingers wrapped tight around the handle anyway.

This was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? The way you always lingered near him, flirted shamelessly, always tried to tempt him closer without ever saying it outright. You have been waiting for him to step inside this house for weeks.

In Bucky’s mind, he was finally giving you what you wanted. 

The door slid open with a low scrape, the blast of cold air brushing against his warm body. He stepped in as if he already lived there, heavy boots already dirtying the once-pristine plush rug. 

Your eyes fluttered open at the faint sound of the door closing. 

“Bucky…?” your voice was soft and confused as you took him in. 

A big, broad, sweaty Bucky, standing in your living room for the first time since he’d started working for you. 

“What are you doing in here? Is everything okay—” 

“Almost done with the filter,” he cut you off with a rough voice, his gaze trying to steer away from the tempting lines of your body. “Just needed to use the bathroom.”

You blinked at him, thrown off guard by the excuse but too caught up in the fact that he was finally in your house to even question it. “Oh—yeah, of course. Come on.” 

You scrambled to your feet, suddenly self-conscious in nothing but your swimsuit. When you pictured Bucky entering your home, it wasn’t like this. In your head, you would’ve coaxed him in with a drink, maybe with a teasing smile here and there.  

Not because he needed the bathroom.

So yeah, his unexpected presence threw you off. But still… at the end of the day, it was better than nothing.

“This way,” you said over your shoulder, leading him down the hall.

Your house had never looked better—freshly waxed floors were reflecting under the light, except Bucky’s dirty work boots were now leaving a trail. Your walls were decorated with curated art and frames that were probably worth more than most people’s salaries.

But Bucky didn’t spare a glance at any of them. 

His eyes were locked on you. 

And you could feel his heavy stare weighing down on your nearly bare back. 

The walk to the bathroom was short, yet it felt endless. Because for once, you had nothing to say. You stopped in front of the door, fingers twisting the knob before pushing it open.

You could feel him behind you, close enough that his breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Your pulse quickened, and your mouth went dry. 

If you turned around, if you so much as looked up at him, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your composure.

You cleared your throat. “Well… this is it,” you said, flicking the lights on. 

The mirror above the sink lit up instantly, creating a warm glow across the tiled room. And in the reflection, you saw the two of you framed in the doorway.

And then you caught him.

His gaze wasn’t on the bathroom at all—it was on you. 

You saw the way his jaw was clenched tight as his eyes trailed over the slope of your bare shoulders, his gaze lingering on the thin bikini straps pressed against your soft skin. 

You didn’t say a word. And truthfully, you didn’t want to—because if you spoke, you would snap him out of it.

You wanted him to keep staring at you. You wanted to feel his eyes dragging over your body slowly, down your shoulders, over the curve of your waist and hips, to every inch of bare skin your bikini left exposed.

He wasn’t touching you, but his eyes felt like a touch—scorching, intimate. It made your stomach twist and your thighs press together. Through the mirror, you watched as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his chest like he was fighting something back.

God, did that stare burn so bad. 

You wanted him to touch you—just a light graze of his fingertips, the heat of his palm against your waist. Anything.

For a second, you’re convinced he might actually do it—close that little bit of space between you, press you up against the doorframe, and give you what you’ve been craving. 

But instead, he tore his gaze away. He stepped past you into the bathroom, his shoulder brushing yours. The brief contact had a soft gasp catching in your throat, your body already trembling at something so small.

“Thanks,” he muttered before reaching for the door and shutting it behind him. 

You were left standing in the hall, your pulse thudding loudly in your ears. You felt your skin warm where his shoulder brushed yours—you almost felt feverish. You should’ve gone back to the couch and pretend like nothing happened. 

But instead, you found yourself pacing in the living room, restless and unable to sit still. 

Bucky was in your house. He was actually in your damn house. 

And yet, the worst part was knowing that the second he came back out, he’d go right back to normal—back to his work, back to being dismissive, like none of this had ever happened.

But as the minutes dragged on, your heart couldn’t help but slam harder in your chest with each second he remained behind that closed door. Any normal person would assume that he was… taking a number two. Instead, a dangerous thought crept in—the idea that maybe he was in there because he felt it too. 

Because he couldn’t hold back any more than you could.

That he was in there touching himself. 

Because of you. 

By the time the bathroom door creaked open, your breath was shallow with anticipation and your palms clammy. 

Your head whipped to the hall just as Bucky stepped out, broad shoulders filling the doorway. His hair was damp, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of the sweat, or from splashing water over his face.

“Uh—are you… are you okay?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He dragged a hand over his stubbled jaw, his expression unreadable as his eyes took you in. 

“I’m fine,” he said, dismissive as ever—yet his voice was rougher, like gravel. 

At this point, you expected him to brush past you, head back outside and lose himself in the pipes. That’s what he always did, and that’s what you told yourself to expect. 

But he didn’t move. 

You interlocked your fingers as your hands rested in front of you, looking prim as if he was the owner of the house and you were the one serving him. 

“Um—do you, uh, want something to drink before you head back out?” you offered. “Or you could sit down for a bit, maybe relax for a second? It’s hotter today than yesterday, and—” 

“I want a tour,” he cut you off. 

“A house tour?” you blinked, flustered. “O-okay… let me just change—” 

“No need,” he interrupted calmly, his eyes flickering briefly down to your body before coming back to your face. “It’ll be quick anyway. Gotta fix those pipes.” 

Your cheeks warmed up. A house tour was the last thing you expected out of him, but you weren’t complaining. Maybe this was his version of a break. You straightened your shoulders and tried to play it cool. 

“Alright… well, we’ll start here,” you said, gesturing to the living room couch where you had been lounging earlier. You walked him past the coffee table, and with your back now turned to him, you couldn’t help but if his eyes were lingering on your body the same way it did at the bathroom 

“This couch,” you continued, forcing yourself to sound light and casual, “is where I usually read or watch movies. Very comfortable, and it gets plenty of sunlight.”

Bucky stood close behind you. “Vitamin D,” he said. “Very important.” He glances down at the couch. “Do you mind if I take a seat?” 

If it were any other man, you would’ve been revulsed at the thought—your pristine, expensive couch soaking up sweat from someone who had been working in the sun all day.

But Bucky wasn’t any other man.

“Please,” you reassured, motioning with a smile. “Be my guest.”

He let out a quiet huff as he settled down, the cushions sinking under his weight. His broad shoulders stretched across the backrest, making your large couch look small. One hand slid along the cushion, testing the give of the fabric.

“It’s comfortable,” he said flatly. 

You laughed a little too quickly, the nerves getting at you. “I get only the best. I… spend a lot of time here.” 

Bucky tilted his head slightly, and for a second, you thought that he’d get up and give one of his usual gruff responses. But instead, he patted the empty cushion beside him, inviting you as if the house wasn’t under your name.

“Have a seat.” 

Your breath got stuck in your throat. “Uh—okay,” it was unexpected, but you shrugged and settled down anyway, your bare thigh grazing against his. “Sure.” 

He leaned back into the couch, arms stretched lazily across the top, one long leg crossing over the other. For someone stepping into your living room for the first time, he sure sat there like he owned it.

You perched on the edge of the cushion, hands folded primly in your lap while he looked as though he belonged—like this was his space, not yours. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

You turned, eyes slightly wide at the sudden question. “Anything.” 

He looked around the room with an unreadable expression, taking in the expanse of the clean kitchen, the wide dining area, and the chandelier dangling on the high ceiling. 

“Your house is big,” he said. “Most houses I work for, there’s a family, or people coming and going. But here…” his eyes land back on you. “You’re always by yourself. Why is that?”

You felt yourself going stiff. The bikini you put on to draw him closer suddenly felt like a mistake—because right now, with the way his eyes pinned you, you wished you were wearing anything else.

“I don’t really…” you hesitated, fingers fidgeting in your lap. “I don’t really like having that many people over. It makes it dirty, and I like the solitude sometimes, you know?” 

His head tilted slightly. The silence that followed felt tense, until his mouth quirked up in a faint smirk. “So that’s why your house is so clean?” his voice was rougher, almost teasing. “Would be a shame if someone like me were to come in and dirty it up, wouldn’t it?”

“W-what?” you stuttered, but tried to hide it with a small laugh. 

Spurred on by your flustered reaction, his smirk grew wider as he leaned in closer, his voice coming to a growl. 

“What’s wrong? Thought you always wanted me to come inside your house.” 

The way he said it, voice deep and husky, made your stomach twist and your legs press together. He wasn’t just talking about the house, and you both knew it. 

Bucky’s eyes swept lazily around the room before settling back on you. 

“I want to see the rest of your place,” he said, “but your couch… it’s pretty damn comfortable.” 

You opened your mouth, unsure if you should argue or joke, but the words never made it out. He shuffled, leaning closer, his thick thigh pressing harder against yours. 

“Scoot closer,” he murmured.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous, but you did as he asked and slid closer until the heat of his body filled every inch of space beside you. 

That’s when his hand glided gently on your bare thigh. His fingers were rough. Warm. His thumb moves in slow circles against your skin, testing you. 

“Tell me more about the living room,” he coaxed, his tone deceptively casual.

He looked at you and spoke as though he wasn’t even touching you, as though his hand wasn’t resting heavy and warm on your thigh. His touch was deceptively gentle, but it was enough to make your whole body tremble. 

Enough to leave you aching for more.

“Um… well, I usually… uh—read here… watch movies and sometimes, you know… just nap,” you stammered.

It was insane, really— how confident you were when trying to coax him in. But your words faltered as his head leaned closer, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck. A soft kiss, then another, each one carving into your skin as his hand traveled higher.

“And the rug…” you blurted out, desperate for composure. “It’s one of my favorites—it’s a limited-edition Oushak. Handwoven, cream and pale blue… only ten of them in the world.”

A soft press of his lips, followed by the scrape of his teeth and the slow glide of his tongue over your neck, left your breath caught in your throat. His hand squeezed your thigh, creeping dangerously higher to the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms.

“Where is it from?” he muttered against your skin.

You knew he didn’t care for the answer, yet you gave it to him anyway. “An—ah—it’s, uh… it was imported, um—from… f-from Turkey? Or Persia—somewhere like that—I don’t, I can’t—”

Your words were barely making sense now, every syllable trembling off your tongue. Because it had been so long—so long since anyone touched you like this. And being touched by the man who you secretly sought after made your head spin like crazy. 

His hand slid up higher and wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you close against him. You let out a soft gasp, your body trembling as you pressed into his hard, warm, and muscular frame.

“Bucky…!” you breathed, your hands rising instinctively and brushing against his bicep. 

But before you could go any further, his hand shot out immediately and caught your wrist. His grip on your wrist was gentle, but the movement was rough as he guided your hands back down to your sides with ease.

“Keep your hands at your sides.” 

You sucked in a deep breath, both embarrassment and arousal tingling inside you. The audacity of him—to be so commanding here, in your own damn house. He worked for you. It should’ve been the other way around. And yet, you cursed yourself for nodding because you were just simply too flustered to resist.

He grinned faintly at your obedience.

“Go on,” he said, lips ghosting over your ear as his hand caressed your naked waist. “Tell me more about the house.” 

“Bucky,” you hesitated, blinking up at him. “What are you… what are you trying to do—” 

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he grunted, his nose brushing against your jawline. He pulled away slightly to catch your gaze, his blue eyes dark and desperate, pinning you in place. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to come inside?”

“Well… yes, but—” 

“Then go on.” He pressed, leaning closer. “Let’s relax for a bit, yeah? Just lay back…” he looked around the living room slowly, “and tell me more about your beautiful home.” 

His hand slid down your waist and around your back, his touch firm but careful as he guided you back against the couch cushions. He moved with you, settling himself between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart.

“Bucky..” you whispered, your voice shaky even though you made no move to stop him. 

He lowered himself slowly, his stubble grazing against the sensitive inside of your thigh. One kiss, then another—each torturously gentle, each one leaving your body trembling even harder.

“Go on,” he encouraged as he pressed another kiss higher. “Tell me more about your living room.”

Your head fell back against the couch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you tried to string words together. 

“Um… the… the ceilings are high—so high, and the chandelier… it’s uh, imported crystal. Very… elegant.” 

Bucky’s lips curved up against your thigh, a soft, raspy chuckle vibrating against your skin. His mouth traveled higher until, finally it pressed firmly against the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. The sudden heat of his lips over your most sensitive spot made you jolt, a sharp gasp escaping your throat as your body shook.

“B-Bucky…” you panted, your hips bucking up instinctively, desperate for more contact. “Please…”

You felt the teasing curl of his smile against you. The thin fabric was already damp with your arousal, and the realization that he could feel it—that he could smell it—sent a hot flush of shame and need up your neck.

“Mmm,” he hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. 

“You’re soaked, baby. And you smell so fucking sweet,” his tongue flicking over your clothed folds. “What was that you said about your… chandelier? Imported crystal?”

Then, his tongue flicked out, dragging over your wet folds through the fabric, the damp barrier doing nothing to dull the sensation. The light, tormenting trace of him had your hips rutting up shamelessly, chasing more friction, more of him.

“Oh, God—Bucky. I need you—” 

Your thighs quivered around his head as his tongue traced you again, the sticky fabric preventing you from feeling the real thing. He was playing with you, tormenting you, making you unravel with just the smallest movements of his mouth.

“Need me? What could you need from me that you don’t already have, baby?” he taunted, his hand rubbing up and down your thigh. “You’ve already got a fancy rug, a chandelier… so don’t be greedy now, sweetheart.”

Your hands fisted the cushions harder, nails biting into the fabric as your legs quivered around him. “I can’t—I need more, please, I need—”

Before you could finish, he shoved your bottoms to the side, exposing your slick heat to the cool air. A guttural groan escaped him at the sight, his eyes darkening as if he had been starving for this. He didn’t hesitate—didn’t want to waste another second as his mouth dropped back down, tongue flattening against your folds in one long, hungry lick.

“Oh my god!” you cried, your back arching as your hands flew to cover your face, too overwhelmed to do anything else. “Bucky—”

“Mm..” He hummed against you, savoring your taste before dragging his tongue even slower, teasing your sensitive clit. “Tell me more about the house, baby. The floors… they’re waxed, aren’t they?”

God. Here you were—sprawled out and nearly naked on your couch with your pool cleaner’s head in between your legs. This very moment felt like straight out of a dream, but here he was, asking about your wax floors.

“Y-yeah…” you panted. “The… the floors, they’re… w-waxed every—oh, fuck—every week.”

“Every week, huh?” he muttered into you, lips curling before he dove back in, sucking hard on your swollen clit until you cried out. “That why they shine so pretty?”

You have a very good feeling he isn’t just talking about the floors anymore. You could barely answer, choking on your moans, thighs shaking violently around his head. Your grip on the couch cushions grew desperate, clawing at the fabric for any ounce of stability.

Then came his fingers. Two, thick and rough, sliding through your soaked folds, teasing, spreading you open.

“F-fuck…” you gasped, hips twitching uncontrollably. 

Without warning, he shoved them inside deep, curling instantly against your softest spot. Your cry was sharp, needy, your back arching off the couch.

“B-Bucky!”

He didn’t let you adjust—his tongue fucking your clit in rhythm with the hard thrusts of his fingers, pumping into you wet and fast, filling the room with the sounds of your pussy squelching against his hand along with his deep grunts and groans. 

“That’s it, baby,” he grunted. “Cry for me. Fuck—you sound so fuckin’ pretty…”

The sound of his mouth, your wet pussy squelching from his fingers filled the air. Your body was unraveling, every nerve tightening as your stomach knotted hard, the edge of release coming into you with brutal speed. “I—fuck… feels so good. I’m so close, I’m—”

But just as you were about to come undone, he stopped. 

His mouth pulled away. His fingers slipped out with a wet pop as he left you trembling, wet, and aching for more.

A broken whimper left your lips as he casually tugged your bikini bottom back into place, covering the mess he’d just made of you.

“Bucky—why—” your voice cracked as you tried sitting up. 

He smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing.

“You’ll get more when I’m ready.” He leaned back, calm as ever, while you trembled beneath him. “Now… are you going to show me the rest of this pretty house?”

You whimpered, legs still trembling. “Bucky… please…”

He pushed himself up slowly, adjusting himself in his work pants, the heavy outline of his cock impossible to miss. His eyes dragged over you—every curve, every shake of your body as you arched unconsciously toward him. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip at the delicious sight. Watching you come apart for him was already driving him mad.

When he took a step back from the couch, you moved without thinking.

“Wait…” you scrambled, crawling to the edge of the cushions. Your hands trailed along the thick muscle of his thigh until they found the waistband of his pants. You tugged gently, voice desperate and a quiet whisper. “I… I want to taste too—”

His eyes darkened instantly, locking on yours, and before you could pull him closer, his large hand wrapped around yours. The grip was firm, authoritative, and deliciously commanding.

“No,” he growled. “Tour first.” 

Your brows furrowed, lips parting in disbelief. 

You were frustrated, aroused, and utterly confused. Why was he torturing you like this? Didn’t he know that you needed him so bad? You were so close, and you can still feel your pussy fluttering against the thin fabric of your bikini—aching for him. A frustrated whine left your mouth as your nails dug into his hand, trying to tug him closer anyway.

But Bucky only shook his head, smirking faintly at your desperation. He leaned down until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath making your skin prickle.

“You wanted me inside,” he said quietly.  “Now show me your house.” 

None of this made sense. You couldn’t understand why he was dragging this out, why he wouldn’t just give you what you were begging for. But God, you couldn’t stop yourself from listening. You were already addicted to him enough—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand… it could undo you completely. 

So you swallowed hard, nodded, and stood up. Your legs were weak, trembling with every step as you moved ahead of him, leading him towards the staircase. 

“That’s it,” Bucky purred behind you, deep and mocking. “Good girl. Lead the way.” 

Your fingers held onto the banister as you climbed, your thighs brushing with each step, the subtle friction of simply walking making you go mad. The fabric of your bikini felt suffocating and sticky, and you knew he could see it in the way your hips swayed as you walked. 

“You’re shaking,” he taunted softly. “Legs that weak already? And I’ve barely touched you.” 

“Bucky…” you whispered, not sure if you were pleading or warning. 

“Keep going,” his hand brushed against your lower back, steadying you like he owned your body. “Show me more of this big, empty house that you’re so proud of.” 

When you reached the landing, you paused, swallowing hard and desperate to catch your breath. But Bucky was already closing the gap, his chest brushing against your bare shoulder blades. 

“This is… the hallway,” you said quickly, gesturing down the long stretch of polished wood and soft lighting. “I, um… had these sconces imported from Italy. They’re—” 

“Imported,” Bucky cut you off, his tone slightly mocking and amused. “Everything in this house’s imported, huh?” 

Your cheeks burned, and you tried to keep walking, pointing towards a piece of art hanging on the wall. “That’s an original oil painting, early 19th cent—” 

His chest pressed harder against your back, trapping you between him and the wall. Warm breath brushed over the shell of your ear, and then his mouth was on your neck again—soft kisses, then rougher as his hands slid around your waist. 

“B-bucky…” you sighed, “please, can we just—” 

“Keep going,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.” 

His hands gripped your waist tight as he rolled his hips forward, his hard length grinding against your ass through the barrier of his work pants. The friction was maddening as he rutted up against you, hard and slow. 

“Th-that… that painting… it’s, um, early 19th century—ah!” 

Your words broke apart the minute his lips found that sweet spot just under your ear, sucking until you whimpered. 

“You already said that, baby,” he growled. One hand slipped up, cupping your breast through the tiny triangle of your bikini top, thumb flicking over the hardened bud. “C’mon, give me something new.” 

His other hand pressed lower, flattening against your tummy as he rutted against you harder, each thrust of his hips pushing you forward a step. 

“F-fuck…” he hissed through gritted teeth, his breath ragged in your ear. 

His rutting grew rougher, his cock thick and heavy against the curve of your ass through his pants. Your palms splayed flat against the wall, the sconces rattling faintly from the impact. 

You were a shaking, whimpering mess under him. “The—th-the flooring,” you babbled, “mahogany… oh god, imported from Brazil…!” Your words were caught off by a sharp moan as his hands slipped under the bikini, squeezing your breast and pinching your nipple. 

“Imported,” he repeated mockingly, panting as he ground against you. “Fuck, baby, you feel that? You’re makin’ me so fucking hard.” 

“Bucky—please, please,” you whined, shamelessly pushing your hips back into him, grinding against the thick outline of his cock. The friction sent sparks up your spine, your thighs quivering and clit throbbing. 

“Shit,” he cursed, forehead pressing into your shoulder as his hips rutted against you harder, sloppier. His hands roamed and fondled you roughly as he fucked against you through his pants. “Gonna make a mess in my work clothes if you keep wiggling that ass against me.”

You gasped, head tipping back helplessly against his chest. “Then do it—fuck, please—”

“Goddamn, you’re fucking desperate,” his hand circled up around your neck, not choking, but squeezing gently as he held you in place and rutted faster. “Keep talkin’ about the house, pretty girl. Go on. Tell me about your perfect little hallway while I ruin you right here.” 

You nearly collapsed and his hand finally slid under the thin band of your bikini bottoms, his fingers brushing through your slick heat. 

“B-Bucky!” you gasped, hips jerking when the pad of his finger circled your clit. The contrast—his hand working you, his hips grinding rough and needy into your ass, it had your body unraveling in seconds. 

“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me. So good, baby.” 

You whimpered and clawed at the wall, your body caught between his rutting cock and those ruthless circles around your clit. “Please—I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he panted, hips stuttering as his cock pulsed and leaked hard against you, the friction almost unbearable for him too. “Gonna come for me right here in your pretty hallway? Fuck—me too, baby, me too—”

But just as your body tensed, pleasure right there at the edge, he tore his hand away. His hips stilled, chest heaving against your back as his grip on your waist tightened before letting you go. 

The sudden loss felt like ice water in your veins. 

“N-no, no,” you begged, looking over your shoulder with pleading eyes. “Please, not again. Why—” 

He chuckled as he pressed a mocking kiss to your cheek. “Not yet,” his hand caressed down your thigh while the other tugged your swimsuit back into place. “Tour’s not finished.” 

Your body was trembling beneath him. You’re about to turn around, grip onto his shirt and start begging, but his rough voice cut through. 

“Show me your bedroom.” 

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, every nerve frustrated from being denied. “Bucky…” you whispered in plea, but you didn’t dare to finish your sentence with the dark look he was giving you. 

His fingers came up and brushed your cheek in a teasing stroke, making you jolt. “You gonna keep me waiting? Or do I need to find it myself?”

Your knees nearly buckled, the thought of him striding into your private space—into the most intimate part of your house made your heart beat even faster in your chest. With a shaky breath, you straightened up while still clinging to the wall for support, and nodded.

“This way,” you said, legs trembling as you took small steps down the hallway. 

Behind you, you could hear him exhale a soft laugh, amused at how weak and needy you were from so little. 

Your hand trembled as you turned the knob, pushing the door open to your bedroom. The soft scent of your perfume was floating in the air, laced with fresh linen and the faint sweetness of flowers from the vase on your nightstand.

“This is it,” you said softly, stepping aside so he could see. 

The room looked pristine. Large windows—where you could get the full view of him, of course—with sheer curtains to let in the afternoon light. A perfectly made bed with ivory sheets, not a thing out of place. 

It was your sanctuary. Your most private place.

And now he was in it. 

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, his eyes taking in every inch of the room before landing on you again. 

“Figures,” he said. “Perfect. Clean. Polished. Just like the rest of the house.” 

You fidgeted, your palms brushing nervously over your thighs. “I… I like to keep things neat. It helps me feel—”

“Safe?” he interrupted, his voice almost a growl. He pushed off the frame and stepped closer to you. “Then why’d you invite me in, sweetheart? I’m the messiest thing that could ever happen to this house.” 

Your breath caught, your heart hammering in your chest. “I didn’t let you in,” you whispered. “You… invited yourself in, actually.”

His jaw ticked, a dangerous flash of amusement glinting in his eyes. “Lay down,” he ordered suddenly, his voice rough and demanding. “On the bed. Now.”

Your gaze darted from his still-sweaty and still-dirty work clothes to your untouched, pristine sheets. The contrast made your stomach twist. 

“Uh… I don’t know—”

“Are you kidding me?” he scoffed, crossing his large arms over his broad chest, muscles flexing. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since the day I started working for you, and now that I’m standing here, you’re telling me you don’t want me in your bed?”

“Well,” your eyes flicked from his sweat-stained shirt to your spotless sheets. “I don’t mean to offend, but… you’re dirty—” 

Before you could even finish, his mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was rough, greedy, stealing the rest of the words right off your tongue. His rough stubble scraped against your skin, his lips bruising yours. 

“I was rubbing all over you in your hallway—” another hard kiss, “had my tongue and fingers buried in your pussy—” his hand grabbed your hip, dragging you closer against him as he kissed you harder, “and now you’re worried about cleanliness?” 

Bucky’s mouth left yours, lips stealing kisses down your jaw and down your throat. You were panting, clutching desperately at his shirt. 

“You think I care about these clean sheets?” he muttered against your skin. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me—every damn day, like you want me to ruin every inch of this perfect house?” 

Your heart was beating so hard it hurt. “Bucky…” 

He leaned back, eyes boring into yours with a hunger you couldn’t quite explain. His thumb brushed over your trembling bottom lip. 

“Fine,” he grunted. “If you’re that worried about the bed, I’ll just have to fuck you on your pretty waxed floors like a slut, then.” 

Before you could respond, his hands wrapped around tight around your waist, lifting you up and gently setting you down on the floor. The cool hardwood hit your bare back, your hair spilling across the glossy wax as he hovered over you. The contrast made your skin prickle—your perfect, polished sanctuary versus the filthy way he was pinning you down in it.

“You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, spreading your thighs wide with one big hand while his other gripped your jaw to keep your eyes on him. “The thought of me ruining all your hard work—dirty boots, sweaty body, cum dripping down your nice clean floors.”

A broken moan tore from you, your back arching under him as your thighs trembled. “Bucky—please…”

“Please what?” he taunted as he ground his hard cock through his work pants against your barely covered pussy. “Please fuck you like the needy little slut you are? Right here, on the floor you polish every damn week?”

He pulled away slightly to pull his shirt over his head. Then his fingers made quick work of his belt, tugging his work pants down until his cock sprang free. Thick, heavy, the flushed head already slick with precum.

A hiss escaped his lips as his fist wrapped around the hot shaft, working himself with a few steady pumps as his hands tugged at your bikini, while his other hand yanked your bikini bottoms down your thighs in a single rough motion. 

You gasped, trembling, your pussy slick and finally bared for him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, running the tip along your warm folds. He tapped against your clit once, making your hips jerk. “Look at you… already dripping.” 

He smirked, leaning over you. “You’ve been trying to get me in this house for so long. Always flirting, always begging. This is what you really wanted, isn’t it?” he nudged himself against your entrance, just enough to make you cry out. “Don’t be shy now, baby. Say it.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, your voice turning into high, breathless moans. “Yes—yes, I wanted this, I wanted you—please, Bucky—”

“That’s a good girl,” he cooed as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming as he pushed in slowly. Your mouth dropped open with a whimper, fingers digging into his broad shoulders. 

“God—you’re so tight,” he grunted, jaw clenching as he eased just an inch deeper. “Relax, baby. I’ll be gentle… just—let me in, fuck…” 

But gentle wasn’t easy with you clenching and fluttering around him like that. You whimpered louder, your back arching off the floor as the thickness of him split you open. “Bucky—too big—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear. “Just breathe… let me in, baby.”

He tried to push in deeper, inch by careful inch… but every time he pushed forward, the tightness of your body made his breath hitch. The control he promised you was slipping with every squeeze of your body. 

“Too damn tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours as his eyes flutter shut—trying to keep it together, because damn, did he want this just as badly as you did. 

“Could’ve had it on the bed… make it nice and comfortable for you,” another inch, another cry from you. “But no, you didn’t want to dirty it up. So now you’re taking it here, on the floor, like a dirty slut.”

He pushed deeper, almost halfway in before pausing at the tight sensation. He tipped his head back, lips falling to let out a frustrated groan. 

“Fuck—but I’m too big, aren’t I?” he slowly pulled back, then back in, fucking you with what’s already inside your clenching pussy. 

Your walls fluttered around him, your body trembling as it slowly began to adjust to his large size. The initial sting turned into a deep, burning and delicious stretch, each shallow thrust easing him in further. 

“Th-that’s it,” he coaxed sweetly, voice breaking as his hips rolled carefully, testing your limits. “Good girl—taking me so fuckin’ sweet…”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, hips shifting beneath him to meet his slow movements. The pain was melting into pleasure, and every tiny adjustment of your hips let him sink a little deeper. 

You were opening up for him, and he could feel it. 

His jaw clenched, hovering over you with one hand against the floor to balance himself, and the other gripped in your hip. 

“Spread your legs a little higher, baby,” he rasped, voice restrained. 

Before you could move yourself, he caught the back of your thighs and pressed them up, folding you into a desperate and messy version of a mating press. The angle had you gasping, crying out at the sudden, deeper stretch.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Look at you—pretty little thing… takin’ me like this.”

But just as he adjusted his knees on the polished wood, his boot slipped against the waxed and smooth surface. 

He lost his grip for just a second, and the slip forced his hips forward in one hard, uncontrolled thrust. 

Slamming all the way in. 

“Oh my god!”

A helpless cry ripped out of you as your back arched off the floor—hot pleasure and pain shot through your body. Tears blurred at your eyes at the overwhelming stretch, the sudden fullness of him stealing breath from your lungs. 

Bucky’s moan was just as wrecked, his forehead leaning against yours as his body shook. 

“Shit—fuck—baby… I didn’t mean to—oh, goddamn…” he tried to pull back, but your cunt fluttered too tight around him, clamping down so hard he groaned again, shuddering from the sensation.

You clung to him for support. “S-so full—oh my god, Bucky, don’t—don’t move—”

“Fuck… I–I can’t… s’too late, baby. Feels too good now.”

His words were a growl, ripped straight from his chest as he drew his hips back and slammed forward again, burying himself to the hilt. The waxed floors squeaked beneath you with every rough thrust, the sound swallowed by your moans and his ragged grunts. 

“My god… look at you,” he rasped. “All that whining about me being dirty, but here you are—getting ruined on the fucking floor.”

You couldn’t answer or even form a single word—the only thing leaving your lips were strangled moans and broken gasps. The stretch, the fullness of him—it was overwhelming. 

And addictive.

“Bucky—” you sobbed, head falling back against the polished floors as tears spilled. “I—oh my god—”

“Shh,” he hushed, voice mixed with gentleness and possession. “Take it. Take all of me. You wanted me in your house, baby? Then fucking have me.”

His thrusts grew harder and deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. Every slam of his hips resulted in another cry from your throat as your body shook beneath him. 

You were gone. 

Utterly undone. 

You were reduced to a babbling, slutty mess. 

Bucky’s thrusts were relentless as he fucked you deep. His hand clamped down on your jaw, forcing you to look at him. 

“Bet you regret not going on the bed now, huh?” he gritted between shaky groans. “Could’ve had me stretch you out all soft on those pretty sheets… but no—you had to take me right here. On the floor like a dirty little slut.”

Your walls clenched hard around him, and his eyes darkened. His cock twitched deep inside you.

“What do you say, baby?” his voice was rough and possessive as his pace quickened, impatient for an answer. “Want me to breed you while you lay there nice and pretty on your comfy bed?”

You tried to answer, but only broken whimpers and pathetic gasps left from your lips. The words wouldn’t come out, but your body gave you away—your thighs trembling, pussy fluttering desperately around him, already begging without words.

“Uh-uh,” he pinned you down harder, his nose brushing yours as he stared into your eyes. “Don’t just lay there. Tell me.”

But your brain was fried. Completely scrambled by the way he was splitting you open—so you gave the only answer you could. 

You nodded, frantic and whiny, tears brimming as your lips formed a silent plea. 

Bucky groaned in approval, his control snapping. “That’s my good girl.”

He pulled out, and the sudden emptiness left you whining. His hands gripped your waist firmly, lifting you effortlessly off the floor. A startled yelp escaped your lips as your legs curled around him for support, clinging to his broad body.

He set you down gently on the bed, but his hands didn’t stop exploring—grabbing, gripping, teasing every curve. 

He stepped back to the edge of the mattress, and before you could even say anything, he yanked your bikini top off in one rough motion. The straps snapped, falling away to leave your chest bare, nipples already hard and flushed from the heat between you two.

A low growl rumbled from his chest at the sight of you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Fuck,” he groaned, already tugging down the rest of his clothes until he stood completely bare. “So fucking beautiful.” 

Bucky got on the bed and pressed himself against you, the heat of his heavy cock meeting your dripping folds yet again. You let out a soft gasp as he filled you again slowly this time. 

“Think you can take me again, baby?” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tight, tilting your body up to meet every stroke. Each movement was hard, fast, and unrelenting, making you gasp and whimper with every hit.

“F-fuck… yes, Bucky!” 

Bucky’s eyes rolled back, jaw tight, as he leaned over you, pressing his forehead to yours. He shifted your legs back into the mating press, hands gripping your hips to tilt you up just right. 

“Gonna go even deeper this time, baby,” he panted. “Need you to feel every inch of me.” 

“Oh my god, Bucky—fuck… you feel too good,” you moaned, looking up at him with soft and pleading eyes as he fucked into you. 

“Look at you, all fancy and perfect… and I’m the filthy pool boy inside you,” he growled, voice rough and raspy. “Taking my rich girl… making you mine.”

Your hips jerked instinctively at the words, thighs trembling around him. “P-please…” you whimpered, fingers tight on his shoulders. 

He smirked darkly, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Shut it, baby… you don’t get to talk right now. You just get to feel me—filling you up, making that tight little cunt all mine.”

His hand dug into your hip, pulling you closer as he slammed in deeper. 

“Bet you never thought someone like me would get you this wet… taking your perfect little pussy and using it, huh? Fuck, you love it… don’t you?”

Your back arched, hips rolling with his thrusts, and the heat building tight in your stomach, building fast. With a loud and deep groan, he drove into you harder, faster, every stroke pushing you closer.

“Fuck—cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I can feel you squeezing me so tight… fuck, I’m right there too—”

“Bucky—” you gasped, nails dragging down his bare back as your legs trembled violently around his waist. “I’m gonna cum—please, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

That was all it took for him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart!” 

He slammed into you one last time—hard. Hot streams of his release spilled deep inside you, filling you up while your own orgasm shook you, your body convulsing around him. The wet, messy sound of your cunt milking every drop only drove him further, leaving the both of you trembling, coming undone together in a haze of sweat. 

The two of you collapsed onto the bed, limbs tangled and sweat-slicked, your chests rising and falling as you caught your breath. 

“Good girl,” Bucky’s arm draped possessively across your waist, his hand tracing lazy circles along your hip. “That was so good, sweetheart. You took all of it, baby.” 

You rested your head against his naked chest, the warmth of him calming you down. All the while, he’s pressing soft kisses to your sweaty forehead, fingers treading your hair in a gentle and soothing manner. 

“Have you… really noticed the way I’ve been trying to catch your attention?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his chest.

Bucky let out a quiet and amused huff, his big palm gliding lazily up and down your spine. 

“Yeah,” he said casually. “It was pretty damn obvious.”

There was a brief pause for a moment, just the sounds of your breathing filling the air. 

Then, a teasing little smirk curved your lips. 

“Well, did you think I didn’t notice you too?” 

He raised a brow and tilted his head down to look at you, confused. “What do you mean, baby?” 

But you didn’t look up at him. 

“When you… stood outside my window. Watching me…” you dragged your nails down his ribs, feeling him tense beneath you. “…jerking off… while I touched myself, thinking about you?”

Bucky froze beneath you, his lips parting but no sound coming out at first. His blue eyes widened and his face flushed in embarrassment. 

“You—fuck, you saw that?” his voice broke, suddenly not so cocky anymore.

“Mhm,” you hummed, grinning as your hand slid down his stomach. His abs twitched under your touch, and before he could even process it, your fingers wrapped around his still-hard sensitive cock.

He gasped, body jolting at the contact. “Shit—baby, wait—”

But you didn’t wait. You stroked him slow and steady, relishing the way his entire body trembled under yours. He was the one in control, taunting and commanding… but now? 

He was a mess, chest heaving, fists clutching the sheets as he tried and failed to keep his composure as you worked him with your hand. 

“You looked so desperate out there,” you teased, leaning down to press your lips against his ear, your voice a sultry whisper. “Stroking your cock while you watched me play with myself. Did it make you crazy? Knowing you couldn’t touch me?”

“Fuck,” his hips jerked up and his legs trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut, head shaking. “Baby—please… I’m too sensitive—oh!” 

His head fell back against the pillows, a strangled moan coming from his throat as your wrist twisted just right, drawing another bead of precum from him. 

He was so sensitive, every stroke making his thighs twitch and his hips buck up helplessly into your hand. “Please, please…” he moaned, “please… my god, it’s too much. Fuck…” 

“Not so smug now, huh?” you purred, giving him a firmer squeeze that made him hiss through clenched teeth. “My poor, dirty pool boy. You’re just as needy for me as I am for you.”

Before he could respond, you straddled him slowly, the head of his cock nudging against your puffy and wet folds as you settled onto his hips. His whole body went taut, a groan ripping from his chest as his hands instinctively gripped your thighs, trying to stop you. 

“Fuck…” he whimpered, eyes glued to where you were teasing him, your wetness smearing over his flushed tip. “Baby, I can’t—shit, I’m still—”

A soft and not-so-innocent giggle left your lips. You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw as your hips rolled just enough to make him twitch beneath you. He sucked in a sharp breath, his cock throbbing helplessly against your drenched heat.

“House tour’s not done, Bucky,” you whispered, your smirk brushing against the corner of his mouth. “We’ve still got a third floor.”

𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝓊𝒾𝓁𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊! ❜ thank you for reading <3  

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[lucky-petal]

just finished my knight!bucky x princess fic 🥹 can’t believe it’s at 8.2k words! honestly thought it’d be longer given how much i write haha

not sure who i like more… biker!bucky or knight!bucky

please help me decide 😣

read my stuff here 🩷

Look at the Sky, It’s the Color of Love - biker!bucky / 11.1k words

In Meadows - knight!bucky / 8.2k words

(need to work on a masterlist next if I’m gonna keep writing…)

ALSO i can’t believe i wrote two full length fics in the span of 2 weeks that’s insane

[lucky-petal]

In Meadows

Knight!Bucky x Princess!Reader

I kiss you with all the innocence I posses, you kiss me back with all your sin.

Petal’s love notes: I love a good medieval fantasy story 😋 this was quite tricky to write, but I hope you enjoy!

Summary: You both knew the roles you were destined to play. Duty is an all-too-familiar word that has been ingrained in you since the moment you were born. So why is your appointed knight making responsibility so difficult?

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst / unrequited / forbidden love / smut! / oral (both receiving), unprotected p in v / no use of y/n

He is written in winter ink. He is the dark and shadowed corners of the night, the quiet warning before a storm.

You are written in sunbeams. The warmth after the cold winter night, a breeze that gently kisses the flowers to open and bloom.

He is your knight, you are his princess.

The meadows were always so beautiful this time of the year.

Being sealed within the cold stones of your castle has always the most difficult part of the blue bloodline you were born with.

Hence, why the meadow at its most flourished state has always been one of your greatest joys. The warmth of the sun, the colors around you, the vastness of the sky, they all make up for the time you are spent locked away.

"Princess, its time to go."

A gruff voice cuts behind you, snapping you out of rapture.

It is your knight, the shadow that has been trailing behind you for the past five years like a moving fortress, unyielding and shielding you from harms way.

"Bucky," you reply with a gentle whine, tone eloquent and soft. "You can't possible ask me to go back now, its the first day of blooming season."

Bucky sighs at your stubbornness, eyes closed and head hung downwards. There is a furrow in his brows as he readies himself to do this all-too-familiar dance with you once again.

"Princess," he says sternly, yet not enough to overstep. "Must I remind you again to address me properly? I am on duty."

You huff at that, eyes still focused on the colorful petals scattered by your side. "But you're always on duty."

He doesn't correct you because you're not wrong. Looking after the princess is an around the clock job that he has devoted his life to, but he does not answer to that.

"Come, now." Bucky says with firmer requisition. "Allow me to escort you home."

At the finality of his words, you decide to turn and look back at your knight.

He stands behind you only paces away, as usual, never any further nor any closer than that. Clad in silver armor which contrasts his dark hair and shadowed eyes which stare down deeply at you.

You shudder at the sight, not out of fear, but because of the familiar yet overwhelming sense of devotion your knight has for you. This man has been raised to be undeniably yours the moment he was born. His father was the devoted knight of your mother before he died in battle, hence his eagerness to follow in his footsteps.

The code of knights is one that you are no stranger to. Chivalry and duty to the crown, a recollection of their oath echoes in your memory. You've attended multiple knighting ceremonies to remember it by now.

Chivalry and duty to the crown. It was a promise to bleed for you, to die for you.

But sometimes, you like to indulge yourself with the thought of Bucky's devotion extending beyond his code.

"Alright, alright." You say grumpily, getting up at dusting of flower petals from the expensive silk of your dress. "I'm coming, Sir James."

You finally comply with his request to be addressed formally, but not without an eyeroll and a tiny tantrum.

A ghost of a smile etches itself on Bucky's face that you think that you imagined it.

But the softening of his eyes on you is hard to miss.

Five years of being shadowed by Bucky has allowed you to study and understand him despite his preference for silence. You know that he finds irritation in royals who speak in loud and obnoxious volumes. You know that he finds amusement in your bratty nature that only seems to come out when you are alone with him.

You know that he finds peace and solace when he has to accompany you to the meadows that you frequent, that he doesn't want to leave this area yet, just as much as you do.

"Can we come back tomorrow?" There is a wishful tone to your voice that you know Bucky can't resist.

"Of course, Princess. Anything you want." He says with promise. Bucky offers a hand out for you to take to guide you out of the flower patch, still maintaining his respectful distance from you.

"But for now we really need to go back. You're needed at the royal court." He reminds you.

"I hate those."

"I know."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

"We have the Kingdom of Hydra knocking at our borders everyday, Your Majesty." a seasoned advisor preaches, looking up at your father who sits in the center throne beside you, while gesturing animatedly in the middle of the hall.

"They're after our Vibranium, just like everyone else." The King waves a hand at this. "How are our defenses fairing?"

Beside him, you and your mother listen to the exchange of power between the men. 'Let your father handle the war efforts,' she had taught you all those years ago, 'as women, our responsibility is to hold peace.'

You shift uncomfortably at the heated exchange, unsure what your role is in this hall except to sit down and live up to the vision of perfection the kingdom upholds you to.

In attempt to find comfort in your unease, your eyes drift to the side to find Bucky's. His broad figure is against the wall, in your corner of the room.

As if he immediately feels your gaze land on him, he shifts his eyes to meet yours and gives you a subtle nod of reassurance. A silent, secret language that has developed throughout the years you've spent together.

'You can do it, just a few minutes till court ends.' it's as if he tries to say.

'I know, but I can't take it anymore.' you blink up at him, absorbing his comforting gaze.

'I want to go back to the meadow with you.' is what you want to tell him, but there's only so much you can communicate with just a quick gaze.

"-should be time for the Princess to step up to her responsibility." the last bit of words coming out of the senior advisor's mouth snaps both you and Bucky out of the silent exhange.

You turn your attention back to the main hall in front of you, and are met with the full attention of the court. Beside you, your mother and father wear worried expressions.

"What?" Your small voice cuts through the heavy tension in the air.

The advisor sighs, obviously irked at your unreliability to focus on the court session. But why would you when these men never seem to care about the words of a woman?

"I was saying, Princess." His tone carries a hint of animosity in it. "That we can no longer keep up with protecting the borders from Hydra. It will end in blood bath with the way they are rapidly expanding their Kingdom."

Your father clenches his fists at this before speaking. "They just want our resources, right? Why don't we open the trade routes for Vibranium-"

"The atrocious Kingdom of Hydra will not stop there, Your Majesty."

You continue to wear a confused expression on your face as your father slumps back into his throne. He has always been an excellent king, so seeing him look so defeated worries you.

"...Father?" You whisper out to him.

All he gives you is an apologetic look.

"The best course of action for this is to seal an alliance with them. As I was saying, this should be the perfect time for the Princess to step up to her role as our symbol of diplomacy and peace... by matrimony" The advisor continues.

What?

You tenses once you come into realization with wide eyes. Beside you, your parents' carry wistful expressions as they fall into acceptance at the advisor's suggestion.

On your opposite side, you hear armor clink as the body underneath it stiffens.

Anger floods your veins almost instantly at how okay everyone seems to be with this... outrageous solution.

"You can't be serious?" you stand up from your smaller throne. "I am not going to be a peace treaty for those... barbarians! Father, tell them!"

"With all due respect, Princess. Your duty is to secure alliances for the Kingdom." The advisor bites back at your sudden outburst.

"I know that!" You admit to the obligation you've grown to painfully accept years ago "But not to these... sadistic savages!"

"Their Grace, Duke Fisk, should make an available bachelor for the matrimony." He ignores your argument by continuing on with his proposal to the King.

"He- He's twice my age!" This is too much. You're spiraling as the situation continues to get worse and worse. "Father, please say something! Tell him you do not agree!"

Desperately, you come to your knees in front of him, begging to get you out of this.

The King stays silent for a moment and the whole court waits for his response. He was never a cruel father to you, but duty and obligation came first for your family. He was always the King first.

"We must keep our Kingdom safe. It is of upmost importance right now. Draft the proposal for union." Your father gets up from his throne to walk past you and exit the hall, signaling the dismissal of court.

You stay frozen in front of the empty spot of where he once was as the crowd disperses almost immediately to make the arrangements.

"Oh, honey." Your mother kneels down beside you. "It will get better as the days pass, you'll see. Think about how many lives you will be saving." She coos.

You ignore her, continuing to let out soft sobs as the emptiness and despair you feel inside eating up at you.

The sound of heavy armor walks toward your pathetic figure on the floor.

"I'll take her from here, Your Majesty."

"Yes, thank you Sir James. She listens to you more than me." She tells him knowingly. "Look after her, alright?"

The look your mother gives him is one of familiar fondness. He has the same eyes as the knight that once looked after her before he fell.

"I will." Bucky replies.

He waits for the hall to clear out completely before kneeling down to your level.

"Princess." His gruff voice tries to get your attention. He tries to hide the pity in his voice the best he can.

You ignore him, still wallowing in your own misery.

"There's still a bit of light out, Princess." The tone he uses with you tries to be gentler now, attempting to be what you need at the moment despite his naturally brooding manner. "I'll take you back to the meadow. We still have time."

"No," you manage sniffle a response, "I-I'd like to be escorted to my chambers, please."

He respects your wishes obediently, just like he's supposed to.

"Anything you want, Princess."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Bucky shuts your door gently, leaving you alone for now. Your soft cries muffled within the confines of your chambers.

He takes a step back from the barrier separating the both of you, and only then he finally lets his composure break.

He presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and lets out a deep, shaky exhale that has been stuck in his throat since the announcement was made at court.

"...Time for the Princess to step up to her role as our symbol of diplomacy and peace... by matrimony" the cruel words of the royal advisor rings in his ears like venom. They play on loop in his head.

He can feel his regularly collected mind begin to spiral on the sixth replay of those words, causing him to lean suddenly on the cold stone wall next to your door just to keep himself upright.

There is definitely shame in the current state he finds himself in.

Shattered, lost, devastatingly heartbroken.

But he had played his role so perfectly for years now. Been what you had needed him to be- your sword and shield, your protector, sworn to both death and devotion to you. Chivalry and duty to the crown.

A good knight. He's acted exactly the way his father had taught him.

Doesn't he deserve this one moment to wallow in his feelings?

"Fuck," Bucky mutters, hitting a fist at the cold stone wall. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He can feel himself slipping. The cold mask that he's worn around you slipping more and more with every break of his heart.

"Bucky, when you become a knight you have to be ready to fight. You have to be ready to die." He remembers the words of his father when he was just a squire training under him.

He was just a boy then, with great admiration for the royal guard. His father, after all, is the appointed knight of the queen. Sworn to her protection and devotion to be by her side at all times.

"You must put your hand over your wound and hold it there. Keep walking and fighting until you can guarantee the crown's safety. That will be your duty."

True to his word, his father had taken a sword to the heart by the enemy kingdom just after Bucky was knighted and appointed to you. He was protecting the queen till his very last breath.

His father's advice had pulled him through every difficult battles without fail, until now.

How is he supposed to put a hand over his wound, when the wound is deep inside his heart? How is he to keep fighting... When he knows you will be taken away from him in the end?

There was never a word of advice for this kind of battle.

But he's seen it before. Once, twice, maybe a few too many times.

The way he looks at his Princess when no one is watching is a similar look to the way he would catch his father's gaze lingering longingly at the queen.

"You never taught me this..." He whispers to the air, as if his words would reach the grave his father is buried in. He's mastered every art of the sword and chivalrous act that could be passed down to him. But to deal with the pain of seeing his Princess be married off? He was clueless.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Getting out of bed the next day required the use of tremendous mental strength that you just didn't have. It's two clock strikes after breakfast, yet you lay still within you cocoon much to your lady-in-waiting's disapproval.

"Leave me alone, Nora! I told you I'm sick!" You feel a sense of guilt for yelling at the elderly maid for just doing her job.

Her kind eyes stare down at your sulking form buried under blankets and pillows with a pitiful expression. She has always been a mother figure to you, hence her ability to easily see through your white lies just to stay in bed longer.

Nora exits your chambers with a tired huff, greeting Bucky who's stationed outside your door.

"You get her up, Sir James. She'll listen to you." She lets out exhaustedly. "I'm getting too old to go back and forth with her now. You'll help an old woman out, won't you?"

That's exactly how you and Bucky find yourselves in your current predicament: blanket wrapped around you and clutched tightly into your fists, while he tugs at the other end with just enough force to nudge you.

"Come on, Princess-" He grunts, "quit giving Nora a hard time."

"I'm having a hard time." You bite back at him "Leave me alone, Bucky!"

It's almost comical, how his huge frame and otherwise terrifying demeanor looks like within the confines of your dainty and pink room.

You hear the sound of his metal arm shift, likely him running a hand through his hair in frustration. Both at your refusal to listen to him and your use of his nickname which is otherwise considered unprofessional.

"Come on," another irritating tug nudges you forward. "You're being a brat."

At that comment, you peak up at your knight who looms over you with an irked expression. It's a sight that would probably make you feel intimidated if it weren't for the feeling of safety his presence brings you.

"Is that any way to speak to royalty, Sir James?" You challenge him from under your covers.

"No. But you wouldn't tell on me."

"Who says I wouldn't tell on you?"

"You've never told on me before, Princess."

The way Bucky points out your fondness for him makes you feel instant embarrassment, which you hide with a scowl and an eye roll, ducking yourself under the covers once again.

Suddenly, the tugging on your blanket stops. You hear Bucky let out a tired sigh.

"Hey," he says in a gentler tone this time, trying a different approach. "What about I take you to the meadow again today, Princess? It's a nice day out."

Apparently, this is all it takes for you to agree to get out of bed. A mention of the meadow that you love and some time alone with your knight.

Bucky delivers the news of victory to Nora, who reenters your chambers again with newfound delight.

"That knight of yours, really!" She exclaims amusedly while brushing your hair. "Quite scary, isn't he? I knew his father back then. He too had that same brooding expression that he carried around everywhere."

This earns a soft laugh from you.

"That's just how Bucky is, Nora." You tell her with a warm tone at the mention of his name. "He's actually very sweet once you get to know him. Funny too."

Nora stares at you with a look of skepticism through the mirror as your use of such affectionate adjectives for the otherwise frightening knight.

"I believe that's just your soft spot talking, Princess." She teases you knowingly.

"What?! Nora!" The maid laughs at your flustered expression as you begin rambling about how you see him as nothing more than a companion and a friend. But she knows better.

"He's just like his father, after all." She whispers to herself sadly, a comment that you do not completely understand just yet.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The shade of the tree covers the both of you as you sit amongst the brightly colored flowers. Pockets of sunbeam hit your skin through the little gaps of the foliage above.

A unfinished flower crown keeps your hands busy while Bucky lays against the bark of wood, maintaining his usual few paces of distance away from you.

"I could run away, you know?" You break the comfortable silence between the both of you with a ridiculous thought. "Run away and be rid of it all."

"Not happening, Princess." Bucky remains unfazed by your words with a nonchalant expression. He's much too used to your outrageous thoughts by now.

He's learned the hard way that it's better to entertain and go along with your crazy ideas than to ignore them, as doing so earns him a pouting Princess muttering about how he's 'no fun' and how she wants 'a change of knights'.

The last comment rubs him the wrong way.

At his rebuttal, you turn your attention away from your flower crown to look up at him with a frown. You're surprised to see him already lookin gat you from the corner of his eye, a relaxed expression on his face.

"I can! I'll climb out my window and everything." You argue back. It's obviously a joke, but there is a hint of honesty in your tone.

"You're clumsy. I'll hear you while you're trying to sneak out." Another instant shut down.

"But if I do manage to make it out of the palace-"

"I'll find you." He says almost instantly.

There was no winning this argument with him, making you groan and slouch back defeatedly. A faint huff of laughter is heard as Bucky finds amusement in your surrender.

It's silent again for a beat, before you decide to break it again. Shifting a little bit closer to him before you do.

"You can always try to steal me away too, you know?" any trace of banter is suddenly erased as pure honesty slips out this time from your lips. Your voice is soft. He hears it loud and clear.

Bucky's freezes at your suggestion. Eyes going wide as he looks up at you with longing.

"I-I think I'd go anywhere with you." You tell him shyly. "Even if it's just a small town... I'll learn how to cook for you, o-or you can teach me how to tend to the fields, or-"

You catch yourself spewing out nonsense, stopping yourself before you could embarrass yourself further.

Beside you, Bucky's heart is pounding in his ears. It's beating so much that he thinks if you were to put a hand over his chest, you'd feel it over the Vibranium armor.

This is just one of your outrageous thoughts that you expect him to entertain. He thinks to himself. You don't mean that.

He clears his throat before indulging in your request.

"Sure, Princess." He says with quiet promise and a soft, loving tone that he only has for you. "Anything you want."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

"Duke Fisk has agreed to the proposal" Your father tells you over dinner, making you tense.

It's been a few days since he sent out the proposal for union between your two Kingdoms. The news has finally sunk in, but has not gotten any easier to accept.

Your mother eyes you with a solemn expression. Day by day, the light has been dimming from your eyes as you grow closer to accepting your fate.

"I'm sorry, honey. We wish things could be different." She coos, sympathizing with you. "But you know our duty would never allow us to marry for love. This union is a necessity."

'Yes! Yes, I know that!' You want to scream at them. You've known this since you were a child. It's a fate that you've made peace with a long time ago.

'But why do I have to get married off to a tyrant!? I have the right to be angry!' Your brain continues to fight them for you, while you stay silent.

"We are taking care of the all arrangements as we speak." The royal herald speaks from his place next to the King. "The Duke Fisk will not be available until the day of the wedding, but he does want to know in advanced how the transportation of Vibranium will-"

You stand up abruptly at that.

Even your husband to be can't bother himself with meeting you before the wedding? The Duke does not even care to ask about you, and instead wants to discuss the Vibranium supply that he is marrying into.

The sudden action causes silence as all eyes turn towards you.

"I'm not hungry." You say bitterly, storming out of the dining hall and aggressively shoving the double doors leading towards the hallways.

The calls of your parents are left ignored as you keep your head down so that they don't see the angry tears rushing down your cheeks. You just needed to get away from everything.

Your violent exit is met with Bucky who was stationed right outside the door. Of course he's there, he always is. the presence that usually fills you with a sense of security is replaced by irritation.

"Don't follow me!" You order him just as he's about to walk towards you in concern.

"What?- Princess, wait." You hear his armor as he takes long strides to easily catch up with your brisk pace.

He continues following next to you despite your attempts to walk away from him. "I can't do that, Princess. You know I have to be with-"

"Leave me alone, Bucky!" you spin around to face him just as you make a turn towards an empty hallway.

He doesn't halt his steps in time. Your sudden movement causes him to crash into you accidentally.

The usual distance he tries so hard to place between you gets shortened into a breath. He stands so close now, that your chest nearly touches the suit of his armor.

Neither of you make an effort to correct the distance.

"Princess-" He breathes out.

"-Find her! King's orders!" You hear one of the palace guards command to his men.

The distraction is enough to make you jump, causing you to walk backwards away from Bucky in shock.

You don't get too far. Not when his cold metallic hand wraps around your waist, keeping you against him. Before you can question it, he's walking you backwards into a nearby alcove.

It's a dark and tight space. You're pressed between him and the wall as his dark armor makes the perfect camouflage for the both of you, shielding you from the passing guards.

You hear their footsteps come and go as they search the castle for the Princess who just stormed off.

"You'll get in trouble if they find out." You tell Bucky with a soft whisper. He's pressed up so close against you, that if he were to lean down just a bit, his lips would graze the crown of your head.

"Then we won't let them find out." He reassures you with a gruff whisper of his own. "You won't tell on me. Right?"

You look up to see him smiling fondly down at you. The distance doing nothing to calm your aching heart.

"I want to get out of here, please Bucky."

"Of course, Princess. Anything you want."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Bucky leads you through the night, passing through all the dark corners with such stealth and fluidity, that you don't realize where he ends up taking you.

You're met with a small wooden door. A very modest looking one that you easily could've missed due to how mundane it looks next to the much grandeur doors you're used to.

"It leads outside," Bucky tells you in a hushed tone, as his hand continues to gently guide you towards it by the small of your back. "They won't notice we're gone if we take this exit."

He pushes the door open for you and you're instantly met with cool fresh air. Your lungs take fuller breaths now, helping you calm down from the events of today.

"Further down, Princess. Let's keep going." The hand at the small of your back continues its gentle hold on you.

You try your best not to show him just how much this newfound touch is affecting you. The hammering of your heart is easy enough to hide, but the same cannot be said for the blush on your cheeks.

Straight ahead is one of the castle's cast iron gazebos. It's placed so distantly away from the castle grounds, just outside the perimeter, that you almost forget that it's there.

The domed roof is decorated with intricate patterns. Untouched flowers and foliage cover the architecture from floor to ceiling

"You calm down better when you're around nature." Bucky notes as he watches you observe the location with awe "they'd check the meadow, but not here. It's practically forgotten."

Turning your attention away from the flowers, you face him with a hint of surprise in your expression. "How did you find it? I didn't even know we had a gazebo like this here."

"I like to get away when the thinking gets too much."

You let the familiar silence comfortably envelop the both of you, finally finding it in you to relax and let the reality of the situation you're in consume you.

The thoughts of duty, marriage, and unspoken feelings for your knight make your heart feel heavy once again. Making your eyes well up in shimmers as you try to fight them from falling.

You refuse to cry over this any more. Tears feel pointless now.

Bucky easily reads your thoughts through your expression. He feels it all in that moment; anger, hurt, frustration, and that thread of tenderness that never seems to leave when he looks at you.

He looks away, turning his gaze heavenward with a clenched jaw as he tries to compartmentalize his own emotions.

"You're making it damn hard for me not to take you up on that offer." the rasp of his voice cracks through you.

"What?"

"Stealing you away, Princess. You have no idea how bad I want to get you out of this mess."

A melancholic chuckle makes its way out of your mouth at that. Your hands play with a loose thread of your silk dress.

"Don't joke around like that, Bucky. I just might get my hopes up." But when you look up at him with a crinkle in the corner of your eyes, you see that he's not wearing the same joking expression.

He looks at you with his forehead creased, eyes filled with longing and flickers of desperation before he just breaks.

"I can't pretend anymore."

Before you can question what he means, he takes a few strides closer to you. The distance between you closes once again just as it did earlier in the hallway.

"Bucky-"

"You need to know that I care for you, Princess. Deeply. It's not just about my code- it's never been about that."

His voice breaks halfway as he confesses what he's been too afraid to speak out loud all these years.

"We- We can't, Bucky. What are you doing?" You bring up a hand to his chest in attempt to push him away, but he takes it as an opportunity to grab your wrist and keep you in place.

"Please. Please just listen to me." He says with more determination now.

Your silence is all he needs to keep going. He takes a deep breath before he does.

"You're everything, Princess. Everything." A hand reaches up to caress your cheek, while the other pulls you closer by the waist. "and I ache for you. It hurts, but I can't stand to be anything else but in love with you."

Bucky's confession is every impossible dream you've ever had. But as he lays his heart out to you, you can't help but feel your own break.

"I love you too, Bucky." you tell him with your own loving eyes reflecting back at him, pained with the need to turn him down. It's the right thing to do. "...But we-"

"Don't finish that sentence." He cuts off your rejection quickly.

Your breath hitches as he rests his forehead on yours, leaning you back until you're almost seated at the built-in bench of the gazebo's infrastructure. The flowers frame you for him, and he stares at the picture it paints for him in admiration.

"Just for tonight." He says softly, tightening his grip on you and leaning down to press a chaste kiss on your cheek.

Warmth floods the area his lips meet. His lips trail lower to your jaw until his mouth closes around the pulse in your neck.

"We shouldn't, Bucky." but the words come out breathless as your head begins to spin from the pleasure. Actions don't match your resistance as you grant him more access to the column of your throat.

"Just for tonight," he repeats against your skin. "Let me pretend you're mine, Princess."

Your heart throbs at the word 'mine'. It's all you've ever wanted- but why does every kiss of his feel like he's letting you go?

Bucky's lips meet the corner of your mouth this time, getting so close to an actual kiss which makes you let out a gasp.

"I'll pretend you're mine as well." You answer back at him in a hushed whisper, expecting him to kiss you now at your compliance to his make-believe.

Instead, Bucky shakes his head in amusement at you.

"Princess, you don't need to pretend." His lips are inches away from you now. "I've always been yours."

The way Bucky kisses is not gentle. It's desperate and dangerous, a contrast to the way he takes care of you. There's absolutely nothing holding him back anymore from this moment that he has with you.

After all, you agreed to be his- even if it's just for tonight.

"You sure?" Bucky pulls away for a moment to ask you with a softness in his voice, as if he wasn't just kissing you like it was a lifeline.

"Yes. I'm sure." You tell him earnestly.

He wastes no time grabbing you by the nape of your neck to bring your lips back to his rougher this time.

Bucky is everywhere all at once.

HIs hands slip down to your ass, palming and groping, making you moan into his mouth. You're practically melting as all you can do is hold onto him and take it while he moves his lips down to your neck once again.

"Mine." He states with certainty. "You're mine. You love me."

"Yes, I'm yours. I love you." your hands glide up his hair as you're pushed further into the pillar of the gazebo, leaning all of your weight against it as he kisses lower and lower.

Your words make him moan into your skin, causing a shiver to course through you.

He's suddenly on his knees in front of you, tugging at his armor to let it fall down with a hard clank. You'd be worried about the noise it created, if it weren't for his hand suddenly trailing from your ankle to your knee, and back down again.

"I'm going to kiss you here, Princess. Are you okay with that?"

The small, shy nod of your head is enough for him to pull your dress up and to the side, making him groan at the bare sight of your slick before him.

Bucky's tongue runs up between your folds, circling your clit slowly. A loud, desperate moan comes out of you almost immediately at the contact.

You make contact with him as he stares up at you with affection from in between your thighs.

"You're doing so good, love... That's it." he praises you with a growl.

His fingers squeeze at your ass as he sucks your clit into his mouth. You feel how he envelops you with the warmth of his tongue pressing flat against it to flick up harshly, before sucking it once again.

The pattern continues until you're a wreck against him, whimpering and writhing. Bucky's metal arm holds you in place while the flesh of his other hand moves from your ass to push two fingers inside you.

It's amazing how he finds the spot you want him the most in almost instantly.

Bucky's pace increases as his fingers pump in and out of you, fucking you in perfect rhythm and coordination with his tongue. The feeling keeps building and building as you cry out, desperately tryin got chase more.

"O-oh, fuck. Bucky I'm-" you whimper, wound up so tightly that it feels hard to breathe. "I think I'm going to -"

The words never leave you as every part of you spasms. Your whole body is tingling and throbbing while Bucky continues to suck your clit deliciously, while his fingers continue to fuck into you.

You come with a scream of his name, a declaration of love, and a series of curses unfit for a princess.

Bucky cleans you diligently with his tongue patiently, coming up from his knees once he's sure he's collected every drop you gave him.

It takes you a few moments to recollect yourself from finishing on his tongue. Bucky is patient as he strokes your hair, waiting for me to calm down.

"Did so good for me, love." He whispers softly, "so beautiful, so fucking mine."

Once the aftershocks have passed, you decide to reach a hand down to palm him over his pants.

"Can I?" you ask Bucky shyly, worried about your lack of experience yet motivated by how much you want to return the favor.

He chuckles at your eagerness "No, we don't have to-"

"Please? I want to."

Before he can protest, you're already on your knees in front of him, eyeing the outline of his hardness through his pants. You can tell it's big, and the idea of his size makes you nevous.

"Y-you need to teach me, Bucky." you tell him timidly.

"Okay, Princess." he says with a gentle tone.

He takes himself out, tightening his fist around the base a few times and giving it a few pumps. He bends down to give you a kiss on your forehead "Tell me whenever you want to stop, alright?"

One hand positions itself at the back of your neck, while the other guides his dick to your mouth. "Stick your tongue out, baby."

You do as your told, and give the head of his dick some experimental licks before taking the tip into your mouth.

"Shiiiit" he moans. "Such a good girl, baby."

You continue to suck him off gently at first, while his hands find your hair as he continues to moan loudly. His reactions make you more confident in yourself as you take more of him in your mouth now, until he hits the back of your throat.

"Fuck yes, just like that." He groans.

You look up at him through your lashes as he makes experimental thrusts into your mouth. As you don't seem to object to this, he starts rutting into you now in rhythm. letting out satisfied grunts.

"Yes, god yes." He continues to chant, thrusting a few more times before pulling you up to your feet.

"I won't last if you keep that up." He pants. "I want to be inside you when I cum, Princess."

With one last check-in with you if you're sure, you feel him line himself up to your entrance.

"Gonna fuck this pussy like it's mine." he says as he puts the tip in, stretching you out as you feel the sudden weight of him inside you.

"F-fuck! Bucky!" You yelp at the foreign feeling.

"And you're gonna take it like a good girl. Won't you, Princess?" He asks before thrusting himself inside completely.

Bucky has left you both a panting mess within the confines of the gazebo, where anyone passing by the gardens will have an obvious view of what you're doing- but at that moment, lost in pleasure, neither of you seem to care.

You're soaking wet around him and squeezing him so tight, that it's hard for him to think about anything else but you.

Pulling back, Bucky thrusts forward with gentle rocks of his hips to help you get used to his size. Only then putting more force into his thrusts once he sees you moaning in pleasure.

"You feel so good, Princess. Such a perfect pussy." He pants in your ear as he fucks you deeper. "You like that, baby? You like getting fucked like this?"

"Oh my- it's so big, 'm full, Buck." you whisper as his cock brushes your sensitive spot over and over again "Right there!"

"Yeah, I'll fuck you right there baby. Don't you worry." Bucky moves a cold metal hand to your bundle of nerves, urging you to milk his cock tighter by pushing you to your orgasm.

"A-Ah! Bucky- wait, too much!-" But it's too late. You come on his cock in hot spurts, tightening around him so deliciously that he can't help but get pushed to the edge with you.

You collapse into each other, breathing heavily for a moment.

"I love you, Princes." he whispers as he cradles you in his arms.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

For the next few days, you and Bucky are feral.

Years of sexual tension boiling down into moments.

He eats your cunt vigorously in your chambers, sneaking inside early in the morning before your ladies-in-waiting come to fetch you. You suck him off behind the tree in that meadow you both love, knees cushioned by the soft petals of flowers.

And of course, you both sneak away to the gazebo at night, so he can fuck you pressed up against the pillar just like before, or bent over one of the railings so that he can stretch his dick deeper inside you.

It's weeks of this. Neither of you want to rest, completely enamored by love and attraction for one another.

In every single way possible, you are aware of how Bucky is corrupting your innocence- your purity.

But you love it. If you were to give yourself to a man, you're glad its him. You're glad that he gets to touch you before the person you've been sold away to can lay his eyes on you.

It's a clear day when you meet your parents in the morning.

You've become less belligerent towards them about the situation, likely due to the way Bucky gets to make you forget about everything for a few moments when he gets you alone.

Before meeting them today, Bucky had snuck in your chambers again and that morning and ate your cunt so fucking good. He made you cum on his tongue twice then fucked you from behind with his dick before escorting you to the hall.

So it comes as quite a shock to you when your parents give you the updates on your marriage.

"We've scheduled the wedding. He's agreed to formalize the union by the end of this week." Your father tells you casually, finally coming into acceptance that him having to marry his daughter to a man such as Duke Fisk is for the betterment of the Kingdom and its people.

"T-this week?" You repeat in shock.

Your mother tries to be the voice of reason in this situation. "I know it's soon, but Duke Fisk needs the trade routes for the Vibranium secured, honey." she sighs.

Her worried eyes glance at your tensed up shoulders and clenched fist.

"I-I... I understand." is what you reply to her.

Your compliance shocks you, as a few weeks ago you would have fought and yelled despite knowing that there was nothing you could do to get out of it.

The facts outweighed every once of yearning you have in your heart. You were always going to be a princess first. Trapped into the responsibility forced upon you since birth.

When you get yourself alone with Bucky that night, you throw yourself onto him in desperate endeavor.

"What's gotten into you?" He had asked.

You form no explanation, but the worried look in your eyes is enough to make him understand.

"Make me forget. Please, Bucky."

He glances down at you sadly before pressing a kiss into the crease of your brows.

"Of course, Princess. Anything you want."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The day of your wedding comes in a blink, that you barely have time to mourn the life you're leaving behind.

Nora dresses you up in the white wedding dress that feels suffocating to be in. She tries to keep a chipper expression as she combs through your hair one last time, but the sadness is evident.

"It may not be so bad, dear. After all, It worked out for your mother." She tells you fondly.

But you don't listen. You don't care that its worked out for anyone else before, you only want Bucky.

You stay silent. Nora does not push.

When you're ready, Bucky is stationed outside your chambers as always, ready to escort you to your wedding ceremony.

It's a bitter ending for the both of you. He's there to guide you all the way up till the point where he has to give you away to a man that you have never even met, nor seen before.

He stares at you with a serious expression, trying not to break in front of you. You, on the other hand, are not fairing as well as he is.

Tears form almost instantly at the sight of him.

"I'll give you both some space." Nora says softly before exiting the hall of your chambers.

You're alone now, but the tension is thick. The extravagant bouquet in your hands aren't nearly as beautiful as the dainty little flowers in the meadow.

"I can still steal you away, Princess." Bucky says in a soft tone, just in case anyone else could hear. He's more serious than he's ever been when he brings it up. "Just say the word. There's an exit we can take. They won't find us if we leave now."

His words are quick and desperate, making your tears fall down harder at this. Bucky's hand catches them from falling, making you lean into his touch.

"Oh, Bucky." You say exhaustedly. It makes his heart break. "You know we can't"

He pulls his hand away, and steps back from you. Maintaining the familiar distance- just a few paces away from you.

"I know." He agrees with you solemnly. “But I’d let Kingdoms go to war if it meant keeping you, love.”

A sad smile forms on your face as you tell him. “You knew this was waiting for us at the end.”

The both of you make your painful walk towards the doors of the ceremony, where you're greeted by a grand ballroom filled with people. Your parents are waiting by the door to receive you.

"You look beautiful." Your mother compliments sadly. Next to her, your father looks tense, a cold expression on his face as he tries to act strong for the three of you.

"Remember," he says, "its for the Kingdom. You're doing your duty."

Duty.

The word echoes in your head like an insult.

Duty.

You feel your mother and father beside you, guiding you towards the end of the isle where your betrothed waits. You lock eyes with him for the first time.

Bucky stays in his place behind you. That's where he will always be, watching you create a new life with this stranger all for the sake of

Duty.

You freeze in the middle of the aisle, before slowly turning back. Your father looks at you with confusion, while your mother’s eyes widen with knowing realization.

Bucky watches you with wide eyes at your action. All these years of familiarizing himself with your unpredictability, but he does not expect what you do next.

You take a slow step back towards him. Towards your knight.

All eyes are on you, but you only look ahead.

"You can always try to steal me away too, you know?" any trace of banter is suddenly erased as pure honesty slips out this time from your lips. Your voice is soft. He hears it loud and clear.

The conversation in that meadow replays in your head.

“Bucky!” You call out to him desperately, a cry for you knight’s rescue.

"I-I think I'd go anywhere with you." You tell him shyly.

At your call, Bucky moves almost instinctively to fetch you in the middle of the aisle. His eyes never leave yours as he runs toward you before clasping your hand in his.

Around you, people are stunned to silence. Your father attempts to make the first move to react, but is stopped by your mother’s hand on his.

“Take care of her.” Your mother whispers to him, voice filled with emotion at the both of you.

She sees herself and her knight in you and Bucky, making her agreeable to letting you go.

Bucky offers her a curt nod, before quickly pulling you out the ballroom in haste before the order to go after you is issued.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

It’s been a few years since the Princess disappeared. A forgotten story that people no longer pay attention to, as even bigger news circulated the Kingdoms.

Hydra has fallen. The small neighboring Kingdoms have banded together in war efforts that stopped them from their brutal expansion. A much more effective solution than what a marriage union could have done.

“Come one Princess, it’s time to go.” A gruff voice calls from behind you.

You smile at the sound of it, turning around to meet Bucky’s affectionate gaze.

“I told you not to call me that anymore.” You correct him lovingly.

“Habit, I guess. Can’t blame me.” He walks over to you to help you out of your spot on the soft dewy grass of the meadow.

Being 7 months pregnant has made movement all the more difficult from you. You’re gracious for Bucky’s assistance.

“Honestly,” he sighs, “if I knew you were going to spend all this time at the meadow, I would’ve built our house right here.”

You giggle at his absurdity. The house is just a few minutes away, isolated and quiet. Hidden away in a small hamlet just at the edge of the Kingdom that used to be yours.

“Oh, hush you. That’s no way to speak to your wife.” You slap his shoulder playfully. “Escort me back home, will you?”

Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you finally manage to stand all the way up.

“Anything you want, Princess.”

[superbassbuck]

keep the lambs away.

pairing: lumberjack!bucky barnes x fisher!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”

word count: 11.4k main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event

a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!

synopsis: After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.

Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.

Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.

You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.

From there, the trip spiraled.

You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.

Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.

There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.

Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.

The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.

Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.

That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.

As you got closer, you took in the land.

Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.

Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

You spun around.

A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.

His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.

“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”

“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.

He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.

Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?

Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.

You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.

“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”

With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.

He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.

“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”

“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”

You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”

Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.

To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.

“…What’s yours?” you then asked.

He ignored you.

Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.

Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”

Bucky’s dull expression didn’t change. “No phone.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate, either.

He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.

“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”

“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.

What?

No ride?

You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.

That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”

You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.

“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”

Your heart started to race as panic settled in.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”

Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.

“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”

The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.

Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.

“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.

He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.

“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”

You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.

As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.

“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”

You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.

For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.

The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.

Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.

A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.

The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.

You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.

Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.

Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.

Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.

“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.

Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.

And that’s exactly what you did.

The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.

Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.

Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.

A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.

In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.

You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.

A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.

You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.

“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”

Bucky.

Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.

He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”

It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.

With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.

The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.

The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.

He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.

“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”

All of it happened in a blur.

One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.

When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.

“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”

“I’m helpin’ you,” Bucky grunted, sounding offended.

“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.

He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.

“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”

You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.

Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”

Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”

Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.

The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.

As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.

Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.

“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.

“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.

After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.

You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.

“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”

Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.

In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.

“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”

He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.

Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.

With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.

Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.

Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.

“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”

Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.

“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.

It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.

You frowned. “Are you sure—”

“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”

Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.

You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.

“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.

So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.

Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.

His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.

Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.

Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.

“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”

Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.

“You’re overheating!”

Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.

“...Tired,” he croaked.

Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.

Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.

Just my luck, huh?

He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.

Damn. He was a fucking idiot.

You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.

You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”

As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.

Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.

He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.

That was the whole point of being out here.

But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.

It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.

“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.

You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.

Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”

Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.

“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?

“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”

Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.

With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.

By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.

He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.

To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.

There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.

He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.

When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.

His jaw tightened.

A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.

All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.

He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.

He froze.

Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.

As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.

By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.

“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.

“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”

“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”

You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”

You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.

He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.

From his seat, he watched you move.

“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”

The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.

You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.

He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.

“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.

For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.

He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.

He liked the idea of having someone to protect.

Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.

“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”

“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”

“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.

You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.

“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”

You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.

The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.

“Crap—!”

Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.

In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.

“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.

You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.

“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”

You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.

“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”

Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.

By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.

“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.

He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.

“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.

You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.

You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.

You swore he didn’t look away from you once.

Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.

All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.

You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.

Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.

“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”

Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.

Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.

Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.

“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”

“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”

He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”

You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.

But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.

The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.

You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.

“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”

Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”

“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”

Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.

“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”

“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”

Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.

“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.

He liked this.

No—he loved this.

“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”

He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.

“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”

The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.

For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.

Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.

Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.

When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.

“Careful, sweets.”

“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”

“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”

You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.

You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.

As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.

There was no storm.

And it was too late to start the trek to town now.

You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.

He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.

“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”

Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”

A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.

“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”

Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.

“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”

“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”

“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”

“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”

“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”

He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”

With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.

“Here.”

“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.

“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”

You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.

“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.

Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.

“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”

His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.

After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.

The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.

He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.

You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.

To him, this was exactly where you belonged.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”

You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.

He could get used to waking up to this every morning.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Exactly right, sugar.”

From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.

Unreadable and unwavering.

You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”

“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”

So much for breaking the tension.

His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.

You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.

Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.

“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.

Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.

“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.

You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.

You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.

“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.

His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.

When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.

“So goddamn pretty.”

“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”

There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.

“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”

“Like what?” you breathed.

“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”

You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.

“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”

Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.

“Feels like I already have, little doll.”

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.

He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.

It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.

His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.

You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.

Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.

“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”

Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.

“Bucky, please—”

You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.

Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.

A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”

Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.

“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”

He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.

“… No panties?”

Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”

You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.

You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.

Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.

“Bucky, wait—!”

But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.

He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.

You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.

“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.

Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.

He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.

He was devouring you.

He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.

Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.

“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”

He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.

He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.

Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.

“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”

“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”

“No?” he cut you off.

He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.

“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”

Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.

Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.

He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.

“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”

As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.

A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.

You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.

You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.

When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”

With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.

Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.

“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”

Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.

He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.

He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.

“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”

When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.

He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.

“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.

“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”

Bucky was hypnotized.

He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.

And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.

“Fuck. Fuckin’ hell—you… fuckin’… goddammit—fuck!”

His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.

Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.

He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.

“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.

That didn’t help him at all.

“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”

The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.

Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.

“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.

Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.

To breed.

Breed. Breed…

“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”

His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.

“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”

Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.

He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.

Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.

“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.

His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”

Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.

“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”

One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.

“Oh my god—!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”

He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”

The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.

“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”

When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.

“Understand, sweets?”

“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”

You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.

“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”

His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.

Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.

A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.

His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.

“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.

He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.

He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.

“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.

All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.

Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.

“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.

“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!

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[jennvivharkness]

So good the first time, I had to reread it and reblog it again omgg Pauline's influence was exactly like this

"You do wanna reread this crazed antisocial lumberjack version of Bucky Barnes, don't you???"

[superbassbuck]

every time I remember this reblog exists i let out a chuckle

yeah I’m the devil on your shoulder filling your ears with all bad things bucky barnes LOL thank you for reading and reblogging, you’re so kind!