hey y'all just wanted to hop on here and say hi and i miss you all </3
finals week is rapidly approaching and i am drowning in projects for my classes lol
im excited for my winter break bc that means i'll have time to write something! i will try my hardest to finish one of my drafts bc i feel bad for putting everything on hold yikes
okay that's it i love you all so dearly. please take care of yourselves!
my beautiful friends i am so sorry i literally disappeared for like a MONTH school has been absolutely kicking my ass and then kicking me even more while i'm down
it's midterms week rn so i promise after the craziness of college winds down this week i will be all yours and write until my fingers fall off lol
thank you all for being so patient with me! the mbf series will still continue as well as other ideas i have written down somewhere
Pairing: Investigator! Bucky Barnes X GN New Recruit! Reader
WC: 8.2K
Synopsis: During the summer of 95, a sleepless James B. Barnes is entrusted with a cold case and a reckless new hire that both have the opportunity to crack this sleepy Louisiana town wide open.
Chapter Warnings: Characters death, body horror, sciophobia( fear of shadows), guns, nightmares, reoccurring nightmares, neighborly conflict I think thatâs if Iâm missing anything please let me know!!
READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION
A/N: SHEâs HEREEEEEEEEEEEEđ this chapter gave me a hard time at certain points but I saw it through and now we are here đââïžâđŸ hope u enjoy! Lmk if you peeped the crow mention đ€
@strangergraphics @cafekitsune both on Dividers
I want to say a super huge huge huge thank you to my sister and my lovely beautiful amazing wonderful pookie Kate @sunsetmaneuver for reading through this chapter and giving me their honest thoughts and feedback!
Let me know ur thoughts friends!! Happy reading :]
Psalms 19:13
Keep your servant also from willful sins; may they not rule over me. Then I will be blameless, innocent of great transgression.
The soft chirp of the Summer cicada choir drifted through the open windows of the St Tammany Parish sheriff's department. A cold mug of coffee sat firmly to the side of Sergeant Barnes' desk, long forgotten in favor of the many banker's boxes that surrounded him. Four months, he had been rummaging through this cold case evidence for four grueling months, and he still had nothing to show for it. All of the dates, places, times, people, and things bleed together like an ink spill in his mind.
"Maybe I'm just not the right recruit for this," he sighs. Setting a manila folder down on his desk, he glanced at his wristwatch.
"Jesus fucking Christ," 2:45 am sat on his watch face, peaking back at him. Slowly but surely, Bucky placed each folder back into its corresponding box, allowing dust to envelop his broad frame. He sits, hands running laps through his hair. "I should have listened to Steve when he told me to turn down this case; serves me right," his musing cut short by the rise and fall of the cicada song surrounding him.
His drive home was as silent as it always was. Concrete stretching as far as the eye can see, illuminated by the headlights of his pickup truck. The sound of the Spanish moss dancing among the trees brought him little comfort as he drove. Silence like this always left a small pit in his stomach. Maybe it was the primal fear of the unknown he thought, or just his heightened apprehension that left him uneasy.
The Prussian blue Ford made its way down the long driveway that led to the Barnes estate. With drifting eyes, Bucky parked a few feet from his porch, glancing over to the other home located on his property. All of the lights were off, but he could faintly make out the soft melody of Billie Holiday's 'I'll be seeing you' wafting through the night air.
"Seems like Steve forgot to take his record off the table before bed again", he chuckles, "forgetful as always."
Climbing the creaky front steps of his home, he made his way inside. With the removal of his work boots came the feeling of a warm body working its way around his calves. "Hello baby-girl, I'm sorry for making it home so late. Could you ever forgive me?" Cooing softly at the bright white cat making her way around him in a figure 8.
"I promise tomorrow I'll be home on time, we can even take one of those leash walks you like, stretch your legs." he scoops her up with a gentle kiss placed right on top of her skull. Traveling through the house with the cat in his arms, her bell collar ringing pleasantly with every step.
Bucky makes his way up the stairs to his bedroom, placing the cat gently on his bed. "Shower time, Alpine- I won't be more than 30 minutes, it's been a long day," the cat, Alpine, muses back at him as if to say, "Don't take too long! You've been gone long enough!"
"I know, I know, just sit tight for me, I'll be back," he says to her, swiftly exiting the room with a fresh set of boxers hanging from his right arm.
The shower was short, and his dinner even shorter.
He quickly washed his dishes and made his way back upstairs to his bedroom. Each stair creaking under the weight of him, grounding his breath as he entered his bedroom. He could count on one hand how many nights of good rest he had acquired in the last few years. He could pinpoint the day, what time his head had hit the pillow, and here he was trying to chase that pipe dream once again.
Even as his consciousness drifted from him, his body easing into the mattress, Alpine's warm purrs lulling him into the darkness of sleep. He knew what was to come.
Sticky swamp air encased his frame, sealing his white tank top against his body. Bucky made his way off the front porch. The moon hung low, altostatus clouds covering the star-spangled sky like a sheet. His heavy rain boots crunching along gravel as he made his way towards his best friend. Steve was smaller than Bucky. Scrawny from lack of care, and pale from the way the moon illuminated his face.
"I don't know Buck. Becca wouldn't leave the back door swinging like that. Even if she was sneaking out, she would've taken the time to cover her tracks." Steven's voice shook slightly.
"Well, regardless Stevie, she didn't even bother to put on her shoes. She can't be too far out."
Bucky glances back at the porch of his family home, mud-slathered Mary-Janes sitting next to the front door.
'Two nights ago, they were penny loafers,' Bucky mused softly, Becca's frilly white church socks discarded within the muddy shoes; a week ago, there were no shoes left at all, just the screen door left swinging.'
"Hey Bucky, you wit me buddy?" Steve's voice pulls Bucky from his recollection.
"Yeah Buddy, I'm here," Bucky's face scrunching slightly as he turned to Steve. "Look," Bucky points to a set of footprints leading into the treeline. "She probably just went to sit by the water. Had one of her nightmares, didn't want to wake us."
Steve nods, "Yeah, ok, we uh- we'll bring her home. Put her back to bed and call it a night." Steve murmurs, glancing up to meet Bucky's assured gaze.
Bucky gives him a small smile, attempting to not only comfort Steve, but himself as well. In small strides, the boys begin to travel across the flat span of the Barnes backyard towards the treeline. Large oak trees swaying with the tide of the wind.
Wet earth underneath Bucky's boots caused him to slip with every step. The path they chose was dark, illuminated only by the moon and small lightning bugs drifting through the air.
As the boys traveled farther south the sounds of the Louisiana underbrush beat against Bucky's ears. Rustling leaves, the mockingbird's night song, and crisp cricket chirps all working in tandem like a church choir, creating a sweeter melody. Underneath the soft forest song Bucky could hear his own heart, rattling against his ribcage.
Here he was reminded of what it was like to be 16 and fearless. What it felt like to walk through the murky swamp, holding no fear for the wet lands he called home. His nightmares always blinded him in this way. Bringing him back to these exact moments before disaster, bringing him back to when he felt free. No matter what he did or didn't do, he was bound to this place. Bound to end up right back where he didn't want to be. Shrouded in shadows, details waxing and waning in ways that were so disorienting, it caused him honest distress. No matter how many times Bucky tried to rewrite the past, nothing that mattered would change.
"Look alive, we're about a minute away from the riverbank," he heard Steve shout, a couple of feet further down the path.
"Copy that," his voice so quiet that Steve almost missed it.
Slowing their pace, the boys crossed the threshold into the cypress swamp. Trees towered over them, casting ghostly shadows on the dark water below. Spanish moss hangs from every branch in sight, swaying softly like silk through the night's humidity. Stem fog rises off of the murky water; the smell of methane gas following short behind leaving little room in Bucky's lungs for fresh air.
"Becca! Rebecca, it's me! We have to get back home. It's way too late for you to be wandering by yourself. You shoulda woke me up," Bucky calls out into the swamp. Padding softly towards the water, Bucky calls out again, "BECCA- BECCA PLEASE COME OUT, this isn't funny- Dad is gonna skin me alive if I don't bring you home before dawn breaks. Becca please come out." Words slipping from his throat, no real bite behind them.
Steve turns his back on Bucky. "Becky, come on, it's super late! Your brother is real worried. Just think, in the morning we can sit and eat Lucky Charms! You can even force us to watch the Banana Splits if the television decides to work."
Bucky squints, his head drifting to the left as something catches his eye.
"Stevie,' Bucky called over to him. "Her footsteps lead this way, come on.-" his feet swiftly moving in the direction of Rebecca's foot trail.
Traveling westward, they follow her footsteps along the riverbank, just shy of the tall gamagrass bordering the other side. Her little footsteps were messy, twisted and unmeasured. Slowly but surely the scenario was becoming clear. She was trying to keep pace with someone.
The farther they traveled the darker the night became. The moon's light now threaded through tree branches, leaving the boys shrouded in momentary darkness.
"I shoulda grabbed a flashlight, we're stumbling round here like two blind bats." Barnes murmured.
"Well Buck, we left the house in a rush. Didn't expect to be so far out, didn't expect for it to be so dark. Cut yourself some slack."
The boys walked 2 miles west along the riverbank following her tracks. Becca's footprints began to drag. Deep toe prints left in the mud and misaligned steps, leaving evidence of exhaustion.
"Bucky, I don't know if she's even still out here- we have to be almost four miles from-"
"Don't. We aren't going home until we find her Steve."
"She may have wandered back to the house by now Buck, cut through the grass and up the big hill behind the house. She knows how to get home. Look you're tired. We can go home, catch a couple of hours of sleep, and come back out in the morning when it's easier to see."
"Steven. No." Bucky's harsh voice raising in volume.
"Becca's tough girl. It ain't too cold out, even if she falls asleep out here, nothing but the damn cranes and wild hogs are big enough to mess with her. She's an excellent climber. We will find her at first morning's light." he finished with a sigh.
"Look." Bucky answers sharply, finally turning to face Steve, "If you are too tired to give a fuck about something bigger than you? Fine. I am staying out here to look for my god damn baby sister, and ain't no man or beast gonna stop me. Do you understand?"
"You know I didn't mean it like that James. I love Becca like my own, you know that. Don't treat me like a damn dog just because you're stressed out. We are going to find her. We just need to regroup-" Steve stops himself short. He closes in on Bucky ,now chest to chest.
"what's that?" Steve's voice was barely above a whisper.
"What the fuck are you talkin' bout-"
Bucky swings around to find a raggedy ann doll. Rebecca's raggedy Ann doll lying face up in the riverbank silt.
The boys approach the doll as if it were a wild animal, one body on both sides casting each other a stunned look.
'Here we go' Bucky thought, taking a deep breath. He crouches down, reaching for the doll. It was soaked through almost as if it had been dunked into the murky water and thrown back, just for him to find.
"Stevie something's not right." Bucky let out a worried sigh. "Her trail ends here, but she was following something. Only her set of footsteps were left in the mud. What the hell could she have followed all the way out here?" He looks up at Steve, "No separate set of tracks, not a damn bird in sight. What is going on?" The look on Bucky's face became bewildered, Panic finally setting in.
"You're right Buck, this just don't feel right," Steve looks to his left and then his right, "I mean even the damn cicadas are quiet. I have a bad a feeling about all of this."
"She isn't here Steve, she hasn't answered to any of our calls. Steve what if she's just fuckin gone? What if we never find her? I don't think I could live with myself if she just up and disappeared." Bucky scrubs his hands over his face with defeat.
'He wasn't really here; he reminds himself; it's just a dream. It will be over soon-'
A hand claps down onto his left shoulder, bringing back into his body
"Bucky, you said it yourself. We are bringing Becca home. Regardless of what we have to do."
That moment Bucky remembered clearer than any other. Steve's hair was slightly tousled, forehead lines so distinct that it made him look 15 years older. His warm breath wafted over Bucky's face, grounding him. Steve's hand on Bucky's shoulder squeezing slightly. The sound of the water rippling. The tall grass waving in the wind. The world around him moving slowly, completely out of Bucky's control. He remembers wanting everything to freeze, to allow him time to gain his bearings, but that wasn't up to him and he knew it. The devastating realization that nothing in this swamp was concerned for him. Not the wind, not the trees, not the river or the small animals resting oh so peacefully in their homes, not one creature cared to feel his anguish.
And that's when they heard it. The slight creak of Cypress branches.
Initially, it sounded as if the tree's branches were cracking. Heavy tendrils swaying in the muggy summer breeze. Both boys turn slowly, gaze locked on the object that had made the sound.
There she was, Rebecca June Barnes. Her little body slotted into a keyhole in the branches of a cypress tree. The white nightgown she wore to bed that night was now completely soiled. The hem of her gown was caked with mud, long streaks of grime clawing their way up her fragile frame. Her jaw hung loose, pale face angled towards the sky in agony. She lay there pale, blood matted curls framing her face like a birdcage keeping her bewildered expression just out of reach. Rebecca June Barnes, the little 12 year old girl who was so full of life just that afternoon, rolling around in tall grass and making friends with the dragonflies soaring above her head. Rebecca June Barnes who jumped in puddles and spilled food on her Sunday's best. Rebecca June, the baby Bucky held in his arms smelling as fresh as the day was new. Rebecca, Bucky's baby sister, sat right above his head, gone to the world, and there was nothing he could do.
Steve released the breath that had been lodged in his chest.
"Jamie. Jamie there's no way, this has to be some kind of-"
"stop." Bucky's eyes still locked on Becca's slumped form.
"James this can't be-"
"I said. Stop"
Just out of sight, Bucky could see someone slip behind the treeline.
His head snaps towards the clearing, squinting eyes searching for movement.
'Someone else was here. No one else should be around.'
It had become a routine. Bucky finds Becca missing, the back door left agape. He wakes Steve up, and they leave the house in search of Rebecca. They trudge through the woods under the guise of the full moon. They come out to the Cyprus Grove, look for Becca for about an hour, and find her mangled body among the trees. He wakes up. Like clockwork every time, details missing and aspects changed, but a beat was never missed. This time around things were different.
"Steve what was that? Did you see that?"
"Bucky, what the hell are you talking about."
"I just saw-"
"Buchanan. Nobody else is here."
"No Steve, I just saw-"
More movement further along the tree line pushes Bucky forward. Before he could comprehend what was happening, his body is carrying him through the gamagrass field in a dead sprint. He bursts through the treeline looking around wildly, hoping to catch something, someone.
Just up ahead stands a man shrouded in darkness. His silhouette encased in a darkness even deeper than the forest provided. They both stood still as statues staring at each other. The man's features were indistinguishable; darkness draped around him like a latex. Bucky couldn't make sense of it.
With bated breath, man swiftly turned to make his escape but Bucky takes off after him. Shades of brown and green pass his peripheral vision as he tails the shrouded figure. The man was fast, long legs carrying him through the trees as if he was floating on air. Bucky pushed his body harder, gaining on the figure.
James is a few steps short when he lunges, reaching out to grab the man. His hand grasps for the man's shoulder but catches nothing. He watches as his hand slips straight through the shadow man's figure.
Bewildered, Bucky attempts to shift his weight but it's too late. His body falls to the ground like lead smashing against the forest floor. Pain ricocheted from his shoulder to his ribs and back up to his neck. His head hits a tree root, knocking him unconscious.
Bucky woke up gasping for air as if someone had knocked the wind out of him. The alarm clock blaring on his nightstand was what brought him back to his body this time around. 6:30 am blinked back at him, the crimson light illuminating his side of the bed. Alpine lies peacefully against his back. Her gentle purrs grounding his breathing. Bucky leans over smashing the snooze button with an irritated groan.
"What a wonderful way to start my morning." he sighs, rubbing his hand across his jaw. He elects to plant his feet on the hardwood floor, padding across the room towards his closet. Once dressed, he scoops up the snow colored kitten resting on his bedspread.
"First coffee, then breakfast." He states making his way through the door frame of his bedroom, "Maybe we'll have time for a solid morning stroll. What do you think about that Alpine girl?" Alpine's body nuzzles further into his neck. Her petite head hanging off of his shoulder as they made their way down the stairs into the living room.
The drive to the station was almost a straight shot 6 miles north. With one left turn on Johnson Avenue, he was pulling into the desolate parking lot of the St Tammany Parish sheriff's department. Dusk had barely begun as Bucky made his way into the building. Coffee tumbler warming one hand and his car keys cooling the other.
"Morning." He greets Mr. McCann, the front desk associate gruffly, punching his clock in ticket before placing an insulated paper cup on the lip of the reception desk.
"Morning Barnes, late night?" McCann smiles up at Bucky from the file he was reading over.
"If you could call 2am late then yes, a very, very late night." Bucky chuckles, tapping his hand on the desk's ledge as his body regained motion.
"Thanks again Barnes, for the coffee. I'm gonna need it dealing with this recruit's intake file." McCann's voice was slightly strained in an attempt to hide his frustration.
"Recruit intake? Tony didn't say shit to me about us getting any recruits this quarter. We got Torres straight out of training last Winter; it should be half a year till I see another new face." Bucky grumbles, fingers raking through his chestnut locks.
"Well Walker put in his transfer to Boston to 'patch things up' with his family so we had to replace him." McCann hands a crisp white sheet of paper over to Barnes.
"He was only good for brute force and getting on my last nerve so- I highly doubt there is much space to fill." glancing down at the top of the page reading 'Y/N Y/LN'
"Well you are in for a doozy with this one. Mid 20's, Top of their sector. Born up north, did their academy requirements down south and then transferred back. High marks on the Psych evaluation side of things, good with people. Says that they take 'a peculiar approach' to things. Good with de-escalation, worked in local jails rehabilitating prisoners. Seems like you traded a ticking time bomb for a tree-hugging hippie." McCaan chuckles. "I wish you the best Barnes, seems like Stark is putting this off on you BIG time."
"I am going to need more than luck, but uh thanks regardless." Bucky's voice travels behind him as he makes his way through the department towards the conference room.
James could hear chatter erupting from the other side of the frosted glass, Tasha's giggles and Sam's muffled sarcasm climbed through the gap underneath the door. With a deep breath Bucky pushed the hand of the door open, entering the room, seemingly prepared for whatever bullshit his team brought into the station on this late may morning.
"oh, good morning James! So happy to see you've finally decided to join us." Sheriff Stark's testy tone told Bucky everything he needed to know.
"I was at the front dropping off breakfast for McCann. You know his wife is in the hospital and he can barely take care of himself. She told me to look after em' until she's released." he says, settling into his seat next to Tony, who stood at the head of the dark oak table.
Bucky continues, "He was debriefing me on an apparent new hire, you know the one you failed to speak to me about?"
"Well Eric Draven, if you had been here-" Stark glances down at his watch from over the rim of his glasses, " about 12 minutes ago, " Tony shrugs, " I could have told you."
"A little foresight would have been helpful. You know, as the guy you entrust with your recruits you seem to hate telling me when our team is getting bigger."
"You seem like you enjoy mothering chicks so I never thought it as an issue."
"Stark. You know it's important to run this stuff by me. At least pretend you give a damn about my opinion."
"I do give a damn about your opinion Barnes," Tony says folding his arms, now facing Bucky, "I just choose not to apply them when the opportunity arises!"
Bucky pushes himself back into his seat a little farther, grumbling to himself .
"I love this little cat fight thing you two do, but we have important shit to talk about before Walker's replacement walks in on you two, our bosses, having a cock fight," Starr leans forward, folding her hands on the table.
"Ava's right, we have about 10 minutes to run through a 30 minutes worth of meeting notes so if we could put the cat fight away for later, it would be greatly appreciated," Belova chimes in.
"Alright, peanut gallery I get it. As you all know, Walker submitted his transfer about two months ago. He has surprisingly been accepted to train high-level arms operatives in Boston as of last Monday. This leaves us in a sticky situation. After sorting through some of the transfer files with Rhodey, we decided Deputy Y/N would be the best fit for the position. Even if Walker wasn't the biggest team player, he was an integral part of our unit."
Rhodes chimes in, "As you know, our quarterly evaluation is coming up and the department is lacking in certain areas. With this new addition, we could be a more well-rounded team, a well-equipped team."
"What Rhodey is trying to say is that you all need a softer edge. Iron fisting isn't always going to do it for civilians." Tony huffs. "All I ask is that you welcome them into the team with open arms and not open mouths, got it? great!" Tony smacks his hand against the table, "Meeting adjourned." Tony Proclaimed as he started for the door.
"Tony, you do know the kid still has to show up and do onboarding⊠You are aware of this correct," Nat postures, "and you are in charge of both onboarding and making sure they get here promptly."
"Well, that's what we have Barnes for. Right Barnes?"
"Is there always a catch with you," Bucky asks, " I mean last time this happened you stuck Torres on Sam like a tick."
"Now we are conjoined at the hip!" Joaquin states proudly, settling back into his seat.
"Is that something to be proud of?" Ava turns her head towards the young man on her left. "I mean, codependency is never good for anyone now is it?"
"Don't be mad at me because Rhodey put you and Belova on paper duty this month. Some of us have better conflict resolution skills than others so we get to stay in the field." his body turns in the stiff oak chair.
Yelena turns to face Joaquin, "Aren't you the same guy who broke the coffee machine and didn't tell anyone? It was really silent in the office that morning. Bucky and Sam both tried to brew a pot, only to come back to a flooded counter and dry coffee grounds Joaquin. THAT'S what you call good conflict resolution? Really?"
Bucky's head snaps towards Joaquin, "That was you?"
"Joaquin why didn't you tell me?" Sam's stern voice cutting the boy to the bone.
"Look it's been 6 months, I thought it would be silly-"
The department was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Papers strewn across desks, half-empty coffee cups with lipstick stains left cold. The hum of the AC units up above and the click of your deep brown loafers against linoleum flooring ring through the department. "Did McCann give me the wrong directions because no one is out here." You whisper softly, in case someone was around the corner.
Taking the last left, you finally hear something. A chaotic cluster of voices, each vocal tone distinctly different than the other. As your feet carried you closer to the frosted glass door the symphony of voices grew and grew until it bounced off of every wall that surrounded you.
You pause, weighing the pros and cons of leaving the building, getting back into your rust bucket SUV, and driving back to the shitty apartment you were renting for the next 6 months.
"AND THE NEXT TIME YOU EAT MY SMOOTH PEANUT BUTTER AND REPLACE IT WITH CHUNKY GRAPE JELLY SWIRL, I'M RIPPING YOUR TONGUE OUT AND LEAVING IT IN THE JAR." a woman's voice rings out above the others.
"OH COME ON LENA. It was on sale at the metomart! It was good too, got myself a jar and slapped it on some wonder bread. Good late night snack."
"SAM WILSON I SWEAR TO GOD-"
And that was your cue. With a solid KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, you wait patiently for the door to open. Rustling resonates throughout the room until a confident "Come on in!" calls from inside.
As you close the door and turn around you are greeted with 9 stoic-faced individuals. The mood in the room is completely different from what you expected. Each set of eyes staring into you causes you to break out into a slight sweat.
"Hello little Canary, you are right on time. Take a seat." You look down at your white and yellow striped button-up. 'Maybe this wasn't the best shirt to wear on my first day'
You lower yourself into an empty hard oak seat, opposite to whom you could only assume was Sheriff Stark.
"As you know the St Tammany Parish sheriff's department just had one of our deputies transfer up north to your sector in Boston. After looking over your files, testing, background ya-dah ya-dah we thought you would be a good fit for the department." Tony says with a nod
Rhodes shoots Tony a sharp look before continuing, "You have immaculate scores on all of your evaluations. Your work with prisoners is truly awe-inspiring. From what we've seen, you are an outstanding deputy who truly cares about the people you serve. We need more folks out there," Rhodes points to one of the tall glass windows behind Stark, "like you. Doing the work to keep our so-called sleepy Tammany Parish safe."
"Beautiful monologue Rhodey." Stark taps his friend on the shoulder. Rhodes lets out a defeated sigh in return.
"Look kid, we're gonna do a rotating pair system for the next couple of weeks. See who you best mesh with and move on from there."
"So, you're putting me directly in the field?" Your brow scrunches together, "You don't want to do your own evaluation of my skill set, or even the standard placement evaluation?"
"We have your most recent evaluations," Tony replies swiftly
"I took that series of testing last fall." you look at Stark's face, searching for any sign of this all being a big joke the team had preplanned for your arrival.
"Yeah Canary Kiddo, that sounds recent to me," he claps his hands together, causing everyone but the red-headed woman on Tony's left and the stoic man to his right.
"Normal set up today. Rodgers, I want you working the radio and phone system in house. Starr and Belova, you are on files clean-up. Barnes, I want you with Y/N for today, be gentle will you?", Tony turns to see the brunette's brow already set, "Lets head out and make the day great yeah?"
That's how you ended up in Barnes' cruiser. Its tan leather seats are clean and soft. The faint smell of menthol cigarettes lay under the scent of black ice air freshener. A little hula girl sits on your side of the dash. You watch her dance as you two drive in silence to your destination. The windows were rolled all the way down, warm spring air slamming into you from every side.
"Is the air alright?" Bucky's eyes slip from the road towards you,and back ahead again.
"HUH?" you yell, the wind catching your voice and tossing it around the car like a pinball. The car slows as you approach a four-way stop in the middle of nowhere.
"I asked if the wind was ok?" Bucky turns to you again, his bright eyes catching yours.
"It was a little much, but I can deal."
"I can roll up the windows sweetheart, it's alright," he murmured, quickly rolling all four windows up halfway.
'Fuck formalities I guess'
"I like your hula girl, where did you get her?" You were trying to make conversation. A full day with a mime was not in your playbook for today.
"Sam got her for me as a running joke. I keep forgetting to take her out of the car."
"What's the joke?" you watch him stiffen.
"It ain't important"
You sit and watch him for a while, eyes following the folds of his forehead downward towards his chin.
"Where are we headed anyway?" you ask, body curling towards him.
"We got a call during the meeting for St. John's Rd. The details were a little fuzzy, but if I guess, it's a civil dispute between two neighbors. I answer this call at least once a week."
Your eyes drift back to him once again. His left forearm hung out of the window while his right hand held the steering wheel firmly. Mid-length brown hair was tucked behind his ear, and a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses sat steady on his nose bridge. You could tell he was calm but not at ease. His tense shoulders and set jaw were the biggest indicators.
"How bad of a dispute are we talking?"
"Last week Mrs. Banks tried to beat Mr. Schulz with a wooden baseball bat after he threw his lawn mower clippings into her yard."
"Tried to beat him while you were there?"
"She waited for me to get there and then pulled out the bat"
The two of you pull into a quiet residential neighborhood. The homes were older, peeling paint and creaky shudders. Kids rode past the cruiser on their bikes, fits of giggles filling the mid-day air. Halfway down the block, the cruiser takes a left and ended up on St. Joseph.
From the windshield, you can see two small figures standing on opposite lawns, pointing at each other. The closer you got, the worse the circumstances became. As Barnes parked the car you could hear the argument seeping in from the driver side window.
As Bucky starts to get out of the car you grab his shoulder, "You aren't going to radio in? This looks pretty bad Barnes."
You both glance out of the window again. The young woman, Mrs. Banks was shouting at Mr.Schulz a man roughly in his 70s or 80s. Banks' wild hands flailing as she pointed to the big brown patch in the middle of her yard. Mr. Schulz stood unamused, obviously waiting to get a word in.
"This is all par for the course Canary bird. Sit tight I'll be back in less than 5 minutes." He climbs out of the vehicle with a grunt, broad back filling the frame of the car window.
15 Minutes, 15 minutes is all it takes for the situation to go from bad to worse. Bucky really did try his best to de-escalate the situation. He separated both parties and spoke to them both in an attempt to get to the bottom of things. As Barnes spoke to Mrs. Banks, Mr. Schulz slipped into his home and quickly emerged with an illegally altered firearm. With the barrel of the gun coming into your view before Schulz, you quickly exited the car.
"Beautiful start to my first day huh?" You whisper to yourself. Rounding the hood of the car. Wide smile cresting your face.
"Good afternoon Mr. Schulz, how are you doing on this lovely sunny day?" you call from across the street. Schulz looks slightly surprised to see another deputy on route. You approach the Schulz residence with feigned confidence. With a little pep in your step you hop the curb and walk up the lawn, million-dollar smile on display.
Both Bucky and Banks turn at the sound of your voice. Bucky's eyeline shifts from you walking across the pavement to Schulz now holding a WW2 era shotgun.
"When the fuck did he get that?" Banks whispers to Barnes.
"I have absolutely no clue."
"And who the hell are you?" Schulz grunts. setting the gun against the wood slats of his home.
"My name is Deputy Y/N, I'm Sergeant Barnes' partner for the day. Nice to meet you," you extend your right hand to him. He looks down at your hand, then back up at your face with disdain. Schulz was a little less than gruff up close. Off white t-shirt littered with stains of the past, ill-fitting pants hung under his round belly. His thin white hair fell wild around his face, and his salt and pepper stubble hugged his cheeks.
'Lack of care, probably from a wife or mother's passing, the house is borderline dilapidated. His body language shows signs of stress.' You took note, still smiling and the unruly man in front of you.
"Not a fan of handshakes?"
"Not a fan of pigs." Schulz states quickly.
"That is understandable. I was never a big fan of the cops either, I'm still not, but the position allows me to help people so I took it." With relaxed shoulders you continue. "Mr. Schulz, what is really the issue here? As you said the presence of the cops is an irritant to you but they're called out to your home once a week. I promise you, James does not want to see you just as much as you don't want to see him." You shift your weight, arms crossing against your chest.
"The fuckin neighbor is the issue! I am constantly dealing with her trash, her dog shits in my yard, two months ago she ran into my mailbox and refused to pay to fix it. I mean the girl is an absolute natural disaster and I'm caught in the storm."
"Have you attempted to take to small claims for the damages?"
"Sweetheart you are clearly not from here. We don't have no damn small claims court. I would have to travel three towns over, and at my age that simply isn't feasible. I ain't got nobody but myself and ole Willy in the house."
"Who's willy?" you ask tilting your head in curiosity.
"My old bastard basset hound. Good for nothing but yellin and eatin."
"So to clarify, she has refused to pay you under the table as well?"
"She says that none of the fucked up shit she is doing to me is even her. WON'T EVEN ADMIT IT."
"You have evidence that it is, for a fact that it has been Banks this whole time?"
"YES. Why he hell do you think I keep callin the damn pigs?" Schulz sighs deeply
"Ok, how about this Schulz, if you want to file, I will personally see to it that you make it to all of your dates myself. How does that sound.?"
"Are you going to put me in the back of that thing?" he points to Bucky's cruiser.
"No," you let out a chuckle, "I will come pick you up in my beat down SUV. How does that sound?"
"Alight well, I guess I'll do it. How do we start?" Schulz gazes at you a small smile replacing his grimaced expression.
"On a day that you and Banks are both free, give us a call and ask for me personally. We will bring you down to the station to file out the initial report for all of the damages. Someone can come out, give you a quantitative estimate for how much you're owed if you don't have insurance and we will take it from there."
"You have been more help in 10 minutes than any of those boneheads have been in the last month Deputy."
"I'm just doing my job Mr. Schulz. If you ever call and have issues getting help, add the 789 extension when calling the station. It will send you straight to my desk phone," with a clap on his shoulder, you continue
" And Schulz? Disassemble that damn gun please. I don't want to see you pass my desk one sunny afternoon because you own illegal firearms and someone more concerned about your gun safety habits found out yeah?" With a nod, you walk over to the cruiser. Bucky leans against the door, gently watching you stroll towards him.
"They will have to come in for some paper filing but the issue has been solved on Schulz's end for now."
"Get in the Car." says blurted
"What did I do?" You tilt your head in bewilderment.
"Deputy get in the car." he says with a little more force.
"Barnes is everything alright? I mean the issue is handled and off your case load. If I were you, I would be jumping for joy," You chirped, opening the passenger side door and slipping in. With the loud CLICK of the car door closing, Barnes turned to face you.
"What the hell was that?" He asks, eyebrows reaching his hairline.
"That was me using all of that good de-escalation training Sheriff Stark and Captain Rhodes kept talking about. You know in that meeting we had today."
"You approached a man with a loaded, altered shotgun with no cover, and you call that de-escalation?"
"Gun wasn't loaded Barnes. The chamber was exposed due to bear scope he put on the gun, I could see the empty chamber from across the street," you smile over at him, the rush of victory filling your body, " Regardless, you didn't even see him slip into the house. You were too busy ogling Mrs. Banks to fix the issue."
"I was not ogling. The girl was in legitimate distress"
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes, she was."
"About what? The fact that she has to pick up after her pet? Or was it her hitting her neighbor's mailbox and not fixing it-"
The radio crackles to life, causing both of your heads to snap forward.
"Any Deputies in the St. John or Harrington drive area? Over." Rodgers' voice rings out of the radio's speakers. Bucky reaches for the receiver clipped to the radio.
"Deputies Barnes and Y/N reporting. Over" he calls, holding the small radio right under his chin.
"Barnes, we just got a call from 2467 Maple. The family's youngest went missing about a month ago and we are due for a house call. Be careful, the house is uh, a little unsettling. Over."
"Heard that Stevie we're headed over now thank you. Over and out." Bucky clips the radio back into place, looking over to you hastily, "We'll put a pin in that conversation from earlier."
"As far as I'm concerned, the conversation is over with."
"Yeah sure, keep chirpin away and see where it lands you." He huffs, turning the car on.
Your face screws up as if you could taste his venom on your tongue, "What the hell does that mean?"
"People around here don't take too kindly to city-slickin' smart asses like you. That's what I mean." And with that you two pull of.
2467 Maple Ct sat at the end of an empty cul-de-sac. A big magnolia tree sat smack dab in the middle of the yard, its sweet, creamy scent wrapping its way around you as the two of you pull into the driveway. Bucky parks behind the dusty old pickup truck that sat in the driveway on cinder blocks.
You two climb the creaky porch stairs, taking note of the crochet blankets hanging from the banister.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Bucky's fist collides with the solid wooden door, shaking the cross that hung from it.
An aggressive silence stretches between the two of you as the door finally opens.
An older woman greets the two of you with a gentle smile, crow's feet pulling at her eyes. "Thank you so much for coming Sergeant Barnes. It means the world to us." she beckons him inside not sparing you a second glance.
You follow the two inside the home, a carpet-covered staircase greets you first. Baby blue wallpaper covers each room from corner to corner. Bright baseboards and window panes with filet crochet curtains complete the look. Crooked family photos littered the walls of the home alongside biblical imagery. Jesus, Mary, the Wise Men, and Moses all hung in separate ornamental frames that were slightly larger than the frames that housed the family portraits. As the woman pulled Bucky into the kitchen, insisting on making him a cup of tea, you slip up the staircase toward the crucifix nailed to the wall.
Each bedroom you entered was quaint. Thick wooden dressers sat along one wall while tidy beds sat against the other. The worn wood panels of the floor groaned under each step you took. Making your way to the end of the hall, you find what you were looking for.
Kayleh Marshall was 14 years old at the time of her disappearance. The night of March 10th 1995 at about 1:45 am, Kayleh slipped from her home into the night and has not been seen since. When investigators came to collect evidence from the house, they found none of her "valuables" missing. Even her prized possession, Mr. Hops her favorite plush bunny, lay tucked under the soft white covers of her bedspread. That night, under the watchful eye of
ST. Michael who sat perched upon her dresser, she slipped from her bed and out of the door. No sweater or socks, just her small body in a paper thin nightgown floating through the night like a petal off the magnolia tree.
Looking around her bedroom, you could see her everywhere. From The Beatles plastered along her wall, to the fairy music box that sat on her bedside table, nothing had been moved since her departure. Her sheets were thrown back, Mr. Hops' peaking up at you from under the covers. You run your hand along the side of the bed. Your fingertips catch something under the box spring. With a tug, a pink leather bound journal begins to reveal itself.
You sit on the floor and crack open the Journal. "I'm sorry for the invasion of privacy Kayleh," you whisper, "but if it leads me on step closer to you, it will all be worth it."
As you read everything is pretty mundane. Friends, favorite snacks, a boy she was developing a crush on, bible study, stories about butterflies and ladybugs. All things that made sense for an 14 year old girl to write about. Each page filled in the gaps of who Kayleh Marshall really was without the prying eyes of her parents settled on her. From her silly quips to her worries about what they were having for dinner, each page caused your heart to grow heavier and heavier. Where had this girl gone?
A week before March 10th, the tone of her entries shifted. Gone were the holographic butterfly stickers and glittery gel pen, now replaced with rushed pencil markings. Each day she woke up from a nightmare, she would jot them down. All of the nightmares consisted of the same themes. She wakes up in the dream dressed her pajamas, discombobulated. She'd been left by herself somewhere, the forest, a clearing, main street, her own school playground. The scene is completely void of life. Her feet bare, causing the chill around her to worsen. She walks and walks for what feels like hours, looking for any sign of life other than her own. Eventually she hears soft labored breathing coming from around a corner, under a set of stairs, behind a door, somewhere she can't see. Then she wakes up.
Your eyes scan the pages with confusion. Nightmares, along side dietary issues, typically come from some type of real world stressor . The issue settles itself so deep within your subconscious it has no choice but to follow you under. She seemed like a well rounded kid. Her parents fed her good meals, she had good grades, good friends, a good relationship with god. Kayleh had everything a little girl her age building a life in the bible belt could ask for.
Your fingers slip underneath the page, flipping it. The date March 9th, 1995 stares back at you. To your horror this entry was much different than the rest.
The entry titled March 9th, 1995 is as follows.
I had the dream again. The one where I wake up without anyone around. This time I was walking through the cul-de- sac. It must have been the middle of the night because no one was outside and it was still dark out. Anytime i would take a turn down a road I felt off. I walked and walked and found no one. Eventually I decided to try and make my way home. Every time I passed a house it feel lie someone was watching me from the windows or from the sides of the houses. Eventually I made it a street over from home. As I walked down the road a little orange cat appeared! I couched down to pet him, he was so sweet. When I started walking again he followed, I decide I would name him Joey.
Joey and I made our way down the road slowly taking in all of the night time sounds. Having him there was super helpful, he brought me a sense of peace. When I turned the corner, that's when the man. At least that's the best way I could describe him. He was man shaped, he had a head and body, I could see the outline of his hands and his legs too, but he was just dark. Like a shadow. I couldn't see any of his facial features its like he was just made of shadows.
I turned around to run but I couldn't It was like i was frozen there, my back to that thing. The closer he got, the louder he got. He didn't speak but he was loud like static. I turned back around and told myself that he wasn't real and he couldn't hurt me. I kept trying to pray but the words wouldn't come out. With each step he took it looked like he was coming out of his frame??? Like the black static was trying to break free of his human body. Eventually he was right in front of me. I could feel his breathing on my face but there was nothing I could do. So we stood there, his static loud in my ears and his hot breath on my face until he reached for me and That's when I woke up. I was so sweaty and it all felt so real. I think I am going to talk to mom about everything tomorrow, hopefully she can ask the priest to come over on Sunday and bless the house. That usually makes me feel a whole lot better.
I am back back back again! I have missed writing so much, I just don't have nearly the amount of time that I used to. But I'm in my last semester of school! So hopefully I'll be back on a consistent fanfic grind once I'm done :) PS: If you know what the title is referencing, you get a big hug from me.
Word Count: 13,439
Warnings: blood, talk of violence, reader injury
Bucky checked his texts every few minutes. Initially, he lied to himself about the reason behind it. He told himself he mustâve opened his conversation with you accidentally, or that he mistook an email notification for a text from you. Simple, innocent mistakes.Â
Either way, he always ended up staring at your side of the conversation, hoping for a gray ellipsis to appear.Â
But after a while, he could no longer deny the truth- and why would he want to? You were coming home.Â
You hadnât been gone long, and your mission was projected to be a cake walk. But he couldnât help it; he missed you. He missed you when you went on missions, when you visited your parents out of state, when you slept in your room down the hall. Missing you was part of him now, woven into the fabric of his being. It matched the material of his soul perfectly, like he was always meant to feel this way.
He fired off a quick âlet me know when you landâ message and waited, hoping youâd write back soon.Â
Usually, you texted him when you were headed back to the compound. It gave him a countdown to your return and something to look forward to. It also signaled to him that you were, in fact, coming home alive. Even if a bit banged up, you were well enough to shoot him a message. And that always eased his worries.
Today, however, was different. No text, no call.
It struck him as bizarre and sounded Buckyâs internal alarms. But he silenced them as best he could. He wasnât going to let himself get worked up, not when you had a perfectly good reason for not messaging him. Â
This was your first time leading a mission with a new recruit under your wing. Bucky knew you devoted your full attention to your trainee, giving him absolutely everything you had. You took this position- as well as your pupilâs safety and success- very seriously. He knew you were probably busy helping your recruit learn a swath of new things, and who was he to interrupt?
Bucky opened the log and saw your jet had been marked as âincomingâ only minutes ago. A sigh of relief left his chest and eased his muscles. Sure, he wouldâve rather heard that information from you, but it didnât matter. Your jet would be here soon; he had no reason to worry.Â
The moment he saw that your jet was homeward bound, he lost the ability to think about anything else. He counted the minutes, the seconds. You had to be close, right? The log wouldnât have said âIncomingâ if you were still hours away.Â
To pass the time, he folded laundry, answered emails, reread a few chapters of The Hobbit- but he couldnât focus. He thought of you, only you. And no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, he couldnât hang around his room any longer. He couldnât stand it. He needed to be there when the jet landed. He needed to meet you on the steps of the aircraft and wrap you in a bear hug.Â
And there was no real harm in waiting near the hangar, was there? âIf anything,â he told himself, âItâs actually more convenient for her if I meet her there. That way, I can carry her bag- sheâs probably tired.âÂ
Anything to rationalize his desperate need to be near you.
He knew in his heart of hearts that you didnât need him to carry your bag or help you off the jet. But this lie was all the convincing he needed. Without hesitation, he ditched his room and set off down the hall, your impending homecoming pulling him forward.Â
It was in that moment he noticed just how far the elevator was from his room. The walk seemed to stretch on and on, the hallway growing longer with each step. And how had he never noticed how slowly the elevator moved? It slid downward at a glacial pace, toying with his patience. For such an expensive, state of the art building, the elevator moved like an ancient piece of turn of the century machinery. Bucky cursed Tonyâs engineering.Â
Everything seemed to add time, multiplying his moments without you. The universe liked toying with him, teasing him. And this was just another cruel joke.Â
The moment the doors opened, Bucky sprang free out into the hallway. He knocked into Clint and his group of trainees and called an apology over his shoulder without stopping. He couldnât stop, couldnât waste time- not when you could arrive at any moment.Â
His field of view narrowed into tunnel vision, only allowing for visualization of the path toward the hangar. He didnât greet his fellow team members or allow for distraction. You were his one-track mind. That is, until something stopped him.Â
âShit, sorry, man,â your trainee, Jake, laughed as he bumped into Bucky. He took a step to the side and attempted to continue down the hall, but Bucky blocked his path.Â
âJake?â Bucky eyed a bloody gash on Jakeâs eyebrow, âwhen did you guys get back?â
Jake gave a casual shrug and checked his phone, âI donât know, five minutes ago?â
âOh, okayâŠâ Bucky reached for his phone, but found his screen void of notifications. If you landed five minutes ago with your trainee safe and sound, why didnât you send him a message? It was out of character for you.Â
âWell, whereâs your partner in crime? Or crime fighting, I guess,â Bucky tried to joke, but his tone was strained. He eyed each person who came around the corner, hoping to find your face. âDid you see which way she went?â
âNah, sheâs not here,â Jake was scrolling through Instagram, only half paying attention.
Buckyâs disappointed sigh left his chest deflated, empty. âOh, did she say where she was going? Or when sheâd be back?â
Jake pulled his focus from his phone and stared at Bucky with confusion on his face. His brows pulled together, his mouth hung slightly ajar. But finally, he made sense of Buckyâs words. âOHHH, okay, my bad- I think there was a miscommunication just now.â
Bucky sighed again- this time, with relief.Â
âYeah, no, sheâs not here,â Jake continued, âbecause she didnât make it back.â
Buckyâs ears started ringing.Â
The sharp, piercing sound blocked out voices. Footsteps on the tile. Maybe Jake was trying to speak to him, but Bucky heard only the shrill sound of shock. Seconds later, his nerves fell numb. The utter absence of sensation disconnected him from his body. He was lost in a liminal atmosphere with no stability, no purchase. His entire being was shutting down, one sense at a time.
Bucky told himself to focus, to compute what heâd heard. He did his best to make sense of Jakeâs words, but to no avail. His mind simply couldnât understand the phrase âshe didnât make it backâ. The words had shed their meaning entirely and sounded foreign to Bucky as they rattled around his skull. Goosebumps rose over the surface of his skin, and a cold sweat created a sheen across his face. He feared he might get sick.Â
âI- Iâm sorry,â he forced himself back into his body, back to the present. âI donât think I understand.âÂ
âThings got pretty hairy- this was not the easy mission they said it would be,â Jake scoffed and rolled his eyes. âItâs not fair, I definitely got a way harder assignment for my first mission than all the other new agents, and I think itâs-âÂ
Buckyâs glare couldâve sliced Jake in half, âget to the point.â Â
âRight, um,â Jake continued, âI told her over comms that I was leaving. I gave her plenty of time to meet me at the jet, but she didnât answer. And she never came outside.â He shrugged, âI had to leave for my own safety.â
âSo, you just-â Bucky felt himself losing his grip. âYou left her there? Alone?â He didnât realize he was shouting, didnât realize heâd drawn attention to himself- until Agent Hill showed up.
She placed a light hand on Buckyâs tense shoulder, but instantly withdrew. He was shaking, practically vibrating under her palm. âIs there a problem here, guys? I donât want-â
âHe left her behind,â was all Bucky could manage.
Maria stared at Jake in disbelief, âyou did what?â
A strange mixture of rage and heartbreak seethed behind Buckyâs eyes, âYou donât just abandon your partner-â
Jakeâs attitude disgusted Bucky. He was detached, irritated. He rolled his eyes like an insolent child. âRelax, man. Jesus Christ, this isnât the army. I didnât promise to âleave no man behindâ or whatever-â
Bucky had heard enough. He lifted jake by the collar of his shirt, twisting the material in his metal fist. Jakeâs head sent a sickening thud resounding through the space as Bucky forced him against the nearest wall.
âWhat the fuck?â Jake squirmed in Buckyâs grasp, âThere are casualties in the field all the time, why am I being punished for-â
Bucky released Jake at once, sending him crashing to the floor.Â
His voice was quiet, hollow. âCasualties?â He swallowed hard, âIs she-â
Jake shrugged at he rubbed at the bruise forming on his neck. âI donât know, I assume so. I didnât stick around to find out.âÂ
And just like that, Bucky was gone.Â
He took off down the hall, forcing himself forward as a soul-crushing panic swallowed him whole. No matter how many times he blinked, no matter how fervently he shook his head, he couldnât rid his mind of the picture Jake painted for him. Each time he shut his eyes he saw you- alone. Your bloodied, broken body laying collapsed against a wall of a Hydra base. Your skin slick with blood. Your skin cold. Void of life.Â
He moved quickly, but not quick enough. He simply couldnât outrun the familiar feeling closing in on him. His heavy, well-worn cloak of grief wound its way across his shoulders and twisted itself around his neck. He knew the suffocating sensation all too well. It weighed him down but couldnât dampen his pace, nothing could; not when your life hung in the balance.Â
He was too well acquainted with loss by now, too familiar with mourning. Thereâd been a time when he wondered if heâd ever grieve again. Heâd lost his family, his friends, himself- what else was there? What more could he possibly lose? But the moment he met you, he knew heâd one day mourn again. He just didnât realize that time would come so soon.Â
A startling cold prickled at his skin, his lungs refused to inflate. How much time did you have left? How long would it take him to get to you? Were you even-
Hillâs voice yanked him out of his spiral, âBarnes, hey-â She made a grab at his shoulder, but her feeble attempt was no match for Buckyâs pace. âWhere are you going?â
âTo get her back.â Buckyâs tone was firm, resolute. He was going to bring you home or die trying.
âI donât think thatâs a good idea,â Hill nearly tripped over her own feet as she tried to keep up with Buckyâs long strides. âYou heard what Jake said, itâs a dangerous location- more dangerous than we thought. I think it might be best to wait it out for a few days, let things calm down and then-â
Bucky turned suddenly, stopping Maria in her tracks. âIâm not just going to leave her there.â
Maria shrunk away from the fierceness in his eyes, âI know youâre upset, but she might not be-â
âI donât care.â His gruff tone dissolved, making way for the fear heâd so desperately tried to hide. âWhether sheâs alive or-â he couldnât bring himself to voice the alternative.Â
Bucky knew what it was like to be assumed dead. He knew what it was like to be left in the field.Â
âShe deserves to come home,â he said.
Maria couldnât argue with him.Â
âRound up as many members of the med team as you can and have them meet me in the hangar. Weâre leaving in ten minutes- sooner if we can.â Bucky turned and resumed his previous path, âIâll be in the armory.â
Bucky grabbed as much weaponry as his duffel would carry without splitting at the seams and made his way to the hangar. He hoped to find ten, maybe fifteen members of the medical team waiting for him on the jet. He wasnât sure of your condition, didnât know how many breaths you had left. He wanted to give you the best possible chance at surviving the onslaught you endured.Â
But when he turned the corner into the hangar, he found only three scrub-clad bodies.Â
âIs this it?â Bucky boarded the jet and dropped his bag to the floor. He eyed the scant amount of medical support, their uncertain expressions. His hopes of bringing you home alive dwindled.
A nurse whoâd stitched Bucky up more times than he could count gave him a nervous smile. âThe med bay is swamped, the team could barely afford to let us come with you.âÂ
Bucky didnât want to hear it. He didnât want excuses or rationalizations. All he wanted was to bring you home with your heart still beating. And three medical professionals, he decided, was better than none.Â
The flight to your location only gave Bucky more time to worry. He obsessively checked his weaponry, hovered over the med teamâs supplies. But no amount of double and triple checking could save him from the spiral. He traveled down the path of every possible âwhat if?â, leading him only to heartache. No matter where he searched, he couldnât find a positive outcome. And though he didnât want to acknowledge the odds, he knew yours were slim- impossible, even.Â
And as the jet grew closer to your location, Bucky steeled himself for what he knew heâd find: you, his best friend, his reason for living, his everything- dead. Cold. Lifeless. None of the horrors he faced in the past could compare; no pain could ever be greater. Bucky knew heâd hurt for the rest of his life.
The clouds parted as the jet began its descent. Slowly, a large stone building appeared out of the fog like a monster in the horror movies you loved so much. It stood in an otherwise empty clearing, its shadow looming over the dying grass. Smoke billowed from holes in the roof, the walls. Whatever happened here was catastrophic. Disastrous.Â
Buckyâs heart sat lodged in his throat as he imagined you trapped in there. Goosebumps rose over the surface of his skin as he stared at the looming structure. He had to get you out, even if he died trying.
Just before the jet touched down, an idea popped into Buckyâs head. It scaled the high walls heâd tried to erect to protect himself from thoughts of your demise and grabbed him by the throat. It was smart- brilliant, actually. He was shocked he could even think straight given the circumstances.
âFRIDAY,â Bucky called out, âis comm 1209 working?â He shoved his own comm in his ear and waited for a response.Â
âComm 1209 is on and in range,â Friday said. âWould you like me to connect you?â
He couldnât say yes fast enough.
A few staticky clicks and pops vibrated against Buckyâs eardrum as his comm connected to yours. But he was too scared to speak. What if you didnât answer? What if he heard you take your dying breaths? Just the thought was enough to make him sick.
He owed it to you, though, to at least try. Heâd always said heâd do anything for you, that heâd risk it all for you- and he meant it every time. If reaching out to you over comms exposed him to something horrible, something traumatic and unforgettable, at least he tried. At least he attempted to keep his promise. And after everything heâd been through, what was one more life-shattering, soul-crushing nightmare?
âH- umâŠâ Bucky swallowed the large lump obstructing his throat. âHello?â He waited a moment, holding his breath the entire time, and tried again. âHello?â
He waited.Â
No response.
âDoll? Itâs me. Itâs BuckyâŠâÂ
The dead silence on the other end of the line dragged on. It seemed like his words disappeared into the air, unacknowledged. Unheard. Maybe the sound of his voice was reverberating inside your ear as you lay dying. Or maybe he was talking to your corpse.
 The thought made him nauseous.
âPlease, sweetheart. If youâre there- if youâre able- just say one word. Say anything,â he pled. A long bout of silence followed.
He clenched and released his metal fist again and again, desperate to rid himself of the panic settling into his bones. He was stupid to think you survived, stupid to let himself be optimistic. He made it here as quickly as he could, but he couldnât save you. He was too late.Â
He wanted to take one of his many weapons and turn it on himself.Â
But a small sound stopped him.
âBuckâŠâ
He almost fell to his knees. At the sound of your voice, an overwhelming warmth banished the cold that infiltrated his bones. Against all odds, you were alive.
A deep sigh of relief seeped from Buckyâs lungs, âSweetheartâŠâÂ
A hurricane of emotion rattled against the storm doors inside Buckyâs mind. He couldnât stop thinking about the âalmostsâ. How he almost lost you, how you almost died alone in a Hydra base. But he couldnât allow it to swallow him- not yet. There was no time for a breakdown. He needed to move, he needed to get to you.Â
He shrugged off the grief that rested heavy on his shoulders and swallowed the impending sob that vibrated inside his throat. âIâm here- Iâm gonna come get you. Just tell me where-â
A staunch refusal came from your end of the comm, âNo- noâŠâ You took a sharp, rattling breath, âno way.â
Bucky didnât like the way you had to fight to get your words out. You were clearly struggling, doing everything in your power to stay on this side of consciousness. He wondered how much time you had left.
But still, there was a familiar strength to your voice. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the renewed hope of rescue; something was keeping you alive.Â
âItâs okay, sweetheart, just tell me where you are. The jet just landed. Iâm gonna get you out and-â
âI said- I said no,â you breathed. âYou canât c-come in here, itâs too dangerous⊠we were a-ambushed.â
Even in your condition, even when Bucky was your only hope of rescue, his safety was your first thought. Youâd rather die alone than put Buckyâs life at risk; the thought made his cheeks pink and filled his chest with a fuzzy warmth. But he didnât have time to enjoy the feeling.
âIf you donât tell me where you are, Iâll just sweep the whole building,â Bucky said, using your worry against you. âThat means more opportunities for me to run into Hydra operatives. More time inside the base- itâll be way more dangerous.â He could practically see you rolling your eyes, âso itâs probably better if you just give me a direct route, donât you think?â
Bucky smiled to himself as he envisioned you on the other end. He was certain you were arguing with yourself, cursing his rationale.Â
He waited for you to come at him with a sharp retort or a sarcastic quip but heard nothing. The silence on your end of the line dragged on. And on. It lasted far too long for Buckyâs comfort. Surely, you couldnât still be thinking about his proposition? Heâd given you more than enough time to make up your mind, more than enough time to come up with a response. It was time you didnât have.Â
What if youâd fallen unconscious? What if, in those quiet moments, your soul vacated this earth?
Bucky couldnât take it anymore. He disembarked the jet, resolving to search every inch of the base. But just as he reached the dark, unsettling building, you spoke.
âF-fifteenth floor. Northeast⊠northeast quadrant,â you sighed, defeated. âThereâs a- a room at the end of this hall, I think itâs maybe an office?â Again, you took a long pause. The energy required to think, to speak, was energy you didnât have. âJust f-follow the trail of blood.â
Buckyâs breath caught in his throat. He shuddered at the thought of your blood leaving a path down the stark white, sterile hallways of the base. But he didnât have time to focus on anything other than getting you out; this was a rescue. He owed it to you to keep his head level. To focus on getting you out as quickly as he could.Â
âThe power is⊠itâs outâ, you said. âYouâre gonna h-have to take-âÂ
Bucky wanted to save you from wasting any extra energy, âThe stairs. Got it.âÂ
And while he normally didnât mind getting a few extra steps in, he knew the time required to climb fifteen flights of stairs would push the limits of your survival.Â
But he pushed the ever-encroaching sense of doom to the side and put on a brave face for you. For himself. âOkay, Iâm coming to get you,â he promised. âStay awake, and donât move.â
âAs if I h-have a choice,â you laughed a breathy, hollow laugh. A long groan followed.Â
Your pain radiated through Buckyâs chest. He didnât want to climb stairs or scour hallways- he just wanted to be there. To instantly materialize at your side. To bring you instantaneous comfort. He lamented the super soldier serumâs lack of teleportation abilities.Â
âYou know what I mean, doll. Just stay awake, okay?â Bucky drew his gun and stepped inside the building. âDonât fall asleep. Do anything you have to do- just stay awake. Can you keep talking until I get there?â
âW-what am IâŠâ You let out a raspy exhale, âsupposed to talk about?â
Bucky cleared a long hallway and found the stairwell, âAnything, just keep talking.â
Another extended silence filled the air; it nearly drove Bucky crazy. Your silences held limitless possibilities, horrifying âwhat ifsâ.
âIt w-wasnât supposed to be⊠to be like this,â you finally said. âIt wasnât supposed to be this dangerous. This was Jakeâs first mission- it wasnât f-fair to him.â Heartache coated your every word. Even after your partner abandoned you, even after Jake forced you to suffer and bleed all alone- you still sympathized with him. Still felt sorry for him.Â
Bucky felt no such thing.
âI know, doll. Keep talking, okay?â
You sighed. âWe s-split up for recon⊠thatâs when they- when they came at me.â Your next few breaths were so shallow, your lungs barely inflated; the lack of oxygen left you dizzy. A thin veil of glittering spots sparkled and danced on the edges of your periphery. âIt all h-happened so fast⊠there were so many of them. I just- I remember pain. And I hoped Jake was okay, w-wherever he was.â
Your heart was too good for this job. For people like Jake. Bucky admired your kindness, your empathy, your selfless nature. Even in the face of pain, of death- you thought about others. You often told Bucky how unfair life had been to him, lamenting his treatment at the hands of fate. Bucky found himself doing the same for you and your kind heart.
âI called out for h-him, I needed backup⊠I kept asking him to come help me-â A sharp cough rattled out of your throat.Â
Bucky cringed at the sound. It was the only sound in the building. He hadnât heard anyone else. Hadnât seen one Hydra operative- at least, not a live one. He came across their bodies every now and again but didnât see a single living soul. He was sure they deserted after the explosion. Just like Jake.Â
The destruction, however, was everywhere. Bullet casings littered the floor. Blood stained the tile floors. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. He had to get you out of here.
âBut he n-never answered. And then he told me he was leaving. He said he was- he was outside already. He gave me n-ninety seconds to meet him at the jetâŠâ Your words were tinged with devastation, with hopelessness, with betrayal. âI tried- I did my best to make it down the stairs. But I was- I was dizzy⊠I was b-bleeding.â The memory stung like your fresh wounds. âI kept slipping on- on my own blood. I just c-couldnât move fast enough. It hurt too much.â
Wrath burned inside Bucky like a raging forest fire. But his utter heartbreak doused it completely, extinguishing the rageful flames. He found himself unable to think, to breathe. It took everything in him to keep moving forward. Who could ever leave you behind like that? Who could ignore your suffering and sentence you to death without a second thought? The image of you stumbling, struggling to run for your life gutted him.
âAnd then- and then I heard the jet t-take off,â you sighed. âAnd I listened as it got farther and farther away⊠until it was g-gone. And I was- I was alone.â
He thought of you sitting alone in cold silence as the noise from the jet quieted. As your hope dwindled. The entire base mustâve felt like a tomb, like a massive, lonely grave meant just for you.Â
Bucky almost fell to his knees. Sobs throttled the inside of his chest, begging for release. Tears burned inside his lash line. Jake didnât just leave you behind, he marooned you without care. And in his departure, he sealed your fate.Â
âI d-didnât have a way to call for⊠for help. My phone was on the j-jet with jake.â
The sorrow that stained your words was all too familiar to Bucky. It was the same hopelessness that accompanied him every day that he was at Hydra. When he laid in the snow for hours upon hours after falling from the train. He never wished that kind of despondency, that kind of  misery on anyone. And knowing that you, the person who deserved it the least, experienced it for even a moment shattered him.
âI realized I⊠I didnât h-have any options,â you breathed.Â
A collapsed column blocked Buckyâs path as he tried to make his way from the sixth floor to the seventh. The concrete was too high, too precarious to scale. If he tried to climb it and got hurt, it would only serve to diminish your chances of survival. And he wasnât willing to risk that. With a huff, Bucky exited the northwest stairwell in search of another route. This was a waste of time- time you didnât have.Â
He painstakingly checked every hall until he finally found another stairwell. His breathing came a little easier as he rocketed his way up the stairs, growing ever closer to you.
âSo, I found this- this room. Itâs quiet. Itâs out of the w-way. I needed somewhere to hide. S-somewhere toâŠâ A small crack of emotion cut through your voice, âsomewhere to die.â
It wasnât fair. It wasnât fair that Jake got to return home safe and sound while you struggled to stay alive. It wasnât fair that you had to seek out your own deathbed. Bucky wanted to scream, to break things, to spill every last drop of Jakeâs blood. But he was a soldier, and this was a rescue mission.
âThis seemed like as g-good a place as any,â you choked on a weak laugh. âBeats dying in the middle of a h-hallway, I guess.â
Buckyâs automatic response was to swear that youâd make it out. To promise that you werenât going to die. But he bit his tongue. He couldnât make those kinds of assurances. Heâd do anything to bring you comfort but swearing that youâd return home alive seemed almost cruel.Â
He pushed himself to move faster. He couldnât let you die alone, especially not in this godforsaken place. As he sprinted up the last flight of stairs and ripped open the door to the fifteenth floor, he struggled to orient himself. You were in the northeast quadrant, but where was he? He searched for anything to indicate his location- but found no signage. No directory.Â
Everything inside of him rattled with dread, with anxiety. Any moment now, you were going to die. You were going to take your last breath. All alone. A thick, suffocating wave of panic crashed over Bucky as he realized- you were going to die disappointed. You were going to leave this world knowing that he hadnât gotten to you in time.
It was then that he noticed a faded arrow painted on the wall, with âNEQâ painted below it in block letters. Northeast quadrant. He was closer than he thought.
âIâm gonna be there in just a second, doll,â he said as he followed the arrows.  âI think Iâm right around the corner.âÂ
This was just his way of making you feel better, you were sure of it. The hallways were long and winding. Each floor was a maze of its own. Even with your vague instructions, it could take him a while to find you. Still, Buckyâs words brought you comfort in the way that only he could.
âI know, I t-trustâŠâ A metallic taste filled your mouth. A warm ooze trickled down your chin and dripped onto your chest. The warm, fuzzy feeling brought on by Buckyâs assurances faded. Of course, you knew you were in bad shape. But as blood leaked from your mouth, you wondered if these were your last moments.
Instantly, you searched for the words to say goodbye to Bucky. Time was slipping through your fingers, life draining from your body with each passing second. But before you drifted off into a never-ending sleep, you had to tell Bucky what he meant to you. Youâd use all your strength, your last few breaths- whatever it took. He just had to know.Â
But how does one say goodbye to a soulmate? You didnât have the energy or capacity to make a grandiose speech. And the blood filling your mouth impeded your ability to speak. You wanted to tell bucky everything- how he comforted you, cared for you, made your life worth living. How your life revolved around him as though he were your personal sun. But nothing quite encapsulated the things you felt for him. Every word in the English language, every sonnet fell short. And the lack of oxygen getting to your brain sabotaged your phrasing.
âBuck, I think itâs⊠I think itâs almost t-time,â you rasped.
But just as you opened your blood-stained mouth to proclaim every feeling you ever had for him, the door flew open. Alarm coursed through your veins at the threat. Surely, a Hydra agent had stumbled upon your hiding place and was here to finish you off. The severe blood loss was no match for your training, thought. And, on instinct, you pulled your gun on the tall, dark silhouette standing in the doorway.
âWoah, hey!â Bucky raised his hands in surrender. âItâs me, itâs just me.â
At the sound of his voice, your arm fell limp. Your gun clattered to the floor. Your head lolled back against the wall. It had taken everything in you to try and protect yourself one last time. And now that your energy reserves were nearly depleted, you allowed your eyes to close.
âS-sorryâŠâ A barely-there smile pulled at your lips. âMy⊠my bad, Buck.â
âNo, donât be sorry, doll.âÂ
Bucky knelt in front of you, taking in your broken, bloodied body. Heâd seen carnage before, witnessed more death than anyone should. But this, you- it was different. It hurt in places he didnât know he had. But he didnât let it show. Knowing you, youâd spend your last few moments comforting him, trying to make him feel better. And so, he forced a warm smile and tabled his breakdown for the moment.
âIâm actually impressed. I mean, you might be hurt, but you were ready to take me out just now,â he forced a chuckle. âThatâs my girl.â His cool metallic hand brushed against your blood-stained cheek.Â
And in that moment, something within you changed. Your eyes shot open. You blinked a few times before forcing your eyes shut once again. You gave your head a few good shakes. Surely, this wasnât real- it couldnât be.Â
You opened your eyes wide once again, taking him in. âBucky?â
With one shaking hand, you reached for him in the most pathetic attempt heâd ever seen. You were weak, dangerously so; it scared him to his core. But you were alive.Â
He leaned in, meeting you in the middle, and let you stroke at his stubble for a moment.
âYeah, Iâm here,â he kissed your palm. âIâm so happy to see you.â
âYouâreâŠâ you other hand reached for him, but made it only a centimeter or two before falling into your lap. Bucky opted to take it in his. âYouâre here?â
He nodded, âI could never leave you behind, sweetheart.â
He may have continued speaking after that, but you didnât quite hear him. The emotion youâd tried so hard to swallow came bursting forward, crushing your every attempt at remaining levelheaded. Your fingers smoothed over Buckyâs cheek again and again. His name fell from your lips in what resembled a prayer. Tears rolled down your cheeks and mixed with the blood crusting over your skin.Â
A soft, warm wave of peace rolled in, covering you like a well-loved quilt. The pain disappeared; the sorrow evaporated. All that remained was Bucky. This was the warm spring that followed a dark, bitter winter. The first rays of sun after a vicious storm. The first taste of home after a long time away. You let the familiar warmth of Buckyâs presence drown out the rest of the world until only you two remained.
âSweetheart, did you hear me?â With a gentle squeeze of your hand, Bucky called you back to the present. âI need to look at your wound, okay?â
A sharp rush of pain nearly blinded you as you lifted your shirt, exposing the bloody mess. But even as Bucky appraised the gunshot wound that turned your abdomen into horror scene, you couldnât find it in you to worry. Your hands lazily found his shoulder, his chest, his face; you just wanted to touch him. To know, without a doubt, that he was there. That he was real.
âHey, we⊠we need to t-talk,â you whispered as Bucky did his best to quickly bandage your wound for transport. âI n-need to talk- to talk to youâŠâ
Bucky nodded, âsure thing, doll. Absolutely. We can talk about whatever you want. But right nowâŠâ he returned your shirt to its rightful position and met your gaze. âRight now, I need to get you out to the jet, okay? We can talk later.â
He guided your arms around his neck, lifted you into his arms, and moved as fast as he could through the winding hallways. His quick gait set your nerves alight with pain. Every bump, every jostle had you gasping for breath. And though it was a necessary evil, the guilt still sat in Buckyâs stomach like a rock. His repeated âIâm sorrysâ were nearly constant, doubling with your every grimace and groan. But he couldnât slow down, couldnât let the time slip away; you didnât have much left.
Between pained sounds and twisted expressions of discomfort, you said the same thing on a loop. Again and again and again, you pled with him, using energy you didnât have.Â
âWe need to⊠to t-talk.â
âI h-have to tell you.â
âCan I talk to y-you about- about something?â
And though Bucky wouldâve loved nothing more than to have a long heart to heart with you as you two often did, you werenât strong enough. He couldnât let you waste your finite energy on a conversation with him. And so, he responded to each of your requests with an ask of his own, begging you to save your strength. He promised that the two of you could talk tomorrow, that there was plenty of time for a conversation later.Â
But âplenty of timeâ almost seemed like an empty promise. And âtomorrowâ felt like a lie. Would you have a âlaterâ? He didnât know. But he didnât want you wasting your oxygen, not when he feared it might be your last breath.
Boarding the jet with you alive in his arms almost felt like a win to Bucky. Almost. Sure, heâd gotten you out with your heart still beating, but your condition worsened by the second. And the grave looks the med team wore as Bucky gently rested you on the treatment table dug a deep pit in his stomach.Â
They sprang into action, placing IVs and delivering medications. Scissors glided through your shirt and exposed your broken body to the med team. Bucky knew theyâd seen their share of gnarly injuries over the years, but he swore that they recoiled at the sight of your wounds.Â
With a shake of his head, Bucky refocused. He had to get you out of there- to get you home. He headed for the controls and planned to set the jet in motion. But he made it only a step toward the cockpit before a hand caught his.
âS-stayâŠâ you whispered. âPlease.â
His heart shattered. âIâm not leaving you, doll, IÂ promise. I just have to get us in the air, okay?â With great care, he placed a kiss to your hand and set it at your side. âIâll be back in just a minute.â
Buckyâs body operated on muscle memory alone as he initiated take off. His mind was occupied, completely and totally, by the sound of your weak voice begging him not to leave. The sound played on a loop inside his brain, cutting him deeper each time. Youâd already been abandoned once today; he was certain you feared it would happen again.Â
With a deep breath and a quick reset, Bucky did what he had to do. He needed to be on his A-game for you, needed to be his very best. Only a few hours ago, youâd trusted someone with your life, and they failed you. Bucky wasnât about to do the same. He worked carefully to chart the fastest route back to the compound, opting to forego FRIDAYâs proposed path. It kept him from your side longer than he wouldâve liked, but less time in the air seemed like the best option. The sooner he could get you to the med bay, with its massive, brilliant medical staff and unlimited resources, the better.Â
Just as he finalized the flight plan and asked FRIDAY to notify the med bay of your impending arrival, an unsettling sound pulled his focus. It was an ominous beeping, alarming your care team of a sudden, life-threatening change.Â
Gloved hands moved at lightning speed; voices yelled medical jargon back and forth. And you laid there on the table. No heartbeat. No respirations. Deathly still.Â
Bucky stood on the periphery, too horrified to get any closer.Â
He thought it best, of course, to stay out the med teamâs way. But knew deep down it was an excuse. He was simply too terrified to lose you. If he got closer, if he saw you struggling to stay alive, all of this would suddenly become real. And he couldnât handle that.Â
âBarnes!â A nurse screamed at him, âdid you hear me?â
Bucky forced himself back to the present. âNo⊠I, um-â
âShe has no pulse- get over here, we need you to do compressions!â
Buckyâs desperate need to help you, to save you, overpowered his fear. And in an instant, he was at your side. He loomed over you, his hands locked together, preparing to help resuscitate you. But once again, his fear reared its ugly head. You were already so badly injured, so weak. And he was far too strong. What if he made your condition worse? What if he-
âCome on!â The nurse yelled at him, âstart compressions-Â now!â
He did as he was told. He pressed into your body with a measured pressure, careful not to crush your chest. But his cautious compressions didnât cut it. The nurses instructed him to push harder. To âactually compressâ your chest- and Bucky followed instructions.Â
But as he did so, a sickly snapping sound exploded from your body. Bucky recoiled instantly; his face contorted in horror.
âWhat are you doing? Keep going!â
âIÂ canât- I think I broke her ribs,â Bucky shouted at the doctor. âWhat do I do?â
âKeep going!â The nurse yelled, âIt happens- just keep going.â
Bucky broke out into a cold sweat. His stomach turned at the thought of hurting you, of causing you even more pain; youâd been through enough as it was. But he did as he was told. With each round of compressions, he swore he created new fractures. He felt every splinter, every crack as he put pressure on your chest.Â
He wanted to sever every last nerve-ending in his hand; anything to rid him of the sickening sensation creeping through his palm. But if doing this saved you, it was worth the nightmares.
He watched as the two nurses provided your supplemental breaths and tended to your endlessly bleeding wound. The doctor called âclearâ every so often, shocking you with a defibrillator in an attempt to restore your heartbeat.
Round after round of compressions, breathing, and shocks passed by without signs of improvement. You remained lifeless, unresponsive. A syringe of epinephrine delivered straight to your chest did nothing. And Bucky felt what little hope he had slipping through the cracks in your ribs. He couldnât believe he was about to lose you; couldnât believe heâd have to watch you die. Hot tears blurred his vision and streaked down his cheeks. His legs went numb. At any second, he knew his knees would give out, knew heâd crumble to the floor under the crushing weight of grief.
The doctor deemed the next shock your last, and Bucky almost doubled over.Â
âCome on, doll, just-â He swallowed a sob, âjust stay. Stay. Do it for me, Iâm begging you. Please?â
The doctor called one last âclearâ and delivered your final shock, only to be met with the rhythmic beeping of your heart monitor.
âSinus rhythm restored,â announced the nurse to Buckyâs left. She appraised the waves on your EKG and gave a nod. âSheâs stable.â
After what felt like an eternity, Bucky took a breath. He stretched his tense fingers and did his best to  relax the rock-hard knots forming in his shoulders. A new crop of hope bloomed cautiously inside his chest, but he couldnât allow it to blossom and flourish just yet. You werenât out of the woods; there was a very real possibility that your heart might stop again. And he wasnât sure how many times the doctor could revive you before throwing in the towel.
Less than a minute after Buckyâs cautious optimism sprouted anew, a soul crushing sight dashed it completely. A sharp gasp filled his lungs, a shudder rocked his frame. Shades of deep, dark blue bloomed under the skin of your chest. Black and purple splotches stained your sternum. Some spots were already starting to swell. He extended a hand in your direction but recoiled in an instant, fearing heâd hurt you yet again.Â
âHappens all the time,â one of the nurses said with a shrug. âBelieve me, broken ribs are the least of her worries.â
Somehow, her words didnât make him feel any better. He ached to hold your hand, to sweep a gentle caress across your cheek. But he didnât dare touch you after what he did. Every glimpse of your bruised, swollen chest sent bile rushing into his throat.Â
The three dedicated members of the med team worked tirelessly for the rest of the flight. They did everything in their power to keep your condition steady, to maintain the life they worked so hard to save. It brought Bucky comfort to see them staying so close, ready to jump into action if need be. Â
Bucky, like the med team, hovered. He couldnât bring himself to leave your side. You seemed too fragile, your condition too tenuous. He counted your every breath, took stock of every beat of your heart on the monitor. Stepping away for even a second felt wrong. He needed to be there if you crashed again, if the doctor needed extra hands. He needed to be there to help.
And if you woke up, he wanted to be the first face you saw.Â
But you didnât wake. A groan here, a muscle twitch there- that was all you could spare. And though Bucky wanted nothing more than to see you open your eyes, he thanked the universe for keeping you unconscious. He knew tsunamis of pain rippled in the wings, waiting to overtake you the second you woke.
Bucky held his breath as the jet landed. Every jarring bump, every vibration, forced his heart into his throat. He feared that even the slightest impact would send you into cardiac arrest. He flicked his eyes from the rising and falling of your chest to the rhythmic flashing of your heart monitor and back again. Nothing changed, no alarms sounded. And when the jet finally stilled, Bucky breathed a deep sigh of relief. He just needed to get you to the med bay for treatment, and this whole nightmare would be over.Â
He didnât like being optimistic. It felt like a set-up, like false hope. If he told himself youâd survive and you didnât, the fall would be that much harder, that much more devastating.Â
But being realistic wasnât any better. Telling himself that you were too far gone, that you werenât going to make it, felt wrong. To him, it seemed like he was cursing you. Like willing your death into existence. Like begging the universe to end your life.Â
And so, he opted for a neutral mantra. âSheâs home,â he told himself. âSheâs home. Sheâs home. Sheâs home.â
The distance to the medbay felt longer than usual. The hallways seemed to stretch on forever, the double doors to the triage center seemed to grow farther and farther away. Bucky followed your gurney closely, only allowing a few inches of space between the two of you. He couldnât be separated from you again. He wouldnât. He needed to be with you every second, watching over you.Â
A dark cloud of impending doom loomed over his psyche. It whispered to him, telling him that if he left your side, if he let you out of his sight, youâd die. Youâd be gone forever. And it would be his fault. He knew it was nonsense, that this was just his anxiety operating on overdrive. But he couldnât shake the fear. And risking it wasnât an option.
âNo visitors past this point,â a security guard placed an arm in front of Bucky as he tried to enter the triage unit.
Bucky tried to go around the man, watching as the medical staff carried you farther out of reach. âIâm not a visitor, Iâm an agent-âÂ
âNo agents past this point, then,â the guard rolled his eyes. âOnly patients and medical staff. You can have a seat over there.â
A small table sat against the wall, flanked by two chairs. It was a sad, makeshift excuse for a waiting room that operated as a device to keep people from hanging around. But bucky couldnât be discouraged. He took a seat in one of the chairs, determined to wait there as long as he had to. He knew heâd missed a number of important phone calls by now, and probably several meetings. But he didnât care; all that mattered was you.Â
Dread circled Bucky like a buzzard as he waited. It was taking too long- why was it taking so long? How much time did the medical staff need? You were stable when the jet landed, the nurse said so. Why were there no updates? All Bucky needed was a nod, a bit of information. But he remained in the dark, wondering if you died on the operating table.
Maria found Bucky slumped in a chair with a zombie-like air about him. He was expressionless, his gaze hollow. His palms traced the same track up and down his thighs in a never-ending cycle. One look and she knew: something was very wrong.
âHey,â she called softly, hoping not to startle him.
But Bucky didnât respond- he didnât even react. He just sat there, his unblinking stare burning a hole in the tile. An uneasiness enveloped Maria. Sheâd never seen Bucky so empty, so despondent. As she stared at him, she found herself fearing the worst. âMaybe he just received terrible newsâ she thought. âMaybe heâs grievingâ.
âHey,â she tried again, nudging her foot against his.Â
He came back to life with a start. A sharp inhale filled his chest, his eyes blinked wildly. But his palms never stopped moving in their endless cycle against his tactical pants. And he never actually looked at her.
âHiâŠâ he breathed.Â
Hill took the seat opposite him. She conjured the gentlest, warmest tone she could find, âis everything okay?â
Bucky balled his hands into tight fists and stretched them out again. Maria noticed blood- your blood- crusting under his fingernails and staining his skin. But before she could get a good look, he grabbed the arms of the chair. His palms rubbed fervently against the plastic handles for a moment until they moved to his face. He ran his hands along his jaw, his spiky stubble poking into his skin.
âBarnes, what happened? Are you-â
Finally, his head snapped in her direction, âI can still feel itâŠâ
âFeel what?â
Buckyâs head fell into his hands. He pressed his palms against his eyes and dragged them down his face. Maria watched him fall apart in slow motion. He seemed to be unraveling, one cell at a time. And when he finally spoke, shame made his words almost unintelligible.Â
âShe crashed on the jetâŠâ
âOh...â Maria did her best to keep a calm, even tone. Her concern for you vibrated in her chest, but she didnât dare let it free- not when Bucky was moments away from a meltdown. âIs she-â
âThe med team needed help. There werenât enough of them- they needed me to do chest compressions,â Bucky said, his voice low. âAnd I broke- I crushed her ribs.âÂ
A sharp shudder rocked his entire body. Just thinking of that moment, when his too-strong hands destroyed your chest, was enough to make him sick. To scar him for life. To haunt him. Of all the horrible things heâd done in over the years, this was the worst. He gave his hands a quick shake, hoping to rid his nerve endings of the sensation.
âI felt her bones snapping under my hands,â Buckyâs words dripped with shame. âAnd I can still⊠I still feel it.â
âOkay,â Maria said gently. âWell, if she-â
âShe was already in such bad shape,â Bucky swiped a tear from his cheek. âAnd IâŠÂ I hurt her. I made it so much worse.âÂ
His head fell into his hands once again and did not reemerge.Â
âHey, look at me,â Maria gave his arm a gentle touch.Â
Bucky only shook his head.Â
âCome on, Barnes, just look at me for a second.â
Again, he refused.Â
Maria abandoned her chair and sat instead on the small table. She never got this close to Bucky. Usually, she preferred to give him his space. He wasnât the touchy-feely type- unless you were around. But he was lost in a shame spiral, adrift with no hope of return. And he needed rescuing. She placed her hands on his and gently removed them from his face.Â
âYou saved her life,â Maria said. âTwice. You rescued her from the base, and when the med team needed help, you came through.â
âBut I-â
âDid it work?â Maria asked, her tine almost stern. âDid the chest compressions work?â
Bucky nodded.Â
Maria gave him a shrug, âThatâs all that matters. She can recover from a few broken ribs, but if you hadnât been there-âÂ
Bucky averted his gaze as his eyes filled with tears.Â
âHey,â Maria grabbed his face, bringing his focus back to her. âIf you hadnât been there, sheâd be dead.â
Mariaâs words fought hard against the demeaning voice that lived inside Buckyâs head. It screamed at him, telling him that he shouldnât believe her, that he was a monster, that he almost killed you. Usually, Bucky allowed his inner demons to run free. He listened to them without pause, believing anything and everything they told him, no matter how vile. But Maria was steadfast and unshakable in her sentiments; she truly believed what she was saying. And by some miracle, Bucky did, too.
âThanksâŠâ He granted her a hollow smile and a small nod.Â
Hill sat in silence with him for a few hours. She didnât try to make small talk or ask what was going on inside his head. She simply existed near him, sharing the space so that he didnât have to be alone. She ignored important texts and sent every call to voicemail. She knew it was exactly what youâd do for him, if you were able. And she did her best to fill your shoes.
Abruptly, Buckyâs head snapped in her direction. His pulse thrummed against his skin as a new wave of anxiety crashed over him. âShe kept sayingâŠâ he sighed. âShe kept saying we needed to talk. She wanted to talk to me about something.â
Maria cocked her head to the side, âAbout what?â
He shrugged. âI told her we could talk later because there would be plenty of time,â Buckyâs words grew shaky. He found himself near tears for what felt like the millionth time that day. Guilt sucker punched him. âWhat if⊠what if there isnât more time for us? What if that was all we were ever going to get? What if-â
âYouâll get more time,â Maria said with certainty. âThe universe has a way of evening things out. You were robbed of time once; it wonât happen again. Plus, youâre deserved some fucking karmic retribution- youâre owed this.â
Bucky wondered how she could be that sure of something so ethereal. But she was steady, solid as a rock. She didnât waver in her words or add caveats at the end. She, somehow, knew it to be true. And Bucky couldnât help but believe her.
But when Fury called her for the eighth time, she knew quiet time was over.
âI have to go, okay? Fury canât do anything without me, heâs hopeless.â She stood from her seat and rested a hand on Buckyâs shoulder. âCall if you need anything.â
Bucky thanked her a million times over and, for the first time, gave Maria a hug. She would never know how much her reassurances helped him. Sheâd pulled him from the ledge and gave him what he desperately needed: perspective.
In the hours that followed, he let her words play on a constant loop inside his mind. âIf you hadnât been there, sheâd be dead,â he heard her say. âYouâll get more time.â The sickening feeling of your bones snapping under his strength never faded, and the fear of losing you still had him in a chokehold, but Mariaâs words quieted his mind.Â
In the sad, empty waiting room, time seemed to mutate. Some of the hours dragged, others whizzed by. Bucky wasnât sure how long heâd been there. Was it ten hours? Or twenty? He didnât really care. Heâd wait lifetimes for you.Â
He saw the security guards change shifts once, twice. It was the only thing alerting him to the passage of time, as part of him believed it was standing still. On the third shift change, they told him to go home.Â
âTheyâll call you if thereâs an updateâ, said one of the guards. âItâd probably be a good idea for you to go get some sleep, or something.â
Bucky knew he looked like hell. Your blood left crimson streaks across his face and neck. And the dark circles he usually wore under his eyes were a deep shade of plum. But he couldnât leave, he couldnât sleep. Not when your life hung in the balance. Not when you needed him.Â
A few more hours passed with no news, and Bucky found himself teetering on the edge of insanity. An angry, desperate voice bellowed inside his head. It told him to bust through the doors and find you, no matter what it took- even if it meant hurting people in the process. The gun secured to his hip and the knife strapped to his ankle became eerily attractive. His hands itched to reach for the weapons, to hold someone at gun point until they allowed him to see you. But he couldnât to give in to the fear, to the violence. It took him years of therapy and long talks with you to stop seeing himself as a monster- and he refused to destroy the progress you helped him make.Â
A doctor stepped out of the double doors and looked in Buckyâs direction, âSergeant Barnes?â Â
Bucky was on his feet before he knew what hit him. This was it. After what felt like an eternity of not knowing whether you lived or died, he was about to have an answer. Sweat dampened his palm, his brow as he stood in front of your doctor.Â
He didnât know he was even capable of this kind of fear, this kind of agony. And though he was an impossibly strong physical specimen, Bucky knew heâd never be able to lift the weight of the grief that followed your loss. He knew that, if you died, heâd spend the rest of his life dragging himself from place to place, unable to stand, unable to push back against the overwhelming, oppressive force of losing you.Â
Your doctor spoke quickly and professionally about your condition, but the words turned to mush the second they reached Buckyâs brain. The combination of medical jargon and pure panic made their meanings imperceptible. But one phrase managed to cut through the fog of Buckyâs anxiety and exhaustion: âyou can see her now.â
And just like that, Bucky took off. His fatigued body did its best to carry him through the halls, stumbling every now and then on the smooth tile of the hospital floors. But he didnât dare slow down. He had to get to you.Â
By the time he reached the door to your room, he found himself shaking- almost shivering- with anxiety. He knew you were alive, of course. Knew that the doctors had been successful in saving your life. But something in him doubted their handiwork. Something in him swore that if he didnât get to you in the next half second, youâd flatline. Again.Â
He could practically feel his brain rattling around inside his skull, his teeth chattered against one another. And the sharp tremors in his hands made it nearly impossible to get a grip on the door handle. Panic and frustration coursed through him as the he tried again and again to gain entry to your room with no luck. A strangled sob forced its way out of his chest and caught the attention of a nurse- one of the nurses who helped keep you alive on the jet.Â
âHeyâŠâ Her eyes drifted to Buckyâs shaking hands. âNeed some help?â Before Bucky could answer, sheâd abandoned the medication she was prepping, discarded her gloves, and made her way to his side.
âHere, let me.â Her soft, sympathetic tone was almost too kind; Buckyâs eyes blurred with tears. She turned the door handle and gestured for Bucky to go inside.
His âthank youâ was for more than just the door.Â
Bucky took a few steps inside and drew in a sharp breath; heâd never seen you in such severe condition. Over the many hours that Bucky waited for you outside, all of your bruises grew darker, more menacing. They stained your throat, your face, your arms. He didnât even want to think about the ones on your chest- the ones he caused. Dried blood crusted in your hair and formed a path down the side of your face. It sat caked under your fingernails and rested in the creases of your palms. Thankfully, your gunshot wound was covered by gauze and concealed by your gown. But knowing it was there was enough to make Bucky sick. He, of course, witnessed and inflicted, his fair share of carnage over the years. But he knew your wound would haunt him for years to come- simply because it was yours.Â
All he wanted was to be near you. To sit at your bedside and hold your hand. But he didnât dare to get any closer. Electrodes attached a dozen wires to your chest. IVs sat lodged in the crooks of your elbows, in the backs of your hands. Machines and monitors kept track of your vitals. And who was he to disturb this fragile, vital ecosystem? What if he accidentally pulled out one of your IVs? What if he detached a wire by mistake? Heâd already hurt you once today, he wasnât about to do it again.Â
He, instead, opted to stand at attention. A few feet away. For your safety. He didnât touch you, didnât even say your name. He simply stared at you, counting your every breath.Â
An hour- or maybe two- passed by with him like this. Nurses checked on you, doctors poked their heads in. And every time, they told him he was permitted to sit by your bedside. But he just shook his head. Sure, slipping his hand into yours, being close to you- it would provide him with incomprehensible comfort. But he couldnât, not when you were so severely injured.Â
After the third hour, Bucky feared his sanity was slipping. A wicked voice lodged deep in his psyche suddenly awakened. It whispered to him, taunted him. Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe he was asleep in the waiting room. Maybe you didnât survive. MaybeâŠ
And he wouldâve believed it, had you not snapped him out of the vicious spiral.Â
âBuck?â He feared heâd never hear you voice again, but there it was. Hoarse and weak- but yours.
Bucky flew to your side. He cradled your face gingerly in his hands, completely consumed by the need to touch you, to feel you, to know that you were real. His palms laid flush against your cheeks, his thumbs sweeping over your skin. And in an instant, the sickly sensation of your snapping bones vanished.
A hurricane of tangled thoughts and emotions crashed over him. He had so much to he wanted to say, so much he wanted to confess to you. But the words refused to arrange themselves properly. Suddenly, Bucky wished heâd used his ample time in the waiting room to better organize his thoughts. He wished heâd sought out a pen and a scrap of paper and used them to plan and articulate his sentiment. But even if heâd found the supplies he needed, he wouldnât have been able to jot a single thing down. Not with his shaking, unsteady hands.
Anxious words and broken sobs got stuck in his throat and formed a garbled, unintelligible mess as they left his mouth. But it was the best he could do. He stared at you, waiting for your response.
âI, umâŠâ you looked at him for a long moment. The haze of head trauma, blood loss, and pain killers made you foggy. You did your best to trace your steps back through Buckyâs words, certain that your condition was the cause of your confusion. But after a significant pause, you came up empty. âSorry, I- what?â
Bucky slid one of his hands into yours and gave a soft laugh. âSorry. I tried to say-â He sat quiet for a moment. What had he tried to say, exactly? He wasnât sure. With a small shake of his head, he re-rerouted. âUm, it doesnât matter. Here, howâs this:â He cleared his throat and spoke with the sharpest pronunciation possible. âHow are you feeling?â
Your laugh- Buckyâs favorite laugh- bubbled up to the surface. But regret swallowed you whole as pain shot through your head, your chest, your side. The hurt radiated through your entire being. It rendered you breathless, and left your face twisted in an agonized grimace.
Bucky didnât like how long it took you to recover from the small chuckle you shot his way. A pang of worry shot through him.  âDonât exert yourself, okay?â He swept a thumb across your cheek, âyou donât wanna tear your stitches or...â He cleared his throat, âaggravate any, um, broken bones.â Bones that he broke.
âNo, IâmâŠâ you squeezed your eyes shut for a long moment before opening them again. The pain slowly receded. âIâm good, Iâm okay. I just- breathing is hard. I forgot how shitty it feels to have broken ribs.â
Bucky nodded. His teeth sunk into the smooth flesh of his cheek. A metallic taste coated his mouth. He didnât want to tell you the truth. Didnât want you to know that he was the cause of your severe pain. But you deserved to know, didnât you? With a deep sigh, he opened his mouth, intent on telling you what really happened. But you cut him off.Â
âThank you, Buck. For coming to get me. I really thought I wasâŠâ Hot tears stung your eyes and blurred your vision. âI thought that was it for me, you know? And I just want you to know how-â you sniffed, âhow grateful I am.â
Bucky left your side for only a second, retrieving a box of tissues from the counter across the room. He was back in no time and swept a tissue across your cheek to catch your tears.
âI know we always say that we have each otherâs backs but you⊠you meant it,â you said. A small smile pulled at your lips, âthank you for meaning it.â
Bucky nodded. He did his best to keep his breathing steady, to stop himself from falling apart at the seams. He knew exactly what it felt like to be left behind, to wait for your last moments- alone.Â
âI wasnât gonna leave you there, doll. I couldnât.âÂ
You gave a small nod. âYeah, I- I wish my partner had felt the same wayâŠâ The hurt in your voice was unmistakable. It sliced though Buckyâs chest. âI didnât think he would ever do something like that. I mean, I thought we were friends.â
The mere thought of Jake brought a familiar rage to the forefront of Buckyâs mind. He didnât understand how anyone could be so callous, so uncaring- so indifferent to the well-being of others. The part of him that swore off unnecessary violence remained quiet as the rest of him imagined Jakeâs demise. He wanted your disloyal partner to suffer. To squirm and squeal and regret that he ever left you behind. But that could wait- you were the priority.
âYeah, I didnât expect him to be that kind of person,â Bucky sighed, âhe seemed like a stand-up guy.â
Silence filled the room as you thought over Jakeâs desertion. His abandonment hurt. It stung in places you didnât expect. Youâd taken Jake under your wing and did everything in your power to be the best leader possible. All you wanted was to help him. To set him up for success.Â
And after working alongside Bucky for so long, youâd forgotten that disloyalty to oneâs partner was even an option.Â
âHe probably panicked,â you tried to rationalize. âAnd then once he realized what heâd done, maybe heâŠâ
There was no rationalizing this.Â
An ugly realization slithered into your mind. âAfter he left, I think he probably hoped Iâd just die⊠that way I wouldnât be able to give my side of the story.â The weight of Jakeâs actions hit you like a train. Rivulets of warm tears rolled down your cheeks, only to be swept away by Buckyâs gentle hand. With a small shake of your head, you did your best to banish the feelings of abandonment and betrayal. Wallowing would only make you more miserable. And you didnât need emotional pain on top of the physical agony that already plagued you.
âWell, jokeâs on him,â you shrugged, âcause Iâm still alive.â Pain radiated through your chest, bringing a grimace to your face. âKind of.âÂ
Bucky didnât understand how you could just dismiss the bad feelings. Couldnât understand your propensity for levity. Your partner left you for dead without a second thought- and yet, you found a way to joke about it. It was something heâd always admired about you, something he wished he was capable of.Â
You gave a strained laugh, âI canât wait to see the look on Jakeâs face when he finds out that I didnât die.â
Bucky wasnât sure what prompted him to say it. It left his mouth without his brainâs authorization.
âBut you did.â
He wished to take the words back, but it was too late. They hung in the air, just out of his reach.Â
âIâŠâ you struggled to grasp Buckyâs words. âI what?â
This was not the time- or the place, or the way- to tell you the truth. But he didnât have a choice. His clumsy words made his bed, and now he had to lie in it.Â
âYou, umâŠâ Bucky didnât want to think about what happened, let alone say it out loud. But he owed it to you to be honest. Especially after Jake had lied to you about being a trustworthy partner. Bucky scratched at the stubble on his face, ran a hand through his hair. Anything to delay the inevitable. But he couldnât put it off for long. âYour heart stopped- you died. On the jet.â
Only one word fell from your lips, âOhâŠâÂ
âAnd while Iâm at it, I might as well tell you thatâŠâ Bucky took a deep inhale. He was in too deep now. And keeping this from you any longer felt like lying. âThat your ribs are broken because of me.â
A quizzical look crossed your face, âwhat do you mean?â
âI mean⊠the med team was short staffed on the jet. There were only three of them. And when you crashed, it was- it was an all hands on deck situation.â He flashed back to the moment when the alarms sounded. When your EKG flatlined. A shudder ran through him. âThey needed me to do chest compressions. And I- I didnât want to hurt you, but the nurse said I wasnât pushing hard enough to actually help you. And when I pushed harder- I broke your ribs.â
Bucky searched your face for something-Â anything. Anger. Fear. Betrayal. But he found nothing. Your expression was as neutral as they come. He feared that something lingered just below the surface. That once you fully processed his words, youâd erupt into a perfect storm of disgust and disappointment.
He told himself to wait silently until you made up your mind. But the outburst exploded from his lips before he could stop it. âIâm sorry- Iâm so sorry, sweetheart. You know Iâd never want to hurt you, I would never do anything to hurt you. But I⊠they told me I had to push harder. Or it wasnât going to work. And I just wanted it to work, I wanted you to be okay, and-â
It took almost all of your strength to raise your hand and place a finger to Buckyâs lips. He fell silent.
âBuck, itâs okay.â
He tried to form a rebuttal, but you cut him off.Â
âYou didnât have to rescue me, but you did. No questions asked, no hesitation. You saved my life by getting me out of there. And you saved me again by helping the med team.â Your hand drifted from Buckyâs face and landed in his palm. âYou didnât do anything wrong.â
Bucky didnât say anything else. His fingers traced gentle patterns on your palm. His eyes fell downward. You could almost see the shame eating him alive from the inside.
 âHey,â you intertwined your fingers with his. âI can handle a few broken ribs.â
âNo, I- I know you can. I justâŠâ A sad smiled flickered across his lips. âI feel terrible. You went through a lot. And I just donât like knowing I made it worse.â
A long silence filled the room. Youâd seen this side of Bucky more times than you could count. And you knew him well enough to know what followed. He was going to feel bad-Â terrible, actually- about this for a while. There was no accelerating the process or absolving him of his guilt. No amount of reassurances could save him from it. He just had to sit with it. One day, the weight would diminish. But it was going to take time. And that was okay.Â
You gave his hand a squeeze. âI thought your voice was a hallucination, you know.â
Bucky lifted his head.
âAnd when you came into the room, I actually thought that was a hallucination, too.â A smile stretched across your face, âI mean, I thought I was losing my mind.â Â
Bucky gave a half-hearted chuckle. He didnât want to think about you in that room by yourself. About you struggling to tell what was real.
âBut then you touched meâŠâ You raised your hand and brushed it across your cheek, mimicking him. âAnd thatâs when I realized that you were real- that you were there.â You fell quiet for a moment, lost in the memory of Buckyâs rescue. âIt was like, in that moment, I wasnât scared anymore. I wasnât scared of the pain. I wasnât scared of dying. I was just scared thatâŠâ
âWhat?â
âYou have to promise not to laugh,â you told him with an authoritative tone. âCause I know itâs corny, or cheesy, or whatever.â
âSweetheart,â Bucky drew an X over his heart. âIâm not gonna laugh at you.â
You stared at him with narrowed eyes, sizing up his promise. But, of course, you knew Bucky would never tease or ridicule you about something like this.Â
âOkay, fine, I um⊠I was scared that Iâd never see you again. If I died, I mean.â
Buckyâs lungs emptied. He couldnât remember how to breathe, how to speak. A sudden ache ripped through his heart as it splintered and shattered into a million pieces. To know that you thought of him in what you believed were your last moments somehow ripped him apart and put him back together all at once.
Your voice cracked. Tears filled your eyes. âI was afraid that weâd already run out of time. I was afraid that we werenât going to get any more.â A few soft sobs escaped from your throat, followed by a pained groan. But you pushed passed the throbbing in your chest. âBut I was so relieved. Because I got to see you one last time. It was the most intense sense of peace Iâve ever experienced.â
Bucky struggled to hold on to his composure. He felt himself crumbling, weakening under the weight of your words.Â
âBut then I realized- I realized Iâd never get to tell you. And you kept saying we could talk later, but I didnât know if there would be a âlaterâ. And when I blacked out, I was so full ofâŠâ You shook your head ever so slightly, sending a few tears dripping onto your cheeks. âI had so much regret. Because I needed you to know.â
âTo know what?â Bucky leaned in close, searching your face for any inkling, any clue. âDoll, itâs âlaterâ. Tell me- whatever it is. You can tell me now, itâs-â
Your lips met his in a soft kiss. In it, everything youâd ever felt for him came rushing forward. Admiration. Longing. Lust. Obsession. Adoration. Love.Â
A sting of pain jolted through you as your split lip brushed his, but you didnât care. His hands found your face, your fingers curled into the collar of his shirt. It was always supposed to be this way.Â
When the two of you finally separated, Bucky simply stared at you. He didnât move, he didnât speak. He wasnât sure he knew how.Â
âI love you, Buck. Iâve loved you- for so long.â A huff left your chest, âSo. Long.âÂ
Still, Bucky remained silent. Nerves began crawling through you like vines, twisting their way through every fiber of your being. But you owed it to yourself, and to Bucky, to tell him the truth.Â
âAnd I just⊠I know how you see yourself. And I know you donât think youâre even worthy of my friendship, let alone love. But I was so anxious, cause I thought youâd never know the truth. I thought Iâd die without getting to tell you. And youâd live the rest of your life thinking that youâre not worthy, that no one could ever love you. But I- I love you. I just needed you to know.â
The silence made your ears ring. Buckyâs face still wore a mask of bewilderment. And you feared youâd ruined everything.Â
âYou donât have to say it back, though,â you said. âIâm not gonna stop being your friend if this is an unrequited thing.â
Finally, Bucky came back to life. He rolled his eyes and let a scoff escape his lips. He leaned in close, the tip of his nose almost brushing yours. âUnrequited? I broke every SWORD rule and policy. Abducted medical staff. Stole a jet. And went on an unauthorized mission. All to get you back. I didnât even know if you were alive, I just- I had to bring you home.âÂ
He closed the small gap that remained between your face and his and granted you warm, gentle kiss that tasted like home. âI did all that- and you thought there was even a chance that I didnât love you back?â Bucky gave a playful roll of his eyes, âyou donât know me at all, sweetheart.â
You returned his eye roll. "Well, you're a really great friend to me. And you always have been. So, I didnât take a rescue as a proclamation of love,â you gave a strained chuckle. âI just thought-â
âIâve loved you forâŠâ Bucky thought back over the course of your friendship. The day you first met, the first time you helped him through a panic attack, the time he made you the ugliest cake in the world for your birthday. He saw his life in two parts: before he met you and after he met you. And he so preferred the after.Â
âI donât even know how long,â he shrugged. It was almost automatic. His feelings for you didnât need a slow, gradual build up. They descended upon him all at once, like the worldâs most beautiful avalanche.  âItâs been a long time- an embarrassing amount of time, probably,â he laughed.
âOh, so weâre both cowards then,â you shot him a wink. âToo afraid to tell the other how we feel.â
Bucky nodded, âIt seems that wayâŠâ
âBut you werenât too scared to steal a jet and run into possible gun fire?â you quipped.
âNope. Didnât even think about it,â he said matter-of-factly. âI just wanted to find you.â
Youâd never experienced a love- a commitment- like that. It sent a rush of warmth into your cheeks and somehow eased the pain plaguing your body. You knew in your heart you wouldâve done the same for Bucky without a second thought. But knowing that he was so fiercely determined to bring you home felt almost unbelievable. You had the proof, though, right there in front of you. This man, who you loved, loved you too. And loved you enough to risk his life for you. It wasnât something youâd ever ask him to do, and you knew youâd never have to. Heâd do it without hesitation. Without reservation. Heâd walk through fire for you if it meant bringing you home.Â
post civil war era (ish), pre-established relationship
notes: im so sorry in advance. one of the saddest things i've written probably. building off of that hc i posted earlier this week
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of the winter soldier, disassociation, depersonalization/derealization disorder (dpdr), just pure angst, probably me projecting lol, not proof-read, no use of y/n
length: 1.3k words
lmk what you think and, as always, ty for reading <3
Most days, when he looked in the mirror, he couldn't tell who was staring back at him.
If it was the ghost of Sergeant Barnes, who commanded his fleet, his band of brothers, who should've died in the ravine, surrounded by the banks of soft snow and the metallic smell of his own blood.
If it was the remnants of The Soldier, The Asset, Soldatâwhatever name you wanted to slap on the abomination that was the mindless killing machineâwho should've carried out his last mission and been terminated on sight.
If it was Bucky, who'd died sometime during the war, somewhere between watching his fellow men fall to enemy fire and realizing he might never come home.
If it was James Buchanan Barnes, with wide, innocent eyes and a boyish, lopsided grin, front tooth missing and two feet shorter, whose entire being, when his mother died, went right along with her.
Whoever he was in the mirror, whoever's piercing blue eyes were boring into him, was tired. The kind of exhaustion sleep doesn't touch, but it's not like he slept much anyway.
Maybe he was doomed to die in every universe he lived in, in some way, shape, or form. Mind, body, soulâor perhaps all threeâcursed by the God who didn't hear his cries and ignored his pleas for peace. Was peace death? Was death peace? How could he be sure when he felt like he constantly toed the line between this life and the next?
Most days, it's like he wasn't anyone at all. Just a brain and four limbsâone metal, a reminder of what he, someone, had lost onceâgoing through the motions until somebody said stop. Until the body gave way under the stress and fell into a comatose-type state. On days like that, he'd sit for hours in his living room, apartment pitch black except for the faint glow coming from whatever movie he'd thrown on as a means of "distraction".
He pulled away. Shut the door and kept it locked tight and called it healing.
You knew something was off the second you stepped foot in the door after a particularly long shift at work, and were met with darkness. Buckyâs boots were still on the floor, his jacket slung over the back of the couch, the travel mug youâd gotten him for his birthday sat filled and cold on the counter.
Youâd been gone nearly 8 hours, and everything was exactly how youâd left it.
âBuck?â You called out, slipping your shoes off and placing your bag on the kitchen island. âYou home?â
An eerie silence followed. Not the kind you and him would share in the security of your shared bedroom, both of you reading quietly and enjoying each otherâs company. This was heavy, thick, unsettling nothingness.
You found him on the edge of your bed shirtless, back turned to the door, head in his hands. The room was dark and the air was cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the distance between his mind and his body.
âBaby?â You tried again, nudging the door open just enough to walk into the room. With hesitant steps, you made your way over until you crouched down in front of him. Shaking hands resting on his wrists, you gently tugged his hands away to see his face.
Even with the barrier removed between you two, Bucky kept his eyes glued to the ground, gaze fixed and hollow. His normal baby blues swam grey with guilt and grief, longing for times he could never get back, and times he never wanted to relive.
Despite the lack of physical separation, he felt so far away from you, from this room, from himselfâbut for the life of him, he couldnât figure out how to get back. With a shuddering breath, he spoke, so quiet you'd miss it if you breathed too loud:
âI donât know who I am.â
The admission took you by surprise, eyebrows furrowing as your frown deepened. You brought a careful hand up to his cheek, letting your thumb brush over the scruff he hadnât shaved yet.
âWhat do you mean?â
He shook his head, his first movement in God knows how long, and leaned into your palm. âIâŠI justââ His throat tightened. âI look in the mirror and I just donât know. Donât know who it is looking back.â
Your heart just about fell out of your ass, but before you could prod any further, he cleared his throat.
âIâve been so many people and I donât even recognize them,â
âI know,â
âAnd I feel so... so... detached. Like maybe none of this is real, like maybe none of it ever was real.â
âIt was real. Youâre real. Youâre here," you soothed softly, chasing his gaze until you could hold his eyes. "You're here."
Loving Bucky wasnât difficult at all; in fact, it came so easily and naturally to you that it was almost scary. You knew he had ghosts, hundreds of skeletons in his closet, and stories about dark times youâre sure youâd never hear, but he loved without knowing how and gave himself to you expecting nothing in return.
He let go of a shaky breath and let his forehead tip forward until it rested upon yours, then closed his eyes. Thumb still stroking his cheek, you allowed both of you to just exist in this space for a moment. His shoulders were tense, every muscle in his body coiled tight, waiting for just the right moment to release the tension.
"What can I do for you, baby?" You whispered.
You thought he didn't hear you for a second, the silence stretching between you for a beat too long before he sighed. Sad. Defeated. Resigned to the fact that this was his life, whether it felt like it or not.
"Just... just stay. Please." It came out softer than he intended it to, the tenderness making him seem smaller than he really was. You knew Bucky well enough to know that stay meant hold me, and please meant you're all I have. The fleeting thought of a once-young James Barnes flashed through your mind; clinging to his mother and asking her to stay with a desperation no child should ever know.
You thought about Bucky's mother often. About what she would've looked like carrying her children, her grandchildren. If she would've liked you, had you not been born several decades too late. How she took her tea. What the word "James" sounded like as it escaped her lips. If she knew happiness, the kind that's all-consuming and pure.
"I can do that," you stood, pressing a soft kiss to his hair before climbing next to him on the bed. Resting a hand on his shoulder, you gave him a gentle nudge. "How about we lie down, yeah?"
To your surprise, Bucky nodded, brown shaggy hair falling in front of his eyes, and repositioned himself on the mattress so he was on his side. You slotted in next to him. After settling on the pillows, he immediately tucked you to his chest, arms tight around your waist.
Hours could've passed that you lay there for, but you didn't mind. Not as the rise and fall of Bucky's chest began to slow, not as he allowed himself to close his eyes and rest. You were determined to not let him forget how real this was, how real the two of you were; so even as his eyes fluttered with sleep, you offered words of security.
"You're here with me."
"You're safe."
"You're Jamesâmy sweet Jamie."
"You don't have to fight this feeling alone."
"I love you, no matter who you are."
"I'll remind you every day if that's what you need."
Bucky slept for the first time in a long time that night, your body acting as his means of grounding himself. He pulled you closer in sleep, the scent of you swirling around his head until all he seemed to consume in his dream was you you you, and all his subconscious echoed back was me, James, Bucky, me.
pairing: mob!bucky barnes x reader
word count: 18k (this is the longest fic i've ever wroteđ«ą)
warnings: dark themes, mob!au, possessive/obsessive behavior, stalking undertones, mentions of violence, blood, public intimidation, collar kink, dom/sub dynamics, choking (light), spit kink, power imbalance, unprotected sex, aftercare (rough + soft), implied murder, manipulation, cnc undertones (always with consent cues), language, general mob violence.
summary: Bucky doesnât just want your loyaltyâhe wants your complete surrender. Obsessive, dangerous, and possessive in a world of power and blood, he pulls you into his empire one step at a time. And the more you give, the more you realize that belonging to him doesnât feel like losing yourself at allâit feels inevitable.
a/n: written as part of my 1,000 follower celebration! đ€ thank you endlessly for the love and supportâthis piece is one of the darkest and most indulgent Iâve ever written. honestly, i've been working on this since before i even started this account and finally decided to post. make sure to be on the lookout for the blurb day this weekend. vote here if you haven't already!
You knew better than to be here.
There are places in the city where the air smells like money and gun oil, where men speak in soft voices that decide loud outcomes. Verona is one of those placesâBucky Barnesâ placeâfour floors of glass, velvet, and a heartbeat you can feel in your teeth. When the elevator opens and you step onto the mezzanine, the beat swallows you up: bass like a pulse, lights like the blink of an animal eye, everything slick with shadow and intent.
You shouldnât be here in a borrowed dress and shaky courage, clutching an envelope your boss shoved at you with an apology he didnât mean. But debt makes liars out of the meek and messengers out of the innocent, and youâd rather face the devil you donât know than the landlord who surely does.
Two men in black stand at the balcony rail, watching. One taps his earpiece when he sees you; the other steps forward with a look you canât quite read. Not hungry. Not kind. Just⊠aware.
âDelivery?â he asks.
Your mouth is dry. âFor Mr. Barnes.â
He nods, and for a second you think heâll take it and send you away. Instead: âHeâll want to see you.â
They lead you down a hallway that drinks sound, plush carpet under your heels, walls that look like onyx. You realize halfway that youâve left a world with rules and stepped into one where rules have namesânames that donât include yours.
At a set of double doors, the first man knocks once and doesnât wait for an answer. Inside, the music is a rumor; the air smells like leather and smoke and the clean bite of whiskey. There are people in the roomâthree men at a long table, a red-haired woman by a bar cart, another man by the window. They all look, but only one looks like he owns the word.
Bucky Barnes sits with the lazy gravity of a planet. Dark hair, pushed back; shirt sleeves rolled to reveal forearms roped with muscle and veins; a watch that could buy a house and a knife on the table that says he doesnât have to. When he lifts his eyes to you, the rest of the room becomes scenery.
âWhatâs this?â he asks, not because he doesnât know, but because he wants to hear you talk.
You hold out the envelope. âFromââ You say your bossâs name. It sounds like a confession. âHe said to deliver it personally.â
Bucky doesnât take it at first. His gaze maps you like a patient study: the way you shift on your feet; the thinness of your dress straps; how your fingers grip the paper as if you could strangle fate with it. Then he stands, slow, and even standing heâs not in a hurry. He comes close enough that you can count the flecks of steel in irises that look like winter water.
âName,â he says.
You tell him.
He says it back, once, like heâs fitting it to his mouth. The sound lands heavy somewhere behind your ribs.
The redheadâsheâll later introduce herself as Natashaâtakes the envelope when he finally inclines his chin. She lays it by the knife and slides a letter opener under the flap with a practiced wrist. A stack of bills thumps onto the table. The man by the window whistles low.
Bucky doesnât look down. His attention stays where it liesâon youâlike the rest of his empire can run itself for the length of a glance.
âYou work for him?â Bucky asks.
You shake your head. âI⊠do admin. Heâs my boss.â
A hum, almost amused. âAnd he sent you?â
âEveryone else said no.â
âAnd you donât say no?â
Your throat tightens. You donât want to be brave. You want to be unremarkable, forgettable, the sort of person who drifts through life like fogâfelt, never held. âI needed the money.â
Buckyâs attention flicks, barely, to Natashaâs hands as she counts. âHe still short?â
âA little,â she says, bored, and writes something in a leather book with a fountain pen that surely cost more than your rent. âHe bought himself time, not mercy.â
Buckyâs jaw ticks once. He turns back to you like nothing else matters.
âYouâve got a good face,â he says. It shouldnât sound like a verdict. âHonest. That a habit or an accident?â
Your laugh is thin. âBad genetics.â
Something changes in his expressionâsomething like the angle of a blade catching different light. He closes the distance by half a step. âDonât make jokes to hide from me.â
The words should sting. Instead they slide under your skin, an instruction you almost want to obey.
He reaches into his pocket and brings out a card. No name, just a number and a single embossed initial: B. He extends it between two fingers. Your hand moves before prudence can weigh in.
âIf he sends you again, you come to me first,â he says. âIf he sends anybody again, you tell them youâre done. If anyone gives you trouble, you call that number.â
You look at the card like itâs a live wire. âWhyââ
âBecause I said so.â He says it quietly, but the room hears. âAnd because you donât belong to him.â
âThen who do Iââ
He smiles. Itâs small, the kind of smile that says he remembers how but doesnât need it often. âWeâll get there.â
Itâs less a dismissal than a stay of execution. One of the menâthe one whoâd tapped his earâreturns to your side and opens the door. You move because thereâs nothing else to do, because you can feel Buckyâs gaze on your spine like a hand.
In the hallway, your escortâs voice is almost gentle. âDonât lose the card.â
You donât.
â
You try to return to your life as if you can fold it back like clean laundry. You go to work. You make lists. You stock your fridge with cheap groceries and let fruit go bad because your appetite has shifted to something the grocery store doesnât sell. You sleep less. You dream more.
The first time you see the car, itâs parked across from your building, black paint drinking the streetlight whole. It doesnât have plates you can read and the driver doesnât look at you when you pass. The second time, the driver does: a small nod, a look that says the neighborhoodâs teeth donât bite as hard when this particular animal prowls.
You tell yourself itâs coincidence until coincidence becomes a routine. The black car is there when you leave for work and when you return. Sometimes it disappears for hours and you feel the absence like a chill. Sometimes it idles while you put your key into your door, and you feel watched without feeling hunted.
On a Thursday, it rains the way the city mournsâmessy, loud, insistent. You forget your umbrella and come home soaked, hair pasted to your neck, dress clinging like a needy hand. The lobby smells like old paint and damp mail. You take the stairs because the elevator whines and youâd rather owe your thighs than a mechanic.
Heâs waiting on the third-floor landing like heâs always belonged there.
Bucky Barnes, sleeves rolled, top two buttons undone, water beading on his wrist where a watch slides silver against his skin. Heâs a contradiction all the way down: expensive and unbothered, clean and dangerous, a man comfortable enough to be in your building and patient enough not to break down your door to prove a point.
Your heart does something juvenile in your chest. He looks at you like thatâs the point.
âThought you might use a hand,â he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts when your gaze drops involuntarily to his fingers.
âIââ You hoist your tote higher. âIâm fine.â
âNot what I asked, doll.â
The word lands differently than on TV lips. Itâs not a generic pet name; itâs a claim, a clue to how he thinks. Dollâsomething you can hold, dress, arrange. Something that looks fragile and therefore requires protection. Something he keeps.
You should bristle. Your bones, traitors, soften.
âYou can say no,â he says. âBut donât lie to me.â
Itâs strangeâhow the permission makes refusal harder. You hand him the tote, and he takes it like it weighs less than his attention.
He follows you up the stairs, quiet as a thought. On your landing, you fumble the keys twice. He watches your hands and doesnât laugh. When you get the door open, you step inside and turn because youâre not certain of the rules here, if youâre supposed to invite him or if heâs supposed to come in anyway.
He sets your bag just inside the door and leans one shoulder against the frame, the picture of courtesy as performance art.
âLockâs loose,â he says. âGet it replaced.â
âIâll tell my landlord,â you say. It sounds like telling a god about a rainstorm.
âDonât.â He produces a small card you recognize: the same black with the same initial. He writes a name on the back with a pen that appears like a magicianâs trick. âCall this number. Tell him I sent you.â
âIs this⊠your handyman?â
âSomething like it.â
Silence hums. The rain makes a steady patter against the window down the hall, as if the weather is pretending to be domestic.
âWhy do you care?â you ask. Itâs an honest question, and you donât know if you want an honest answer.
His eyes move across your face and land where your pulse beats in your throat. âBecause youâre mine now,â he says, with the quiet certainty of someone describing the color of the sky.
You think you should slam the door. You donât. You think you should tell him heâs wrong. You canât remember how to say the word.
He doesnât push. He taps the doorframe twice with two knuckles and steps back. âGet some sleep, doll.â
âBucky,â you say, before you can stop yourself. The name tastes like you shouldnât be allowed to have it.
He turns his head slightly. You meet his eyes andâfor a blinkâyou see the man nobody else is allowed: the boy who learned the world wouldnât love him unless he promised to bleed for it, the man who became its favorite knife.
âUse the number if you need me,â he says, and then heâs walking away, his profile carving the hallway into something you want to live in.
You lock the door the way he told you to. It doesnât feel like safety. It feels like conceding to a weather pattern.
â
The next morning, the lock guy arrives at eight sharp, polite and competent and gone in under twenty minutes. He refuses your cash. âMr. Barnes sends his regards,â he says, like this is the nineteenth century and youâre a duchess with a benevolent patron. You try to say no; he leaves a receipt and a smile that says itâs not worth arguing with gravity.
At work, you stare at spreadsheets until the lines ripple. Your boss buzzes around like a fly against glass. He doesnât mention Verona or the debt or sending you into the lionâs den. He doesnât look at you directly. When his phone rings and his face drains, you watch with a detached interest. Heâs still short, you think, remembering Natashaâs voice. He bought himself time, not mercy.
At lunch, a courier drops a white box on your desk. Inside: a slice of cake that tastes like it costs more than your shoes, and a note written in a hand you know instinctively is Buckyâs: Eat. People forget. âB.
You want to toss it. You eat every bite, your tongue chasing sugar like a sinner whoâs only ever been given salt.
That night, the black car follows a half-block behind as you walk home. When a man on the corner spits too close to your feet and steps into your path, the car drifts to the curb and idles there, a suggestion with an engine. The man mutters something to the air and slinks away. The car doesnât move until youâre inside your building.
You think of cages. You think of umbrellas. You think of birds that donât know theyâre being fed because the hand is gentle.
â
When the summons comes, itâs not a summons. A man in a charcoal suit appears in your office lobby and says, âMaâam? A carâs waiting.â He doesnât use Mr. Barnesâ name. He doesnât need to.
You could say no. Your mouth opens. âLet me get my coat,â you say instead, and hate the small relief you feel at deciding any part of this yourself.
The car is not the one from your street; itâs nicer, somehowâquieter, leather that smells like it came from the hide of a better animal. The city slips by the windows as if the route has been polished. You watch familiar blocks become unfamiliar angles. You text no one because there is no one to text. At some point, your phone buzzes: unknown number, a single message. Bucky: Do not be afraid of me. Be afraid of what Iâll do to anything that tries to touch you.
You stare at it until your eyes sting. You donât answer.
The house is something out of a magazine that forgot to tell the truth about what kind of men buy houses like this. Black stone, iron gates, a sweep of steps that wants to teach you to walk differently. The front door opens before you reach it. Natasha is on the other side, barefoot on marble, a silk blouse tucked into trousers that would fit no one else as well.
âHi, doll,â she says, teeth sharp in a friendly smile that doesnât reach her eyes. âCome on in.â
âDo you call everyone that?â you blurt, because fear makes you rude, and rudeness feels like control.
âOnly what belongs to him.â She winks like itâs a joke. âHeâs in his office. Iâm supposed to make sure you arenât lost.â
Youâre not sure which verb her boss gave her. Watch you. Assess you. Prepare you. You follow her down a hallway that smells like cedar and money. The walls are hung with art that probably has provenance documents thicker than your lease, but itâs not the art you notice. Itâs the mirrorsâsubtle, built into the architecture, an arrangement that lets whoever sits behind the desk see anyone coming from anywhere.
When Natasha opens the office door, you understand what youâre walking into because your body does before your brain names it.
Bucky is behind the desk, jacket off, tie loosened as if he only ever means to strangle. He stands when he sees you. That alone is an intimacy.
âDoll,â he says, and the sound of it in this room is different than on a stair landing. Itâs less claim, more invitation.
âMr. Barnes,â you say, because you like pretending you can choose distance.
âBucky,â he corrects gently. âCome here.â
Your legs carry you across the rug, which is so soft you think of secrets in fabric. He rounds the desk instead of letting you stand on the other side like a client. When he stops in front of you, you realize youâve been holding your breath and release it in a shakier exhale than you mean to allow.
He studies you for a beat too long. You wish you had worn a different dress and you also wish you were naked. Itâs a new kind of helplessness: wanting to be seen and to hide, simultaneously.
âHungry?â he asks.
âYes,â you say, before you can decide whether you mean food.
He registers that, and something like amusement dials the caution in his gaze down by one degree. âNatasha,â he says without looking away. âHave dinner sent up in thirty.â
âAnd if sheâs full by then?â Natasha teases from the door.
âShe wonât be,â he replies, and the certainty is obscene.
When youâre alone, he tilts his head toward a low couch by the windows. You sit. He takes the corner opposite you, closer than a colleague would, farther than a lover, his knee an inch from yours. He doesnât touch youâyet. You feel him like a weather system.
âI sent for you because I donât like coincidences,â he says. âAnd because I donât like owing strangers.â
âI didnât do anything,â you say, which is true and not.
âYou came when I asked.â He says it like itâs an act of faith. âThat earns thanks.â
You donât know what to do with thanks from a man who has his name tattooed on the cityâs throat. âYouâre⊠welcome?â
He breathes out once, like youâve said something that matters. âI want to be clear with you.â He shifts, forearms on his thighs, posture like a confessional. âThis life is blood and glass, and either you walk around it or you walk through it. If you walk through it with me, Iâll make sure you never bleed unless I want you to.â
The honesty freezes you, the way a lake goes still under midnight. âThat sounds like a threat.â
âItâs a promise,â he says, soft as a bruise.
Your stomach flips. Somewhere behind your ribs, the part of you that wants to be good bangs a spoon against the table and tells you to leave. Another partâthe part that is tired of running errands for men who would sell you for a debt, the part that craves someone who will look at you and keep lookingâleans toward the flame.
âWhy me?â you ask, and hate that it sounds like you hope thereâs a reason.
âBecause you donât know how to lie to me yet,â he says simply. âBecause you walked into my world and didnât try to make yourself smaller. Because I like the way your mouth argues and the way your eyes agree.â He says your name again, low. âBecause you feel like mine.â
âAnd what do you feel like?â you ask.
âLike the answer to a question you havenât admitted youâre asking.â
Silence, heavy enough to bend light. His hand movesâa small thing, a slow thingâand then his knuckles are under your chin, tilting your face up. He doesnât make it rough. He doesnât have to. Power isnât volume; itâs precision.
âSay my name,â he murmurs, not because he needs you to remember it, but because he wants to hear the surrender in your voice when you give it.
âBucky,â you breathe.
He nods, as if youâve passed a test he wrote in pencil just now. His thumb skims your lower lip, a touch so light that your body leans forward to make it more. He lets you. When your mouth parts, when your tongue darts without permission to taste him, he hums and presses his index finger between your lips.
You donât think youâre the kind of person who takes a manâs finger into your mouth on a first⊠whatever this is. You are, apparently, exactly that kind. The pad of his finger rests heavy on your tongue; you close your lips and your eyes, and heat flickers down your spine like a lit match.
âGood girl,â he says, and you hate that the sound that escapes you is less language than prayer.
He withdraws slowly, purpose in every millimeter, like heâs teaching your mouth a tempo. When his finger leaves your tongue, you catch yourself chasing it. He smiles like heâs felt that in his own body.
âIâm not going to take anything from you you donât give,â he says, voice gone lower, the kind of low that ruins futures. âIâm going to make you decide that you want to give it.â
âThat sounds like manipulation,â you say, because you need the protest to survive yourself.
âItâs seduction,â he says, and brings his thumb back to your mouth. âOpen.â
You do. He presses just enough to feel the refusal that never arrives. He says your name and you answer with your throat.
Thereâs a knock. He doesnât flinch. He removes his hand and sits back, composed in a breath. âCome.â
Two staff bring in traysâcovered dishes, glassware, a wine bottle that probably has a pedigree. They set everything on a low table and vanish like trained ghosts. You watch his profile as he lifts lids and reveals roasted chicken, herbed potatoes, a salad that glows green like it was picked in a kinder city.
âEat,â he says, and you picture the note with the cake. You take a bite because your body remembers hunger even when your mind has gone on strike.
He watches you for a while, like this is part of the test tooâhow you hold a fork, how you chew, whether you thank him. You do. He acknowledges it with a small tilt of his head, as if youâve put a coin in a machine that will someday dispense something you canât afford.
He eats, too. It feels illicitly intimateâthis ritual of domesticity staged in a lionâs mouth. Your knee brushes his. The world holds its breath.
âYou work in an office,â he says, not quite a question.
âI do,â you say. âItâs not exciting.â
âGood.â He takes a sip of wine and doesnât offer you any, which should offend you. It steadies you insteadâthere are rules here, and you will learn them. âYou like it?â
âI like⊠leaving at five.â
âMm.â He sets down his glass. âWhat would you do if you didnât need the money?â
You think of answers that sound like the truth in other mouths. Travel. Paint. Open a dog rescue. You swallow chicken that suddenly tastes like confession. âI donât know.â
âLiar,â he says, but he says it fondly. âTry again.â
âSleep,â you say, surprising both of you. âAnd wake up without my first thought being a number.â
He considers that, and for a moment you glimpse something like anger on your behalf. âI can give you that.â
âYou canât buy sleep,â you say.
âI can buy the things that steal it.â
Youâre about to argue when he reaches over, plucks a piece of potato off your plate with his fingers, and holds it in front of your mouth. The gesture bypasses your cortex and lodges in your throat. You part your lips and let him place it on your tongue. His knuckles brush your lower lip; your breath catches on them.
âThere you go,â he says, as if youâve done something right.
By the time the plates are pushed away and the staff have silently returned to make the evidence disappear, your body is thrumming. Not just with desireâthough thatâs there, low and insistentâbut with⊠alignment. Like youâve been slightly off-kilter for years and something about being observed like this has nudged you into balance.
âCome,â he says, standing, and the word is both invitation and command. He offers you his hand. You stare at it for one heartbeat too long. Then you take it.
He doesnât lead you toward a bedroom. He leads you down another hallway to a room with double doors painted white. He palms them open and steps aside so you can enter first.
It is not a bedroom. It is a room that looks like someone took all the things youâve ever quietly liked and curated them into a space shaped like your spine. Shelves with books by authors you actually read, not the ones you pretend to. A small couch in a fabric you once touched in a store and couldnât afford. A window seat with cushions in a color that flatters your skin. On a dress form in the corner, a silk slip in your size and a sweater so soft your fingers itch.
You donât ask how he knows. You already know the answer. The city would call it creepy. The part of you that wants to be known calls it relief.
âWhat is this?â you ask, voice thin.
âThe dollhouse,â he says, and the word should send you running. Instead it lands soft and terrible in your chest. âA place thatâs yours. In my house.â
No one has ever made room for you like this. Not even you.
âI didnâtââ You swallow. âYou didnât have toââ
âI didnât do it to impress you,â he says, and you believe him. âI did it so youâd understand the shape of what I want.â
âWhat do you want?â
He steps behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder in the windowâs black glass. He doesnât touch you. Not yet. âYour loyalty,â he says, voice a ribbon around your throat. âYour honesty. Your time. Your fearâof everyone but me.â He waits, and the waiting is the first real touch. âYour surrender.â
There it is, the word he planted days ago like a flag. You should say no. The old parts of you perform the motions of resistance. But another partâthe part that is so tired of pretending not to be built for thisâleans back an inch, a silent confession.
He notices. God, he notices everything.
âTurn around,â he says.
You do. Heâs close enough now that you can count his lashes. The smell of him fills your headâclean and metallic and human. His hand rises like youâre on a string and heâs a gentle puppeteer, and when his fingers curl around your throat they donât squeeze; they cradle. A pulse hammers against his thumb. You donât know whose it is.
âUse your words,â he says, the warning in his tone wrapped in velvet. âIf I ever touch you when you donât want me to, youâll tell me and Iâll stop. If I tell you to do something you canât, youâll say so and Iâll change the order.â His eyes search yours and find purchase. âI donât break my toys. I keep them.â
âIâm notââ You swallow the word. Owned. The truth looks different when itâs the one you choose. âI donât know what I am.â
âGood,â he says softly. âDonât decide yet.â
He releases your throat and slides his hand to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, not to control you but to hold the animal hush of the moment still. When he leans down, he pauses a breath away, and you feel the hover of his mouth like heat on skin.
âTell me to kiss you,â he murmurs.
You should make him earn it. You should say please. You should do something clever. âKiss me,â you hear yourself say, and realize itâs the cleverest thing youâve ever done.
He does. Itâs unhurried, heavy with intention, a claim that tastes like smoke and a future youâre already explaining to no one. His mouth moves like heâs memorizing you and rewriting you simultaneously. When you open for him, he groans into you, the sound threaded with restraint. His hand tightens at your napeânot a threat, a tether.
You donât notice youâre shaking until he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours. âBreathe,â he says, and inhales with you, exhaling slow, like youâre both learning how.
âI⊠this isââ You fish for the right noun. Dangerous. Wrong. Perfect.
âNew,â he supplies, and smiles against your cheek. âFor you. Not for me. Thatâs why youâll be safe.â
You laugh, a small broken sound. âThatâs not how safety works.â
âIn my world, it is.â
You should argue. Instead you lean into the palm he cups against your jaw. He rubs his thumb along your cheekbone like heâs smoothing mortar into a foundation.
âGo home,â he says finally, and you blink.
âWhat?â
âGo home,â he repeats. âYouâre going to think about this if I let you. If I keep you, youâll follow because youâre drowning, not because you want to swim.â He kisses the corner of your mouth, a brand. âI only want you to come back when youâve decided to drown on purpose.â
Itâs cruel, how kind that is. Itâs a mercy that feels like a blade.
âWill youââ You donât know how to ask the question without sounding like a child asking the dark to wait outside. âWill your carâŠ?â
âYes.â He strokes your hair once, a gesture that goes straight to some soft animal rooted in your hindbrain. âYouâre watched until you say you donât want to be.â
âAnd if I say that?â
He smiles without humor. âWeâll renegotiate the terms until you understand you do.â
You should be offended. You find yourself relieved by the clarity.
He walks you back through hallways that look like fortresses pretended to be homes. At the front door, he helps you into your coat like a gentleman except his fingers linger at your collar in a way no gentleman would. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear like heâs hanging a piece of art.
âGoodnight, doll,â he says.
âGoodnight, Bucky,â you answer, and the way your voice trembles on his name registers in his eyes like something he will later collect interest on.
In the car home, you stare out the window at a city you thought you knew. It looks the same and different. Like someone has adjusted the focus and the edges have sharpened.
At your building, the driver gets out and opens your door before you can reach for the handle. He doesnât ask if you want him to walk you in. He just does. At your door, he waits until your key turns and the lock catchesâthe new lock, firm and certain.
âGood night, miss,â he says, touching two fingers to the brim of nothing, as if heâs wearing a hat that has to be imagined.
âDoes he⊠do this for everyone?â you ask, because you have to ask someone.
The driverâs face doesnât move much. âNo, miss.â
You close the door and lean your forehead against it, listening to the sound of the car leaving. The apartment is exactly as you left it: a plant you forgot to water, a cup in the sink, a blanket on the couch that never warmed you up as much as you told yourself it did.
On your kitchen table, where there was nothing when you left, thereâs a small box. Your heart trips and bolts like a deer. You look for signs of forced entry and find none, because men like him do not force anything they own. They open it.
Inside, on black velvet: a slim gold chain and a charm shaped like a key. Not a real oneâdecorative, delicate, the kind of thing you could wear every day and forget until a manâs finger hooked it to pull you closer.
A note, written in the same sure hand:
For when youâre ready to let yourself in. âB.
You hold the charm until the edges bite.
You should be afraid. Maybe you are. But when you carry the box to your bedroom and set it on your nightstand, when you curl around the emptiness that looks like a body-shaped decision, fear sits in the corner and says nothing. Desire takes the chair by the bed and watches you sleep.
You dream that night of a room with mirrors and a man who wonât touch you until you ask. You dream of a dollhouse where the furniture rearranges itself until it looks like home.
In the morning, you put on the necklace without telling yourself youâre just trying it. It lies against your skin like a promise you havenât made yet. On your way out the door, you lock it with the new lock and whisper to the empty hall, âIâll call you,â because you are a liar who wants to tell the truth.
On the street, the black car idles half a block away. It merges into traffic when you do, not too close, not too far, the distance of a hand at the back of your skull. When you pass the corner where the man spat near your shoes, he looks up and looks away before his gaze can land. You feel like the city itself has decided youâre breakable glass behind a velvet rope.
At your desk, your boss hovers and clears his throat and attempts to bully a spreadsheet. You stare at the numbers and think not of debt but of ratio: how much of you belongs to the world, how much to yourself, how much to a man who said what you are like it was his to name.
At lunch, you almost text him. You donât. At 3 p.m., a paper bag arrives with a sandwich that tastes like someone researched your favorite bread and paid a person to bake it before dawn. No note this time. Heâs giving you space to use the rope youâve been handed.
You make it to dusk before you break.
In your apartment, you stand by the window with the city bleeding pink into blue and the necklace cool against your skin. You hold your phone like itâs a weapon you can point at yourself. You open the text thread and type nothing and then you type:
Iâm not afraid of you.
Then, because honesty is a habit youâre growing like a dangerous plant, you add:
Iâm afraid of how much Iâm not.
The dots appear fast, like he had the thread open too. His reply arrives:
Good. Come back when youâre done being afraid of that.
You donât type for a long minute. The car downstairs doesnât move. Neither do you.
Finally:
Tomorrow.
A beat. Then:
Iâll be ready.
You lock the phone and set it face down. In the mirror, the charm on your necklace catches the last light and throws it onto your collarbone like a mark.
You sleep without dreams, as if a decision has been made by a part of you that doesnât use words. In the morning, when you tie your shoes, you reach for the door and pause with your hand on the knob. You look down at the charm. You close your fingers around it and whisper, not to the empty room but to the version of yourself that has been waiting on the other side of the door all along:
Okay.
You open the door. The black car glides to the curb like an answer.
Youâre done pretending you donât know the question.
You keep your word.
The next evening, the car meets you with the inevitability of the tide. Itâs a different driver this timeâbroad shoulders, a scar near his temple, eyes that note your necklace and mark something down you canât see. He opens your door; the city folds around you as the car slides through it like a blade in silk.
You expect the house. He takes you to Verona.
The club is louder tonight, or maybe your body is the drum. Lights shiver up the walls, white and blue and sinful red. The line outside snakes halfway down the blockâdresses like invitations, suits like threatsâyet the car pulls directly to a side entrance where a man youâve never seen lifts the latch the moment your heel touches pavement.
Inside, bass thumps your bones into a new arrangement. You pass people who try not to stare and fail. The hallway is the same as the first night, but you are not. You feel it in your skin: a secret stitched under your dress, an answer on the back of your tongue.
Buckyâs office door is open. He stands with his back to the city, hands in his pockets, a silhouette that would make angels rethink their career choices. When he turns and sees you, the room pauses in deference.
âDoll.â
Your reply is softer than you intend. âBucky.â
Natashaâs there, too, perched on an arm of the leather sofa, phone in hand like an accessory. She watches the way you walk toward him and files it in the cabinet behind her eyes. âYou look good,â she says, and you know sheâs not talking about your dress.
Bucky closes the space. He doesnât touch you. He lets the air handle that. His gaze drifts to the necklace and back. âYou decided,â he says.
âI decided,â you echo, and the gravity between you doubles.
He breathes in like the answer tastes. Then: âWalk with me.â
He takes you through the club, not fast. Eyes cut toward you and away again, the world taking its cues. His hand hovers at your lower back without contact, and the absence is more electric than any touch. On the second floor, he brings you to a balcony that overlooks the main floorâa view that makes the dance floor look like an altar.
âYou ever been worshipped?â he asks conversationally. The question lands in your stomach like a swallow of heat.
âI⊠donât think so,â you say, and it sounds like a confession.
He rests his knuckles on the railing, close enough that your arm hairs lift. âYouâre about to learn what it looks like.â
You donât get to ask what he means. Heâs already moving, and when Bucky Barnes moves, the city rearranges to suit. He leads you down a set of stairs tucked behind velvet curtains and onto the very edge of the dance floor, where the lights are low enough to grant intimacy and high enough to ensure visibility.
He faces you. For a long beat, he just looksâhead tilted slightly, eyes moving over you with a deliberation that makes your knees stupid. Then he lifts his right hand and offers it for your left.
âHand,â he says, and your body supplies the answer before your mind can pretend itâs got standards.
The pad of his thumb strokes once along the base of your fingers, a slow reassurance that hides a claim. He takes your other hand and places it on his chest, just above his heart. Itâs a simple thing, a public thingâand indecent in how it derails you. His heartbeat is steady. Yours scrambles to catch up.
âBreathe with me,â he says, like last night, like always, and you swear your lungs figure out their choreography only because his are willing to lead.
Music swells. He doesnât dance, not exactlyâhe moves youâguiding you with a pressure at your waist, a shift of his palm, the way his hips dictate a pattern your hips are desperate to recognize. It is not complicated. It is not innocent. It is a liturgy, call-and-response. Every slide of your body against his writes a line in a book you will not be allowed to close.
When he leans down to speak into your ear, his breath grazes your skin. âYou feel that?â
âFeel what?â you manage, and he smiles because he knows you know.
âEvery eye,â he murmurs. âEvery wish. Every man in this room who will go home tonight and try to decide if itâs envy or terror he tasted.â
âI donâtââ Your mouth is dry. âI donât want them.â
âYou donât have them,â he says, and the certainty in his voice buckles your resolve and cements your spine simultaneously. âYou have me.â
He turns you under his arm. The necklace glints at your throat; his attention flicks there and sticks.
When he settles you against him again, palm splayed warm at your lower back, he lowers his voice further, speaks into your neck like a secret. âIâm going to give you two rules,â he says. âHere. Now.â
âOkay,â you breathe.
âOne.â His thumb pressesâa brief, controlled weight at the side of your spine that has your body saying yes in a language older than your lips. âYou donât look at anyone else when Iâm holding you.â
You nod, a small tilt, quick.
âTwo.â He raises your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. It should be courtly. The heat that pours out of you in response proves itâs not. âWhen I tell you what you are, you believe me.â
âWhatââ The word stumbles. âWhat am I?â
He smiles like heâs been waiting for you to ask. âMine.â
You swear you hear the click of something locking into place far away, in the bones of the building, in the bones of you.
He keeps you there longer than is reasonable, a slow circuit through one song and then another, until you have a catalog of what his chest feels like under your palm and what his hands can make your feet do. Itâs possessive. Itâs tender. Itâs a warning delivered as seduction.
At some point thereâs a movement in the corner of your eyeâthe shift of a group, the eddy of a current around a rock. A man in a suit that cost less than his ambition shoulders through the crowd toward the edge of the floor, two goons in his wake like badly trained dogs. He has a ring that tries too hard and a face that thinks itâs a face.
He says Buckyâs name, casually wrong. âBarnes.â
The music doesnât stop. The world does.
Bucky looks at him without looking at him. âYou have business?â
The man glances at you. Itâs a glance that attempts to be insult and invitation at once. It fails to be either. âDidnât know you were training a new pet,â he says, loud enough to be heard, not loud enough to be safe.
You donât have time to flinch. Buckyâs hand tightens fractionally at your waistânot to bruise, to anchor. His eyes donât change temperature. His tone remains conversational.
âJohn,â he drawls. âI thought we werenât doing metaphors anymore after you embarrassed yourself with the horse thing.â
A few people within earshot laugh the way people laugh at funerals when a child says something honest. Johnâs mouth flattens. âYouâve got territory on my block and Iâve got questions.â
âIs that right?â Bucky says. âYou can send them to my accountant. Heâll ignore them for me.â
John squares his shoulders in a way that suggests heâs had success squaring them in other rooms. âOr,â he says with the confidence of a man who has never heard the sound of his own bones breaking, âwe could schedule a talk. Tonight.â
Buckyâs attention returns to you long enough to press his mouth to your temple. The contact undoes you and reassembles you in the space of a heartbeat. When he looks back at John, his hand spreads wider at your waist, a seal.
âI have plans tonight,â he says. âYouâre not in them.â
Johnâs gaze darts again to your necklace. He smiles, small and rotten, and leans toward one of his goons to murmur something meant to be a weapon. The goon laughs too quickly.
Bucky hears. Of course he hears. Heâs been listening to rooms his whole life.
âJohn,â he says, and his voice is no longer conversational. It slips a register into something elseâcold and precise, the sound that moves through a crowd before the knife does. âLook at me.â
John does, because there are orders human bodies canât refuse even when their minds are arrogant.
âIf you ever refer to her as an it again,â Bucky says, enunciating the pronoun until the syllable bleeds, âyouâll be feeding soup to your good hand with your bad hand for the rest of your life. Are we clear?â
The music goes on. The room gets quieter the way a room does when it chooses a side.
John swallows. He tries to mask it as disdain. âWeâre clear.â
âGood.â Bucky angles his head toward the exit with the smallest of movements. âGo home. Tell your mother you were brave today. Let her clap for you.â
John steps back. His goons do the math and add themselves to the distance.
Bucky doesnât watch them go. He tips your chin up with one fingerâlight, intimate, an antidote to the display. âYou all right?â
âYou threatened to break his hand,â you say faintly.
âI said Iâd make him relearn how to use it,â Bucky corrects softly. âItâs educating.â
Against yourself, you laugh. The sound loosens something low in his chest; you feel it with your palm still on him.
âCome on.â He tucks you into his side and steers you back toward the private corridor. âEnough music. I want to hear you instead.â
You feel the words between your legs.
Natashaâs gone from the office when you return; a penthouse key lies on the desk. Bucky pockets it. He looks at you with a consideration that reads like patience but feels like pressure. âWe go upstairs,â he says. âWe go at your speed.â
You nod. You donât trust your voice; youâre afraid it will crawl out of your mouth and kneel.
In the elevator, mirrored walls give you back a version of yourself you recognize less by the second. The charm at your throat catches the downlight; Buckyâs eyes track it and then your mouth. When the doors slide open, you step into a space that sits on top of the city like a crown and a sniperâs nest at once.
His bedroom is not the dollhouse. Itâs darker, bigger, a museum of restraint. The bed is an invitation written in black linen. The windows unspool the skyline like ribbon.
He doesnât touch you right away. He shows you his hands. Itâs a small thing. It eases the butterflies in your chest.
âWords,â he says. âTell me what you want.â
You stand there with your heart in your throat and the city at your feet and the man who could ruin or save youâprobably bothâwaiting like he has time. You realize suddenly you have never been asked this. You have been taken, persuaded, nudged. You have never been given the floor.
âIâŠâ The first things that come are small, to fill the silence. âI want to be kissed. I want to beââ Your voice lowers of its own accord. âI want to be handled.â
His jaw flexes. He takes a step. âGentle or not?â
You swallow. âI donât know.â
âWe can find out,â he promises.
âAnd I wantââ You donât mean to say it. The truth takes you by the throat and steadies your head. âI want to stop thinking about anything else.â
Something like pride flares in his eyesânot pride in himself; pride in you. âCome here.â
When you do, he lifts his hand to your throat againâlighter than before, a check, a helloâand waits for your body to settle. It does, to a pitch you hadnât known your strings could harmonize at. He bends and kisses you, slower than downstairs, deeper than last night. You meet him with a hunger that embarrasses you until you feel the soft noise he makes into your mouth and understand that hunger is the point.
âDress,â he says against your lips, and your hands find the zipper with a competence that feels like proof. He watches it slide, the fabric slackening, the shape of you emerging less like a reveal than a memory heâs been carrying. The dress puddles. His breath stuttersâjust a little, just enoughâand his eyes go heavy.
âYouâre beautiful,â he says, which is not a new sentence in the world and yet feels like the first time itâs ever been truthful. âTurn.â
You do. He unhooks your bra with a practiced ease that should annoy you. It doesnât. The straps drop. His hands skim down your arms and leave your skin wanting them back. He sets the bra aside like an object of moderate interest and covers your shoulders with his palms, warm and sure, aligning you with himself and the window and the future.
âLook,â he murmurs, angling you so you can see yourselves in the glass: your bare skin, his suited frame behind you like night about to happen. âSee the city? Thatâs mine. See you?â His mouth ghosts your ear. âThatâs mine, too.â
The possessiveness should scrape. It soothes. It gives you a place to be.
His fingers bracket your hip bones and pull you back against him, and when you feel himâhard and unambiguousâyour knees think about giving out. He holds you up with a hand splayed low on your belly, a promise and a predicament, and the other hand climbs, steady as a clock, to cup your breast.
âTell me if itâs too much,â he says, and rolls your nipple between finger and thumb, gentler than the words promise. Heat shoots downward, a precise line. Your mouth opens on a sound you didnât hire.
âGood,â he says, satisfied, and keeps goingâbuilding, not rushing, teaching your nerves how to read him. His pace is unhurried, as if you have all night and every night after. Maybe you do.
He sinks to his knees behind you without warning. The act would be servile on another man. On him it reads like a coronation. He kisses the small of your back through the silk of your slip, then pushes it up, hands patient, mouth impatient. When he presses his lips to the top of your thigh, your skin goes electric.
âFoot up,â he says, and lifts it onto a low bench you hadnât noticed, opening you with a choreographed ease that must have been discussed long ago between his body and gravity. He hooks a finger in your panties and slides them aside. The air bites you. His breath cools you. His mouth destroys you.
You hear yourself say his name like a warning, like a theology. He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes your grip on the bench go foolish. He doesnât devour. He eats. Lingering, savoring, mapping. Every time your hips try to chase and run, his arm tightens around your thigh, reminding you who leads. You yield for the first time in a way that countsâyour body telling the truth your mouth is still working up to.
âBucky, Iââ You donât know how to finish the sentence. He finishes it for you, pulling back just enough to say, âYou can, if you ask.â
You gasp, angry in the way only people on the edge are angry. âAsk?â
âWords,â he says, and his mouth returns to your undoing, slower now, coaxing you toward a place where language loses jurisdiction.
âPlease,â you hear yourself say, a whisper, a plea, a prayer, and he gives it to you like a man who knows the value of his own charity: fully, thoroughly, precisely. You come like youâve been trying to do it for years and someone finally delivered the right set of instructions in the right voice.
He stands while youâre still drifting, hands steady, mouth soft when it takes yours, letting you taste exactly what heâs made of you. âGood girl,â he says, and this time the words land somewhere that has nothing to do with obedience and everything to do with recognition.
He eases you onto the bed and sheds his jacket, then his tie, then unbuttons his shirt with a patience that makes you ache. You watch him like a starving thing learning the geometry of a meal. Scars ladder his shoulder, white lines written in a hand you donât yet know. He catches your gaze tracing them and says nothing. The silence is trust.
When he frees himself from his trousers, you forget to disguise your reaction. He smiles, small and male and not unkind. He kneels on the edge of the bed and drags his hands up your calves, your thighs, until his thumbs sit in the hollows where your legs meet your hips.
âIâm going to fuck you,â he says. The sentence is naked, not at all vulgar. âNot to take anything. To give you something you canât unknow.â
You nod like the student whoâs finally understood the subject.
He reaches to the nightstand. Thereâs nothing performative about the condom; he rolls it on easily while looking at your face like the slide of latex is secondary to the slide of your pupils widening. When he settles between your knees, his hand returns to your throatânot squeezing, just there, a reference point, a compass. The head of him rests at your entrance, status, promise.
âLook at me,â he says.
You do. He pushes in slowly, watching your face like a monitor, reading your microflinches, adjusting his angle as if youâve spoken them out loud. The stretch burns and gives, the pain small and bright, the relief wider and darker. He seats himself to the hilt and stills, chest rising, a man with a map getting his bearings.
âBreathe,â he reminds you. You do. He smiles, praise without words, and pulls nearly out before easing back inâagain, againâbuilding rhythm, testing how your sounds break and reassemble with each stroke.
You wrap your legs around his waist; he grunts, low and grateful, and pushes deeper. His forehead tips to yours; the charm on your necklace kisses his throat. He kisses you back with his mouth and his body both, the motion tightening, the control absolute.
âTell me whose you are,â he says, not a command you can disobey, but a door youâve been walking toward since you stepped into the club with an envelope like a talisman.
âYours,â you say, first as an exhale, then as a sentence, then as a decision. âIâm yours.â
âThatâs right,â he breathes, and the way it breaks inside him almost makes you cry.
He flips you before you know you want itâonto your hands and knees, a hand flattening in the small of your back to keep you against the sheets, the other circling your hip like a brand. He braces, draws out, and drives back in with a force that steals the noise from your throat and replaces it with a better one. The headboard knocks a rhythm. You reach for the pillow; he catches your wrist and pins it behind your back gently, a restraint more erotic for the care of it.
âYou take me so well,â he says, and somehow itâs not a compliment about your body but about your character. âGood girl. Good. Youâre mine. Say it.â
âYours,â you gasp, and then again when he hits a place inside you that draws sparks up your spine. âBucky, Iââ
âAsk,â he reminds you, breath roughening. âUse your words.â
âPlease,â you say, raw. âPlease let meââ
âNow,â he says, a gift, and you come hard enough to see white, hard enough to forget names and find them again on his tongue when he presses himself into you and follows with a shudder that feels like a promise being signed.
He doesnât collapse. He lowers you. Difference. You notice it even in the fog. He presses kisses along your shoulder blade, the base of your skull, a reverent inventory. He eases out slowly, discards the condom, returns with a warm cloth. He cleans you with a gentleness that rewires your understanding of power.
âWater,â he says, and brings it to your mouth. He tells you to drink and you listen without pause. The combination is a fuse.
When he lies down, you go without being told, fitting yourself to his side like space learned your shape while you were busy. His hand draws circles at your hip, slow and grounding. The city hums through the glass like applause buried under traffic.
âTell me what hurts,â he says into your hair.
âNothing,â you whisper, which is not true, but none of it is bad.
âTell me what scares you.â
You hesitate. He waits. You realize he will wait until you are old if thatâs what it takes. âHow easy it is,â you say finally. âTo say yes to you.â
He exhales, long. âIt wonât always be easy,â he says. âBut it will always be simple.â
You tilt your head up, meet his eyes. âWhatâs simple?â
He taps your necklace. âYou ask. I answer. You obey when you want to. You refuse if you must. I keep you regardless.â
âThat last part makes the others feel fake.â
He shakes his head once. âIt makes them real.â
You close your eyes and let the bed move with his breathing. For a while, there is no conversation, only the American myth of a man who loved a city enough to domesticate it and the complicated truth of a woman who has stopped pretending she wants to live somewhere else.
When you stir, he says, âStay,â and you realize he isnât asking. You realize you wanted him to tell you that. You drift.
You wake later to the soft click of keys, a murmured voiceâhisâsomewhere in the apartment. Not gentle. Not unkind. Business, soothed by the knowledge that you are here.
You sit up and find a glass of water replenished and a folded thing on the chair: the silk slip from the dollhouse room. Itâs the exact shade that makes your skin look expensive. You put it on. When he returns, the look he gives you composes a new national anthem.
âCome,â he says, and leads youâhand at your backâto the dollhouse. Itâs exactly as you left it and slightly different, a blanket added to the couch, a book you mentioned once under the window seat. He sets a small velvet box on the table between you.
You feel the shape of whatâs inside before he opens it. Itâs not a ring. Itâs a bandâthin, gold, a circle with no jewel, simple enough to ignore and impossible to miss. He lifts it between his fingers.
âThis is not a marriage you donât want,â he says with a wry tilt of his mouth. âItâs a declaration you do.â
âDeclaration of what?â Your voice is steady. You surprise yourself.
âThat you belong to me,â he says, as if reading a weather report. âAnd that I belong to you in the way a wolf belongs to the woods that raised him. Not tamed. Not leashed. Home.â
He slides the band onto the chain beside the key. It chimes a quiet chime. Your throat works around a lump that tastes like acceptance.
âIf you wear it,â he says, âmy people will treat you as me. My enemies will treat you as me. Every door opens. Every mouth shuts. Every hand helps.â He pauses, and the silence is a bow with a string drawn. âAnd every man who thinks a circle on a chain is less binding than a circle on a finger will learn remedial math.â
You laugh. It comes out cracked; he smooths it with his smile.
âDo you want it?â he asks.
Want. The word lays you out. âYes,â you say. âI want it.â
He leans in and kisses the hollow at the base of your throat, right where the chain rests, sealing a contract both of you wrote without paper. When he sits back, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, jaw setting in a way your instincts label as bad news.
âWhat?â you ask.
He weighs what to say, then doesnât condescend. âJohn,â he says. âHe didnât go home like a good boy.â
âIs itââ You glance at the windows as if the threat might announce itself in neon. âDangerous?â
âItâs inconvenient,â Bucky says, which is the most terrifying answer youâve ever loved. âIâm going to take care of it. You are going to stay here.â
âI canââ You look around the dollhouse. The safety is almost obscene. âIâll stay.â
âNatasha will be outside the door,â he adds. âIf you need anything, you say her name. If she needs to come in, she wonât ask twice.â
âYou think heâll⊠come here?â
âI think heâll do what small men do when theyâre seen by big rooms.â He stands, already in motion. âHeâll make a mess where someone else has to clean it.â
He takes your face in both hands and kisses you, not a goodbye, a continuation. âBe good,â he says. âBe mine.â
âI am,â you answer, and watch him go.
The house quiets. Quiet has a sound in spaces like thisâmoney sleeping, security cameras blinking like eyelids. You read three pages and then read them again without absorbing a word. You stand and walk to the window seat and press your palms to the glass and try to name the way your life has moved two inches to the left and landed better.
The first sound is faint. A disturbance of air. Boots on gravel. You tell yourself itâs always like this, alive things outside.
The second sound is not faint at all. Metal on metal, a scrape you can feel in your teeth. Then voicesâmen who speak in low tones because they think volume equals fear.
You stand. You donât run to the door because you hear Buckyâs voice inside your head reminding you of the simplest instructions. Stay. Natasha outside. Say her name.
âNatasha,â you say, and the door is already opening because she heard the first sound, not the second. She steps in, a pistol in her hand she didnât have in the office, hair tied back like a woman who has never once lost a bar fight.
âCome on,â she says, calm, and takes your arm. Youâve never been so grateful to be told what to do. She leads you not into the hall but into a narrow panel you would have called molding an hour ago. It swings shut behind you and becomes a wall. A small light glows just enough to show a corridor that looks like the house put on lingerie.
âPanic passage,â Natasha says lightly as you move. âFor when men are stupid.â
âHow oftenââ You donât complete the sentence. You donât want to know.
âOften enough,â she says, which is surprisingly reassuring.
You hear a bang behind the wall. Then another. Stepsâmany, fastâsomeone shouting no words, just noise. Natashaâs hand tightens once on your wrist. It steadies you more than it should.
âYou should know,â she says conversationally as you turn a corner and the passage opens into a room that looks like a safe married an art gallery, âheâs worse when youâre threatened.â
âWorse how?â Your voice shakes. It doesnât apologize.
âLess polite,â she says, as if discussing weather patterns. âMore efficient.â
The sounds explodeâcloser, louder. Then the quiet returns the way a tide does, dragging a different shoreline behind it.
âStay,â Natasha says, and slips out through another panel, a ghost learning to open doors in its new house. You stand in a room full of paintings and steel and try to count your breaths like Bucky taught you.
Footsteps. The panel opens. Bucky fills the threshold, the dark of him darker than the passage, blood on his sleeve like punctuation. You make a sound youâve never made before; he answers with something that unspools the tight band around your lungs.
âYouâre okay,â he says, crossing to you. âYouâre okay.â
âWhatââ You reach for his arm and your fingers come away red. Itâs not his. âWhat happened?â
He glances down at the smear on your thumb and something in his face shifts in a way that is not for public consumption. He takes your wrist gently, brings your hand to his mouth, and kisses the blood away like heâs erasing it. The gesture should horrify. It sanctifies.
âThey tried the kitchen entrance,â he says, like reporting on a weather front. âThey met me instead of the oven.â
âJohn?â you ask, because some part of you wants to know which names to dislike more.
âHeâll use a pen with his left hand for a while.â He tips your chin up. âYou were brave.â
âI hid in a wall.â
âYou did what I told you.â His thumb strokes your cheekbone, checks for tears, finds none, finds the wet in your eyes and reads it correctly anyway. âThatâs obedience. I like it.â
âI thought I wouldnât,â you say, honest, dizzy.
âYou like being safe more,â he says. âWe can work with that.â
Natasha slips back in, unruffled, the pistol gone again like a magicianâs rabbit. âCops wonât come if we donât call,â she says, as if reminding him to sign for a package. âWeâll handle the clean.â
âThank you,â Bucky says without looking away from you.
âWelcome to the family, doll,â Natasha tells you, and she means it.
Bucky walks you back to the bedroom, not fast, not slow, steps practiced to the beat of aftershock. In the bathroom, he washes his forearms, the water pinking, then clearing. You watch the blood go down the sink and feel two truths crystallize: this life is dangerous; this life, with him, feels less so than the office did.
He towels off and turns. The adrenaline in him has changed flavorâless violence, more possession. He cups the back of your head and kisses you, not frantic, not delicate, an affirmation.
âYou all right?â he asks again.
âYes,â you say, surprised at the steadiness. âNow.â
He searches your face for lies and finds none. The relief in his exhale feels like pride in you. He lifts you onto the counter. The mirror shows you: a woman in a silk slip, a man with wet hair and clean hands, a necklace that explains both.
âGive me your wrist,â he says. You do. He fastens a narrow braceletâgold, subtleâjust below your pulse. A key is engraved so small you wouldnât notice if you didnât know to look. âHouse access,â he says. âAny door that matters recognizes you now.â
âAny door?â You look at him, a smile rising without permission.
âEven mine,â he says, and the softness in it would be dangerous if anyone else heard. You tuck it away where you keep those kinds of victories.
He lifts you into his arms and carries you to the bed. The act is not a flourish; itâs logistics with affection. He lays you down like an offering and takes his place between your thighs like a demand. When he enters you this time, thereâs no hesitation. He sets a pace designed to remind your body of the map he drew earlier. You meet him willingly, greedily, a new word in your alphabet.
He talks to you while he moves, low, a cadence that braids filth with fealty: how good you look, how well you take him, what sounds are his favorites. He tells you youâre his a dozen ways and you say yes to each because each is different and all are true.
He rolls you and takes your wrists in one hand, pins them to the mattress above your head, his other palm around your jaw, reminding you where to keep your eyes. They stay on his. You realize you like being fed instructions almost as much as you like following the ones you write.
âOpen,â he says. Your mouth does. He spitsâsoft, obsceneâinto your tongue and you swallow on command. Heat roars through you, any lingering tremor from the intrusion downstairs burned off by this specific brand of sacrilege.
âGood girl,â he growls, and you clench around him so hard he breaks rhythm, swears, laughs breathlessly against your throat, and punishes you by fucking you better.
You come with his name in your mouth and his hand on your throat and your wrists owned by his palm. He follows a breath later, hips grinding, a sound ripped from his chest that you will hear later in the quiet parts of the day and feel between your legs. He breathes into your ear like heâs afraid youâll float away if he doesnât weight you down with oxygen.
After, he doesnât untie anything that isnât tied. He loosens every hold with touches that re-teach your body the difference between restraint and care. He brings water. He feeds you a strawberry from somewhere; the sweetness detonates on your tongue like a reminder that the world contains simple pleasures between complicated ones.
âSleep,â he says. âIâll be right here.â
âWill you leave ifââ You stop. You hate asking for reassurance. You love it when he gives it.
âIf the world ends, Iâll make it wait until you wake up,â he says, and curls his body around yours like he means to shield you from meteorites.
You dream of keys that fit every door. You dream of a city whose teeth are bars on a cage and of a man who knows how to open it without making you feel small.
By morning, the story of Johnâs bad night is already cautionary folklore whispered in kitchens and alleyways. You donât hear the exact details. You hear the satisfied hush in Buckyâs peopleâs voices when they say his name and yours in the same sentence.
You wake to coffee and a note propped against the cup, his handwriting decisive: Eat. I took a call on the terrace. Donât open to anyone but me. âB.
You drink because he told you to and because you want to. The combination continues to scare you in all the best ways.
When he returns, heâs crispâsuit, clean shave, a look that makes you think of a knife drying on a dish towel. He surveys you like a good thing he expects to find where he left it. He touches the chain at your throat as if to check a knot.
âCome meet the people who keep your world running,â he says, and there is no condescension in your world.
He gives you the back-of-house tour like a king introducing a queen to those loyal. Kitchens large enough to feed an army. A security room with a wall of screens that makes you understand how heâd known your steps before you took them. A courtyard full of rosemary and men who donât smoke near it because someoneâs learned their lesson.
People call you miss and maâam and a name that sounds different when said by those who know who will kill for it. They look at your bracelet, your necklace, and then your face, measuring heat against signal. You are polite because you want to be, not because you have to.
In the garage, he stops by a car you recognize: the black animal that watched your block at night. He leans his hip against it and folds his arms. âThere are rules if you stay with me,â he says, as if he hasnât already been giving them to you in digestible bites.
âTell me,â you say.
âDonât lie to me.â He ticks a finger. âDonât endanger yourself.â Another. âDonât pretend you donât like what you like because you think Iâll like you better softer.â
âIs that a rule or a preference?â You bite your lip to stop the laugh that wants to come out.
âBoth,â he says easily. âAlso, donât feed the internal critics. I know their names. Iâve killed men with those names.â
âBucky,â you say, half scandalized, half delighted, and he grins, the feral boy under the tailored man.
âAnd mine?â you ask, because if you are going to belong, you want the caloric content.
âMy rules are simple,â he says, stepping into your space, which is now his space, which is now your space by transfer of gravity. âI donât lie to you. I keep you safe even when it costs me. I donât make you small to make myself big. I donât ask what you canât give. I donât drop you.â
He says the last one quietly, like it is a private vow.
You feel it land in the place in your chest that has been holding brittle things for years. âOkay,â you say, and it is assent and gratitude and an oath of your own.
The days take on a shape. You still go to workâat first because you are stubborn, then because you are amused by the way your boss startles every time the black car idles near the curb. Paperwork loses its sting when you know the man who signed your lunch is a warlord who brings you cake. When you leave the office, the car is always there. You stop pretending it's a coincidence. Your colleagues stop pretending they donât notice the new systems of your life.
You spend nights at the house often enough that your plant dies and you donât mourn. Your drawer in the dollhouse becomes a closet. A toothbrush appears; you didnât put it there. A framed photo of a lake you once mentioned wanting to see hangs above the couch; you didnât hang it. You find yourself wanting to leave objects for him the way he leaves the world for you.
The sex evolves the way weather doesâstorm fronts, clear skies, a science you begin to understand. He never stops asking. He never stops telling. Sometimes heâs slow, reverent; sometimes he steers you with a hand on your throat like a compass that always points home. Sometimes he ties your wrists with a silk tie and makes you count so you remember that surrender looks like participation, not absence.
âWhereâs your line?â he asks one night, not as heâs about to cross it but when you are both quiet and fucked out and generous.
âI donât know yet,â you admit. âIâll tell you when we find it.â
He accepts that with the same respect he gives his pistol. âGood,â he says. âThen weâre not playing pretend.â
The world fails to leave you alone, as worlds do when a woman decides to live in it differently. John is quiet, for now. Others are not. Bucky is a tide. He takes your danger and drowns it. You learn that the most frightening thing about him is not his violence but his mercyâwho gets it, when, how he decides to withhold it not out of anger but out of strategy.
You see him negotiate once, watch him refuse to raise his voice the way a conductor refuses to raise his baton until his orchestra is ready to play. The man across the tableâBaron, older, a relic of an order Bucky is rewritingâthinks he can goad him into public temper. Bucky eats a grape. It is enough to reset the hierarchy.
After, in the car, you say, âYou could have broken his nose with a look.â
âI didnât want to get blood on your dress,â he says dryly, and then adds, âBesides, everyone here knows what I can do when I move. Itâs important they also understand what I can do when I donât.â
You tuck that away. You are building a lexicon.
The thing that makes you understand the word family in this context is not a dinner or a fight. Itâs a Wednesday morning. Youâre in the kitchen, barefoot, drinking coffee that tastes like a small countryâs GDP. A young man with a scar at his lip and a shyness he wears like armor edges in, eyes on the floor. He reaches for a bagel, fails to make contact because you are also reaching.
âSorry,â you say.
âSorry,â he says at the same time, then freezes like a deer at the edge of a clearing.
You smile. âYou live here?â
He shakes his head, then nods because itâs complicated. âWork,â he says. âSometimes sleep.â
âWhatâs your name?â you ask, and when he whispers Peter, you say it back like you mean to remember. He blinks, surprised. You pass him a plate. He pretends not to notice how you saw his hands shaking.
When Bucky wanders in a minute later, in pajama pants and a T-shirt like someoneâs fantasy, he greets the kid first, by name, with an ease that suggests the scar is a story Bucky already knows how to end better next time. He kisses your cheek on his way to the coffee. The kid watches with a look that is not envy but reliefâthe confirmation that the person who keeps him safe is also kept.
Later, Bucky says, âYou did good with Peter,â like you completed a piece of accounting.
âI handed him a bagel.â
âYou handed him dignity,â he says. âHeâll remember.â
You think maybe heâs talking about someone else he once handed the same thing.
The rupture comes carefully, the way bad things do when they intend to do permanent work.
Youâre leaving your office on a Tuesday. The black car is there. So is another. You notice it the way you notice a smell in your apartment that doesnât belong to you. Itâs beige, anonymous, the kind that belongs to men who want to be ignored until it is too late.
You donât hurry. You donât dawdle. You hold your phone and consider the shape of the panic passage in your chest. When youâre halfway to the car, the beige door opens. A man steps out. He has the posture of a man who thinks the world owes him a receipt.
He smiles. It doesnât reach anything worth reaching. âHi.â
You stop. Your driver shifts his weight, hand near the door handle. The sidewalkâs noise muffles.
âI have a question,â the man says, and it is the kind of question that sits on top of a threat like a paper napkin on a knife.
âAsk it from there,â you say evenly.
He tilts his head as if charmed. âHas he told you what he did onââ He names a street youâve never heard of. âBack in the day. They say he never misses. They say heââ
The driver has you in the car before your brain finishes the sentence. The door slams. The beige man is still talking, mouth moving, sound blocked. Your heart is a trapped bird. The driver says, âSeatbelt,â and the command grounds you better than the leather.
âWho isââ You start.
âNoise,â the driver says. âStatic. Mr. Barnes will handle it.â
You nod. You already knew that. What you didnât expect is the complicated reaction tightening in your throatânot fear of the man, not fear of Bucky, but a hunger for the exact version of him that made the beige man show up in the first place. The realization is resignation and victory at once.
At the house, Bucky meets you at the door like a man who has been half-tied to the foyer by restraint. He takes one look at your face and says nothing, which is the right call, and then he says, âUpstairs,â which is also the right call.
In the bedroom, he cups your jaw, thumbs at your ears, a frame around your senses. âTell me,â he says.
You do. You tell him the street and the posture and the smile. You tell him you werenât afraid until you were, and then you were in the car. You tell him you are tired of being brave in small ways and want to be brave in a way that either ends the day or changes it forever.
He listens. He doesnât interrupt. When youâre finished, he kisses your forehead, then your mouth, then your throat, mapping out the places the manâs voice tried to reach and replacing it with his own.
âYou did good,â he says. âYou got in the car. You let my people do their job.â
âWhat was he talking about?â you ask, because if you are going to belong, you cannot be allergic to the truth.
Buckyâs jaw works. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats the space beside him. You go because you do. He glances at your necklace and decides how much to take off your shoulders tonight.
âThe street he named,â he says. âThat was a long time ago. The man who ran that corner put three girls in the ground. One of them⊠looked like someone I used to be.â He swallows. âI ended it. There were witnesses. Some people tell the story like a warning. Some tell it like a prayer. Some tell it to scare women who belong to men like me into leaving.â
Itâs not a boast. Itâs not an apology. Itâs an index.
âDo you regret it?â you ask.
He looks at you like he loves you, which is a sentence you do not yet know how to write in your head. âNo,â he says. âI regret there was no other way.â
You nod. You take his hand. You are more relieved than you are ashamed of the relief. âOkay.â
âOkay?â he repeats, checking.
âOkay,â you say again, firmer. âI donât want to be the kind of woman who asks you to be a smaller man.â
He draws a breath like heâd been holding one your whole life. âYou wonât be.â
âGood.â You squeeze his fingers. âThen fuck me like the world just tried to make me afraid of you.â
He laughs, broken and reverent. âWith pleasure.â
He does. He fucks you like confession and absolution, like a weapon he knows how to dismantle and clean, like a man who understands that the cure for the wrong kind of fear is the right kind of surrender. He wrecks you and remakes you and licks his name into your skin like ink.
After, he doesnât let you get small in your head. He keeps you on top of him, keeps your breath on his throat, keeps your body on his body so that when your mind tries to leave the room to negotiate with ghosts, he can bring it back with a hand on your ass and a murmur in your hair. You fall asleep on his chest, and the last thing you hear is his heart accusing the night of being too long.
The beige man never reappears. The story does, filtered now through Buckyâs choices rather than other peopleâs convenience. You start to understand what it means to be with a man who is not so much feared as deferred to by gravity.
There is one more thing the world wants from you before it lets you live like this without protest: a test it pretends is an accident.
Itâs not Verona or the house. Itâs not even your office. Itâs the grocery store, a small one with better fruit and worse lighting, where you go with a list because you promised Bucky youâd cook him the food your grandmother taught you, and he looked at you like you had just offered to build him a private church.
Youâre in the aisle with the spices, debating the price of saffron like a person who was poor very recently, when a woman stops beside you. She is ordinary in the way a knife drawer looks ordinary when the drawer is closed. Her hand lingers near the glass bottles a beat too long. She says your name. Not the miss. Not the maâam. Your name.
You look up. You donât recognize her. You recognize the eyesâwrong hunger, wrong place.
âI have a message,â she says.
âFrom?â
She smiles. It is not a smile. âSomeone who wants the city back the way it was, when kindness was weakness and the only women who felt safe were too invisible to be worth stealing.â
âThatâs not a message,â you say. âThatâs a description.â
She tilts her head, approving. âHe says you have two choices. Leave him and live. Stay and watch him die.â
The aisle hums with other peopleâs shopping carts, other peopleâs dinners. You feel the universe try to force you into a binary that benefits someone who isnât here.
âNo,â you say.
She blinks. âNo?â
âThose arenât the choices,â you say politely. âThose are the threats. The choice is: I stay and we live. Or I stay and we outlive you.â
Something cold and bright moves behind her expression. âYou think you can save him?â
âNo,â you say, and your honesty tastes like steel. âI think he saves himself. I think I make sure he doesnât want to stop.â
She leans in like she might whisper. You donât flinch. She says, âHe will die for you.â
âI know,â you say. âThatâs why I wonât let him.â
You walk away because you can. Your hands shake only a little when you pick up the saffron. Itâs as expensive as blood. It feels right.
At the house, you tell Bucky exactly what happened while the rice simmers. He doesnât interrupt. He doesnât do the male thing where he thinks his anger is more useful than your courage. He tastes the sauce when you offer him a spoon and makes a noise indecent enough to be rated.
He says, âThank you,â and you realize he means for not letting the story tell you who you are.
âDo I need to move?â you ask, because your lease is a fiction and your life is not.
âYou already have,â he says, and kisses your wrist where the bracelet sits. âOfficially, if you want.â
âYes,â you say without pretending to consider. âI want.â
The papers appear without effort, not because bureaucracy becomes easier when youâre in love with a mobster but because power prefers signatures that everyone involved would like to keep. Your bag at the apartment becomes a box, then two. You keep one shelf empty for the part of you that enjoys the pretense of independence. He never remarks on it. He fills it with flowers on a Monday and a pile of books on a Friday and your grandmotherâs recipe cards laminated by someone with a steady hand and a sense of humor.
You fuck on the kitchen counter after the saffron rice and the lamb, Buckyâs hands under your thighs, your back sliding along a cabinet where knives sleep. He says open and you open. He says look at me and you do. He says mine and you say yes like an antidote.
It doesnât feel like youâre losing yourself. It feels like youâre being curated.
There is one last thing. It comes on a night that starts quiet and heads toward story.
Bucky has business. He doesnât say what at first because he knows the difference between telling you everything and telling you enough. You lie in the dollhouse and read until the words blur. You fall asleep to the hum of a house that trusts its doors.
You wake to Natashaâs hand on your shoulder, gentle. âUp, doll.â
You sit up already moving. âWhatââ
âNothing bad,â she says, and itâs the most tender lie she knows how to tell. âHe needs you.â
She takes you to the safe room. Bucky is there, seated, shirt open, a line of blood along his ribs more dramatic than dangerous, breathing like he ran when he should have walked. He looks up and the look is a man who has been underwater and remembers air.
âI told you I wouldnât drop you,â he says hoarsely, which is not an explanation. It is, somehow, enough.
You go to him. Natasha leaves because Natasha knows when rooms need fewer people. You kneel between his knees and press your forehead to his sternum and he touches your hair with a hand that shakes. He says your name like a lullaby.
âWhat happened?â you ask.
âNegotiation,â he says dryly. âThey are now more convinced than ever that my terms are generous.â
You pull back and look at the cut. âStitches?â
âTwo,â he says. âAlready done.â
You clean what needs cleaning because he has taught you how to help without making him small. You wrap what needs wrapping because he has taught you that care is not weakness; it is logistics.
When you are finished, he draws you into his lap. You go willingly, astride, face to face, a posture that looks like yielding and feels like command. He cups your backside and rocks you gently until your dress hitches and your breath does, too.
âI almost called you earlier,â he says into your mouth.
âWhy didnât you?â
âBecause I wanted to bring you something instead of taking something away.â
âWhat did you bring me?â
He tips you forward until your necklace swings and the band on the chain clinks the key. He kisses the place where they rest. âA city that will not touch you without my permission,â he says. âAnd a man who loves you even when he is unworthy.â
You freeze, not because of the word, but because of how easily he says it, like he has said it to only a few things in his life and is not ashamed to add you to their number.
âSay it again,â you breathe.
âI love you,â he says, and the room adjusts its architecture.
âGood,â you whisper, and your hands find his jaw, and you kiss him like a woman accepting a crown.
You ride him there in the safe room, slow, deliberate, a metronome for a new era. He holds your hips, control looser than usual, letting you write this one. You take what you want because he taught you wanting is not a sin and because you like teaching him, too. When you come, you do it with your eyes open and your hand on his throat lightly, a mirror of the first night, an inversion he receives like gospel.
He follows, face against your neck, a sound you own. When itâs over, he doesnât let go. You stay like that until the night scabs and the house exhales.
Later, in bed, he tucks you into his side and traces your bracelet with his thumb. âWeâll make it official,â he says.
âWhatâs left?â you ask, because the chain feels official, the bracelet feels official, the way the world moves out of your way feels like a coronation.
âNothing the state cares about,â he says with contempt and humor. âEverything I do.â
He means ceremony. He means a room where people who would die for him gather to watch him swear to live for you. He means a feast that tastes like a promise and a dance that looks like a lesson.
He means a vow, here, now, in the simplest form:
âYours,â he says.
âYours,â you answer.
The city sleeps. The club throbs. The house holds. The dollhouse glows.
You, who once delivered envelopes for other men, deliver yourself to this one. He, who once wrote his name in blood because it was the only ink men respected, writes it now on your skin with his mouth because you asked him to and because he will do nothing you donât ask for except protect you from every last thing that didnât have the sense to fear you.
In the morning, the world will try again. Let it.
Tonight, you belong, and the belonging does not diminish you. It crowns you.
Bucky sleeps with his hand on your hip as if the universe might roll and he means to keep you from sliding. When the dark moves, he moves it back. When the light comes, he lets it in.
You wake before him and watch his face in the kind of quiet you used to think you didnât deserve. You touch the chain at your throat and feel the key and the band and the steady line of the life you chose.
You whisper to the room, to the city, to whatever god oversees men like him and women like you:
Thank you.
And, because you have learned the value of precision:
Mine.
The invitation isnât a card; itâs a movement.
By late afternoon the city seems to lean subtly in one direction, as if gravity is making its choice known. Cars slide through intersections that suddenly favor a certain route; elevators arrive a little faster if theyâre going up to Verona; the phones of men who matter all buzz with the same two-word text sent from a number they donât save because saving it would look like worship:
Tonight. Upstairs.
Youâre in the dollhouse slipping gold hoops into your ears when Natasha appears in the doorway without noise. She looks you over like a sister would, like a soldier would. âYouâll break necks,â she says, which in this house is a compliment and a plan.
âIs this⊠a party?â you ask, smoothing the silk along your hips. The dress is black as a closed eye, the neckline a law he wrote on your collarbone.
âA vow,â she says. âWith witnesses.â
Your throat tightens. It isnât fear. Itâs the old self in you taking one last look around the room she lived in without furniture.
Bucky is waiting at the base of the staircase that leads to the clubâs private penthouse. He is in a suit cut so close it feels like a confession, hair tamed, jaw clean, a hand in his pocket like he could draw a gun or a promise with equal ease. The crowd parts around him the way a sea will if it knows whatâs good for it.
When he sees you, the mask he wears for the world thins. Not fallsâthinsâenough for you to see the boy who learned to want like other people learn to pray. He offers you his hand. You take it. The room breathes in.
The penthouse has been rearranged. The bed is gone. In its place: a long table set with flowers that look like expensive apologies, crystal like a threat you intend to keep, candles whose flames behave as if the air has been warned. People ring the roomâhis lieutenants, the loyal, the necessary. Peter stands near the wall with shoulders back and new steadiness in his mouth. Your driver is present and pretending not to be proud. The kid with the scar at his lip tries not to stare and fails beautifully.
No clergy. No government. Just a city in human shapes waiting to see what its center will do next.
Bucky doesnât bring you to the head of the table. He brings you to the center. He faces you, takes both your hands, and speaks without raising his voice, because his voice doesnât need volume to be obeyed.
âI told you I donât do theater,â he says. A ripple of quiet laughter. âBut I do oaths.â
He looks at the people who keep his name alive. âYouâve heard me make them before. To the dead, to the living, to the streets that fed me when I was hungry and to the men who thought they could starve me. Tonight I make one to her.â His gaze returns to you and stays. âAnd to you, because your lives attach to mine, and mine attaches to hers.â
You blink and the world doublesâhim close, the room farther, a mirror you could choose to step through.
âI will not lie to her,â he says. âI will not make her small so I can feel big. I will not ask what she cannot give and I will not drop her when the air turns thin. What belongs to me belongs to herâmy name, my shelter, my enemies, my mercy. What tries to touch her will learn the lesson I teach best.â
He tips your chin with two fingers, a touch private and public at once. âAnd you,â he says softly, for you alone, âwhat do you want to say?â
Every eye on you now, not like knives, like moons. Your voice is not loud, but the room is trained to listen.
âI wonât ask you to be smaller,â you say, stealing from last nightâs truth because it was good. âI wonât make you guess at my mind. Iâll tell you what scares me and Iâll ask for what I want, and when I canât, Iâll learn. Iâll be brave in the ways that matter, not the ways that look good in stories. I wonât run when it gets ugly. Iâll remind you to eat.â A small roll of laughter, eased. Your mouth curves. âAnd Iâll belong to you on purpose.â
Thereâs a soundâlow, collective, like a building settlingâwhen you say it. Belong. On purpose. It slides into the floorboards and roots.
Bucky nods, eyes bright with something that doesnât blink. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a little leather tray. Inside lies the band he added to your chain and a second, identical circle. He takes yours from your necklace with careful fingers and slides it onto your finger carefully, deliberately, not ring fingerâthe right hand, in this house a signal that writes a different math than the stateâs.
He holds your hand up so the room can see. âMine,â he says, and the room replies without sound and with total agreement.
You pick up the second band and thread it onto his watch chain, hooking it next to the knife charm youâd noticed once and never asked about. He lifts his browâpleased, surprised, undone by inchesâand the small pulse of shock in him feels like a power you intend to use mercifully.
He doesnât kiss you yet. He turns to the room. âEat,â he says. âDrink. Make me look generous.â
Laughter that isnât fake blooms like a bruise in reverse. The table fills. Natasha shepherds servers with the expertise of someone who has run both a ballet and a war. Baron is not present, nor is John, and the absences are pointed the way a gun is. The music is lowâstrings and smoke, something old enough to have survived being alive.
Bucky doesnât let go of your hand for the first thirty minutes, not for greetings, not for whispered reports, not for jokes delivered in a dialect of violence youâre beginning to understand. Your other hand picks at a rosemary sprig. He notices and stills your fidget with a thumb across your knuckles, a touch that says calm without humiliating you for needing to be told.
Midway through the first course, the roomâs attention shifts the way a flock does when it sight-lines a hawk. The elevator doors slide open without ceremony. A man steps out. He is not Baron or John or the beige messenger. He is dressed better than both and wears his fear like a hatâtoo visible, too new, difficult to hold when the wind changes.
He approaches Bucky without the deference smart men show and stops too close. âBarnes.â
Bucky looks at him and manages to be bored and deadly at once. âRuining your own eveningâs invitation says something unflattering about your social life, Pierce.â
Pierce. Unimportant enough that you hadnât heard his name and important enough that he thinks the gate might open just because he said it. He doesnât look at you. He does look at your hand, at the band. He smiles thin and wrong. âA pity,â he says, âto bring the doll out just to break her.â
Silence. Not fear-silenceâexpectant. Bucky doesnât stand. He doesnât raise his voice. He leans back slightly, head tilting the way a pantherâs does while it decides whether the thing that just made a noise is worth noticing.
âRead the room,â he says. âThen try that sentence again.â
Pierce clears his throat like heâs swallowing the part of his soul that still wants to see sunrise. He glances around and realizes heâs the kind of man who mistakes proximity for protection. He tries again. Worse. âSheâs leverage,â he says, like heâs announcing the weather. âWeâve all had them. We all know how the story goes.â
You feel the change in Bucky before you see itâthe temperature drop, the clarity sharpen. He doesnât move fast. He doesnât need to. He places his napkin on the table, rises, and steps into Pierceâs space in a way that redefines the term. When he speaks, itâs soft, persuasive, a loverâs cadence used for a lesson.
âYouâre new enough to think that the men here would nod if you called her leverage,â he says. âLook around. Do you see any nodding?â
Pierceâs jaw works. His eyes flip past faces that refuse to rescue him.
âSheâs my line,â Bucky continues, and the word lands like architecture. âThe one thing you donât step over if you want to keep walking. She is the reason I leave my temper in the drawer. She is the reason you will, too.â
Pierce blusters. âSentiment. Thatâs how empires fall.â
âEmpires fall because men like you mistake cruelty for intelligence,â Bucky says, almost kindly. He glances sideways at Natasha. âEscort him to the elevator. Remind him how doors work.â
Natashaâs smile is a knife youâd trust with your hair. She tucks her arm through Pierceâs and steers him, chatting as if theyâre about to pick out wallpaper. He resists with exactly the strength he will later regret wasting. The doors close on a last look from him that promises a mess someone else will clean up.
Bucky returns to his seat without needing to fix his jacket. His hand finds your thigh and rests there, grounding you like a palm on a drum. The room exhales and refills with sound, the way a city does after an ambulance siren passes.
âYou all right?â he asks, low.
âYes,â you say, honest. âI liked the part where you didnât stand up until you were ready to stand up.â
He huffs a laugh. âI liked the part where you didnât flinch.â
âI havenât had time to learn how in this dress,â you murmur, and his eyes flare with a heat that is private and about to become public.
âDance with me,â he says.
You donât argue. On the small space cleared between tables, he pulls you closeânot the respectful distance of a formal set, but body to body, the way you learned downstairs. He sways you through a song that declines to hurry, his mouth at your ear, his breath a script you are willing to speak.
âSay it,â he whispers.
âYours,â you say, helpless and in control.
When the song ends, the room politely looks away. You feel eyes anywayâthe good kind, the family kind. Youâre learning the difference.
A crash interrupts the second course. Glass shatters somewhere distant and deliberate. Heads lift. The security men by the door cock their heads like dogs bred to hear the frequency of danger.
Buckyâs hand on your thigh tightensâa notch, not a panic. He looks to Natasha. Sheâs already moving. He does not release you. The room remains seated by force of will and habit; only the necessary stand. Through the glass you see a red smear across tile that suggests someone taught a lesson too near the linens.
âKitchen,â Natasha calls, not shouting. âTwo.â She vanishes with three of Buckyâs men in her wake. The others hold.
âStatic,â Bucky says to you, an echo of the driver. âItâs nothing.â
Itâs not nothing. You know that now. But it is not the kind of something that can touch you. Ten minutes later, the men return with jackets unruffled and expressions that say the kitchen will be hiring. Natasha shakes her head once at Bucky: handled. He inclines his chin: thanks.
The room pretends nothing happened because pretending is sometimes an act of mercy.
Dessert is figs and mascarpone and honey that looks like sunlight learned to sit still. Bucky feeds you a bite with his fingers; you lick them clean without being told to be obscene about it. He smiles like a man who built a world where you could.
When the last glass has been drained and the last necessary face has been seen, the room makes the kind of exit that leaves more warmth than smoke. People approach to murmur small sentences that matterâwe have you, we have her, call if you need the containerâcoded language youâre slowly learning. Peter nods at you and grins. The driver touches his forehead with two fingers like a blessing.
At last itâs quiet again. The candles gutter and hold. The city beyond the glass offers its neon pulse to anyone who still needs it. You donât.
âCome here,â Bucky says, voice different nowâgrainier, the public stripped off, the private coming through.
He leads you not to the elevator but to a door you havenât used. A short hallway. Another door. A space that smells faintly of cedar and smoke and the inside of a wrist. Itâs small. Itâs not the dollhouse. Itâs not the bedroom. Itâs something else: a room built for choices.
On a shelf: a collarâno lock, no leash, just a wide band of black leather with a single gold D-ring that looks like an eye. Bucky doesnât reach for it. He stands with his hands loose at his sides and gives you the only thing men like him are never trained to give: time.
âI wonât ask,â he says. âI wonât even suggest. Iâll tell you what it means and youâll decide on your own feet.â
âTell me,â you say, throat dry, knees steady.
âItâs not a toy,â he says. âIt doesnât come out for play unless you want it to. Itâs not a mark for me to seeâitâs a mark for you to feel. It says: I chose this. I wanted this. I chose him. Itâs not forever. Itâs not a trick. Itâs a now that we renew when we want to.â
You step forward. The leather looks softer than you expected. He stays still, a monument that knows it doesnât need to move to be believed.
âWill you⊠put it on me?â you ask, and your voice does not sound like anyone else youâve ever been.
âYes,â he says, and you feel the way the word goes through him. âIf you ask.â
âIâm asking.â
He lifts it with the care of a man allowed to hold a baby for the first time. He comes behind you, not to trap, to honor. The collar circles your throat. His handsâthose careful handsâfasten it. It is not tight. It is present. His mouth touches the nape of your neck as if sealing wax. âLook,â he says, turning you toward the mirror.
You do. The woman in the glass has your face and not. The band at her throat gleams. The key on her necklace rests below it; the right-hand ring burns. Her eyes are not pleading. They are not defiant. They are certain in a way that feels like water finding the bowl it was meant to fill.
âSay it,â he murmurs.
âMine,â you whisper, and his exhale splits his composure. âYours.â
He kisses you with the collar on. You feel the weight of it against his mouth and the press of your decision between every part of you that intersects his. He walks you backwards until your shoulder blades skim wood and your dress hikes, and then it is hands and heat and a sound he makes that feels like a church falling down around you both. He doesnât rush, though everything in him wants to. He doesnât break the moment by breaking you. He opens you, enters you, holds you while you learn what it means to be kept like this. You come with your hands braced at his shoulders, the D-ring cool against your skin, his breath in your mouth, your name on his tongue as if heâs giving it back to you under his.
After, he doesnât take it off. Not yet. He lifts you, wraps your legs around his waist, carries you like a tale he intends to retell, and lays you on the bed now returned to the room because space obeys him. He licks the choice from your skin. He says thank you into your ribs. When he finally unbuckles the collar, he sets it on the nightstand with a kiss to the leather as if itâs a relic.
âWater,â he says. âFood.â
âIâm notââ You start to say hungry. Your stomach answers for you with a small, polite growl. He grins, fucked-out and fond, and fetches strawberries and a plate of cheese and bread that must have appeared with the candles because Natasha plans five moves ahead and three degrees sideways.
You eat on the sheets, laughing when honey drips on your wrist and he licks it off with a reverence that makes you shiver. You drink water. You breathe. You look at him. He looks at you like he intends to keep doing that until he learns the parts of your face no one else noticed.
âTell me a secret,â you say, drunk on safety.
He thinks. Not long. âI sleep better when you breathe on my neck,â he says. âI didnât know I liked that. I was certain I didnât.â
âTell me another,â you say, greedy.
âI re-read the same three books when Iâm afraid Iâm becoming the kind of man who only knows new violence,â he says. âItâs a stupid method. It works.â
âTell me yours,â he adds gently.
âI wanted someone to tell me what to do,â you say, the shame gone like smoke in this air. âBut I only wanted that person to be you.â
He doesnât gloat. He kisses your knuckles the way he did at the balcony rail and says, âGood. Now youâll learn to tell yourself what to do and Iâll make sure the world doesnât punish you for it.â
You sleep with his hand on your hip and the collar in the dark like a star that is only for you to see.
The days that follow donât turn into legend. They turn into life. Thatâs rarer. Pierce disappears from the places you might see him, which means he has either learned or has been taught. Baron sends a bottle of Barolo with a note that says to the lady who eats saffron, which is his way of admitting defeat while pretending heâs being courtly. The beige car stops parking across from your office. John signs with his left hand. Peter gains weight and loses the habit of flinching when doors open.
You work. You donât if you donât want to. Bucky doesnât tell you to quit; he tells you the doors you walk through belong to you. You keep doing the thing with the list on the fridge; now it includes items like bullets and burrata and it doesnât feel like a contradiction.
Sometimes, you go back to your old apartment just to stand inside the space where you pretended to need so little. You water the plant that came back from the dead because kindness can work retroactively. You sit on the floor and let the light run its fingers through your hair and realize the only thing that has changed is the part of you that believed your life had to fit inside these walls to be yours. You lock the door behind you not because you have to, but because he would want you to.
On a Saturday at the market, an older woman at a spice stall eyes your bracelet and necklace and the ring on your right hand and says, âYou found a man who learned to be worth a woman.â
You smile. âI did.â
âWear it,â she says, tapping the chain. âNot the gold. The certainty.â
You bring saffron home because it tastes like celebration and work. You cook. He eats. You let him feed you with his fingers because some nights thatâs your liturgy. He kisses you slow at the sink with your hands wet. You grind pepper into his hair and he laughs like a man who thought heâd forgotten how.
One evening, the sky lifts a little earlier. The city acts like a dog that has been walked. Verona hums. The house breathes. You and Bucky sit on the window seat in the dollhouse with your legs pressed together and a book open across both your knees. He reads the line again, the one he always returns to when he is afraid of becoming too sharp.
ââAnd you? When will you begin that long journey into yourself?ââ he quotes, thumb rubbing your knee.
You tip your head to his shoulder. âI already did,â you say. âThe day I walked into the wrong room with the right envelope.â
âBecause youâre mine?â he asks, teasing but not entirely.
âBecause I decided to be,â you say, and he kisses your hair like an amen.
Thereâs a knock, then a pause, then Natashaâs voice through the door: âDinner.â
You call back, âTwo minutes,â and Bucky calls, âThree,â and she laughs because she knows he always adds one for indulgence.
You close the book. He sets it on the sill. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you like a man who intends to do it again tomorrow. When he pulls back, his forehead rests to yours, and his whisper is a thing that belongs to no one else.
âMine.â
âYours,â you answer, a vow renewed in plain clothes.
The city lights itself. The room holds you. The collar sleeps on the nightstand like a star that remembers the names you gave it.
You stand and walk toward dinner without looking behind you. You donât have to. Everything you want is walking beside you, and everything that might touch you without permission has learned a different route.
When you pass the mirror, you catch yourselfânecklace, ring, mouth kissed, eyes clearâand the woman who loved a mobster smiles back at you not like a warning, but like a promise kept.
Thank you for the tag, @tc-doherty! I appreciate you so much!
Here is my favorite exchange from the scene I just finished working on, from book one of the Paragon series, Fire in My Veins:
Nate: "I at least want to see what it's about. Will you go with me?"
Reese: "You want me to go with you to some mysterious address where we'll find god knows what after you were solicited by some random stranger while you were at work?"
Nate: "Yeah, pretty much."
Reese: "Man, this might be the whitest shit you've ever pulled. Sounds like the plot of a horror movie where the black guy dies first."
[Nate laughs and shrugs.]
Nate: "You got me on that one."
Been writing a lot the last few days, this was the last line I wrote earlier this afternoon for my @the-grey-books Slow Horses Big Bang - The Thief's Gamble - it's sooo nearly finished!
âNow fuck off, it's time for my afternoon kip.â
@soelstress tysm for tagging me i love a good sugar daddy story. this is my first time doing one of these so thank you for thinking of me.
Iâve actually been sick so I havenât written anything new but this is something old I have
âAs the car turns down the winding road toward their house, the city slipping away behind them. Y/N pulls back just enough to whisper, âThank you for skipping the party with me.â â
(youâre the only mutual i made so far im not sure who to tagđđ )
@opheliabbarnes @fckmebarnes @sunsetmaneuver @witchywithwhiskey (i love your stories <3)
tysm for the tag!! need to read more immediately lol
from an angst heavy bucky fic iâm working on
âWas peace death? Was death peace? How could he be sure when he felt like he constantly toed the line between this life and the next; one foot out the door while something, someone, inside of him screamed you know this, you know me, you know him?â
npt: @blowingbarnes @barnesonly @buckyseternaldoll @buckysleftbicep @barnesonfilm moots + writers i love đ„°
firm believer in bucky having depersonalization-derealization disorder bc you cannot convince me that someone who went through that much intense trauma surrounding their identity wouldn't have some sort of dissociative disorder. dpdr specifically bc i can 100% see him struggling some days with feeling detached from reality and feeling like him and his surroundings are all in his mind and he isn't real because he has been so many people in his life in this essay i willâ
WELCOME TO THE FIRST INSTALLMENT OF THE MAN'S BEST FRIEND SERIES YESSSSSSSSSSS starting off strong with some gooning
i've lowkey never written smut before so be nice please it's my first time............
thank you to my best friend kayla for proofreading this even though she's not a bucky stan
warnings: 18+ only MDNI!!!! this is porn with little plot tbh, female reader, oral (f receiving), fingering, raw p in v (dont be like them), bucky being a gentleman, bucky being a FREAKKKKKK, dirty talk, swearing, i think that's it lmk if i missed anything
length: 2.8k words
lmk your thoughts! ty for reading <3
Bucky Barnes was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He pulled out chairs, held doors open, offered his jacket. He never pushed, never judged, never expected more than he should. He was rough around the edges, yet tender and gentle when it mattered most.
He'd brought you flowers on your first date, standing sheepishly outside your door, holding the bouquet with that awkward, teenage-boyish smile that screamed I think I'm in over my head, and I'm scared as hell, but I want to do it anyway.
He didn't kiss you goodnight, but he walked you to the door and waited until you got inside before letting himself leave. He declined coming in, stating work in the morning as his reasoning. He didn't textâhe wasn't a big fan of saying things without really saying them. He called, left voicemails, one time even mailed a letter because he was feeling nostalgic.
Bucky Barnes was sweet and soft and would never take without you giving.
And it drove you insane.
Every night since you two had been going steady, you'd thought about what his hands would feel like on your skin, on your body. For almost a month, you thought about what he'd say, how he'd say it, if his breath would hitch, if he'd moanâ
The third date. The tension was unbearable. Every glance, every joke, every brush of his fingers on your thigh under the table lit you on fire. You were nursing a glass of wine when dessert came: two slices of New York-style cheesecake, your favorite, something you'd mumbled once on the walk home the first time you met. Bucky remembered, because of course he did.
It's not that he didn't want youâgod, he wanted you so bad. It was almost torturous, you sitting there, legs crossed and cheeks flushed from the wine, dress riding up your thigh. He wanted to touch, wanted to feel, wanted to claim. But he didn't. Couldn't. He was raised better than that, in a time so different than this that it felt worlds away at this point.
You deserved to feel special when it finallyâhopefullyâhappened. Something with warm lighting and soft music, candles and security. Something that didn't feel rushed or too much or not enough, because god help him, he'd never forgive himself if he made you feel anything less than perfect.
Truth be told, you could give two shits about how romantic the first time with Bucky would be. I mean, sure, you wanted the soft touches and gentle lovemaking, but you were so beyond needy, you'd let him take you in the god damn restaurant if he could.
Dessert finished without any issue, the car door shut with a thud, and the wheels hummed softly on the drive back to your place. The radio played faintly, something old and familiar, while Bucky's thumb brushed along the back of your hand.
"I had a nice time tonight," he smiled at you. "Cheesecake was good."
You hummed in response, catching his eye before he turned his attention back to the road. "Can't believe you even remembered that."
He shrugged, vibranium squeaking ever so slightly under his dress shirt. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."
The darkness of the evening hid the blush creeping up onto your face, but still, you turned to glance out the window. He was a smooth talker, and the most infuriating part is that he wasn't even trying.
Stupid, smug, sexy, respectful man.
The neighborhood grew more familiar the longer he drove, houses and apartment buildings you'd come to know over the last few years blurring past the car window.
Before you knew it, the car came to a halt by the curb, and Bucky's thumb stilled. He killed the engine, gently tugging the keys out of the ignition before letting the silence consume both of you. When you looked at him, he was already staring fondly.
Thenâ
"I'll walk you upâ"
"âDo you want the house tour?"
You stared at each other as your sentences overlapped, Bucky's eyes full of a dazed confusion, yours swimming with mischief and lust and knowingness.
To be completely honest, he was nervous. It'd been a very long time since he'd done the whole dating thing, let alone the whole "do-you-want-to-come-inside-and-maybe-potentially-probably-see-me-naked" thing.
You took his silence as his yes. Your eyes didn't leave his as you opened the passenger side door and stepped out onto the curb. He followed.
The walk up to your apartment was quiet. The kind that settles in your bones and buzzes until you acknowledge the rippling in your stomach and the heat in your cheeks. Your hands shook slightly as you unlocked your door, Bucky standing close enough to your back that you could feel him radiating behind you, stiff and strong and so Bucky. Once the door swung open and you two stepped inside, the soft-yellow light from a lamp in the living room fought with the darkness looming elsewhere in the apartment. Bucky let his eyes wander as you toed off your heels, the height difference between you two becoming more apparent as your feet hit the hardwood.
Before he could take a step further, your voice, smooth as silk and sultry, flooded his ears.
"Take your shoes off."
He obeyed almost instantly, slipping the leather off and placing them next to your own. It shouldn't have been as provocative as he took it to be, but it was. Those four words shouldn't have sent a jolt down his spine straight to his dick, but they did. And when you turned around, bathed in the dim glow of that fucking lamp, staring up at him with those innocently impish doe eyes, he shouldn't have felt the primal urge to pounce on you and stake his claim.
But he did.
For one second, you two just looked at each other, daring the other to make the first move, until the tension snapped. One second was all it took for the front door to slam shut, your body pressed up against the wood as Bucky's breath fanned over your neck. His nose brushed against the side of your throat, breath ragged and almost pained. He wanted you. So. Fucking. Bad.
You wanted him. So. Fucking. Bad. You'd take him in every room, on every surface, against every wall and every inch of the floor. You were ready and feral and so unbelievably patient, but that restraint was wearing dangerously thin. The way his body was pressed against yours was sinful; his knee parting your legs with a gentle nudge, settling between your thighs, just shy of where you were aching for him.
"Tell me you want this," he grunted, pulling back from your neck long enough to hold your eyes. "I need to hear you say it."
"I want this. I want you."
The kiss was anything but gentle. It was teeth and tongues and heat and a battle. Groans and whimpers, bitten lips and fleeting air. You two didn't detach as you navigated through your apartment, through the kitchen and down the hall, him stopping every so often to pin you against the nearest wall. He slid his hands to the back of your thighs and gave them a gentle tap, followed by a muffled jump. Your legs wrapped around him at record speed, and the new position made it all the easier to attack his neck. He kicked your bedroom door open as you went at his neck incessantly, biting just enough on his pulse point to elicit a groan.
Your back hit the mattress and both of your clothes hit the floor, save for Bucky's boxers that were dangerously tight. The super-soldier settled himself between your thighs, metal fingers trailing down to your nipples, pinching until you squirmed underneath him.
"You look so fuckin' perfect like this," his breath hit your ear just as his fingers dipped lower and ghosted over your clit. You shuddered instantly, a gasp creeping out involuntarily. He lifted his head and met your gaze again, a smug grin spreading on his face.
"Love the noises you make for me." With that, he let his pointer finger slip down between your folds, gathering your slick before slowly pressing into you. Your eyes damn near rolled back into your skull at the contrast of cool metal inside your warm walls. It wasn't long until a second finger entered, pumping in and out at a pace that had you seeing stars.
His ocean blue eyes were glossed over with hunger and lust, almost grey with pupils blown so wide you couldn't tell where they ended and the irises began. The way he was watching you, like he was memorizing every twist of your face and sound that escaped your lips, made your walls flutter around him.
"Oh, fuck," Bucky grumbled, retracting his fingers and sliding himself further down the bed until he was eye level with your heat. You whimpered at the loss of contact, lifting your head to follow his trail down.
"What're youâ" The words died on your tongue when he flattened his tongue against you, dragging it up painfully slow until he met your clit. The passionate kiss in the hall on the way to the bedroom was nothing compared to the utterly filthy way he was eating your pussy. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time, with every flick of his tongue and tease of his fingers.
"Oh my god, James, don't stop," you mewled, head thrown back, eyes screwing shut as you let your hands find purchase in his dark tresses.
James.
He groaned into you. The way you uttered it like a prayer, something sacred that needed to be preserved, had him nearly exploding right then and there. His cock strained against his boxers, the tip leaking so much that he was leaving a wet spot on the sheets.
"You gonna cum for me? Gonna soak my face?" He spurred, chin glistening with your juices as he pressed two fingers inside. The moan you let out was beyond sinful, just shy of shameful, but you didn't care. You were lost in a whole different world, where the only thing that existed was the pleasure Bucky was giving you. He ducked back down, licking and sucking until your gasps got quicker and moans got higher. The knot forming in your stomach was seconds away from unravelling, his tongue coaxing your orgasm closer and closer until all you could manage to whine was Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.
It crashed into you like a wave, relentless and unforgiving. Bucky licked you through it, helping you ride out your high before pulling his fingers out and his lips away. As your breath settled, Bucky crawled back up your body, kissing his way up and leaving marks in his wake. He brought the vibranium, coated in you, to your mouth and tapped your bottom lip.
"Open."
They landed on your tongue, hot and heavy, and you licked them clean, eyes locked on his. The sight made him harder, if that was even possible at this point, and he promptly stripped himself of his boxers with his other hand. He pumped himself a few times before lining up to your entrance, then paused. He slid his fingers from your mouth and pressed his forehead to yours, eyes heavy with affection.
"Are you sure?" His eyebrows knit themselves together, his voice suddenly hushed. "We don't have to."
The care laced in his tone made your cheeks heat up and your stomach flip. He was looking at you, through you, it felt like, right to your soul. He didn't look like the big, brooding, commanding man he was just seconds agoâhe looked nervous and hesitant, like he was holding himself back from something he wouldn't be able to undo, and it scared the fuck out of him. And it did. This, it, you scared him, but not because of anything you'd done wrong. God, no. You were everything right that he wanted to believe he deserved, but couldn't quite convince himself yet. You were soft and funny and so kind to himâyou were everything. He wanted to give you what you deserved, even if it wasn't him.
You could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, unsure and timid. You didn't mean to, but you giggled, arms snaking around his neck to pull him closer to your mouth.
"If you stop now, I don't think I'd ever forgive you, James," you teased. The use of his first name cleared out any and all doubt in his mind, and the tip of him breached your entrance slowly. You moaned as the initial burn of the stretch turned into something you knew you'd be craving for the days to come. He bottomed out, and your legs came up around his waist to draw him in deeper, until you felt him kissing your cervix.
Then, he started to move.
Slow at first, like he was trying to hold onto whatever self-restraint he had left and not ruin you right off the bat. But when he felt your walls pulling him in every time he slid back, and your breathy little whimpers, he couldn't control himself anymore.
"Taking me so well, sweetheart," he breathed out, lips finding your neck to suck below your ear. He set a brutal pace, deep and hard and fast, each thrust taking your breath away. He fucked you like he had something to prove, and, in a way, he did. He was in a silent competition with every other male on the planet that had ever so much as breathed in your direction. You were his and his only.
"Tell me I'm yours," he said, meeting your eyes again, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.
"I'm yours." Somehow, the words found their way out, your brain absolutely too fucked out to think properly. His thrusts quickened, and you could feel him twitching inside you. Your release was so close you could practically taste it, and you knew he wasn't too far behind.
"I'm so closeâ" you began to whine, struggling to keep your eyes on his.
"Me too, babyâfuckâ" He brought his hand down to your clit, working it in tight, devastating circles that had your vision blacking out. Your ankles dug into his lower back, pulling him in until he was met with resistance. You were just about to fall over the edge when Bucky thrusted once, twice, then started to pull out before his own release came.
"No! Inside." You insisted, tugging him down by his neck to capture his lips, tongue already slipping into his mouth. He groaned into the kiss and buried himself to the hilt as he spilled into you, fingers still working you until you followed him with your own wave of pleasure. He was shooting into you, and you were milking him for all he could give.
"You're squeezing me so fuckin' tight, Jesus Christ."
"Oh, my god, you feel so good, Buck."
When both of you had come down from your highs, Bucky collapsed on top of you, becoming dead weight. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, and any attempt to catch your breath became futile. He buried his face into the crook of your neck and stayed in your embrace until he could feel himself softening. Fingers scratching his scalp soothingly, you pressed a kiss to his damp hair, a small smile tugging at your lips.
"Don't wanna move," he mumbled, peppering your skin with lazy, open-mouth kisses. "You're so warm."
You hummed, exhaustion settling into your bones. Your limbs felt like jelly, and your head was in the clouds. But still, there was part of you that wanted more.
"...Buck?"
"Hm?" He moved, noses brushing each other while he brushed your hair off your forehead. Your once innocent smile spread into a Cheshire grin, excitement pooling in your lower belly and between your legs. Bucky noticed too, the faint flutter of your walls around him, and he couldn't help the way he was hardening once again.
Poor guy.
"Still need to give you a tour," you started, smug as all hell, lips planting sloppy kisses along his jaw as you spoke. "Need to show you the couch...the kitchen counters...the windows..."
Bucky groaned, cock flushed once again, and dropped his head to your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly. You were already off the bed and being moved to the living room, lips attached to yours in a searing kiss that felt like a promise.
"You're gonna kill me." He pulled away, eyes hungry but tender, stormy but gentle. You couldn't help the way your lips lifted at the corners. Hands carded in his hair, heat stretched around his cock, and evidence of your love marked on his neck in purple splotches, your voice fell quiet, reverent:
THANK YOU for all the support on this!!!! it was super out of my comfort zone and iâm so so so overjoyed that so many people enjoyed it :â) next installment should be done tn or tomorrow!
A/N: you can blame @chateaubarnes and @opheliabbarnes for this one. This was never meant to leave my Google docs. Started as a thirsty drabble yielded by Seb as T*mmy L*e and now itâs⊠whatever this is.
Warnings: maybe a little bit of edging, the nickname âbunnyâ, daddy kink, collar, smut 18+ MNDI (p in v), pwp (like no plot), spitting, overstimulation, I think thatâs it!
Summary: Thereâs a reason your contact name on his phone has a little đ€ emoji.
Your breathing was already shaky, chest rising and falling under his weight as Bucky leaned over you, his metal hand resting firmly on your thigh to keep you open for him. His flesh hand tilted your chin up, thumb grazing along the collar snug against your throat. The black heart charm dangled there, catching the faint light of the room.
âLook at me, bunny,â he murmured, low and steady, like velvet wrapping around your spine.
You triedâeyes fluttering, lashes tremblingâbut the next roll of his hips made your head tip back, mouth parting on a soft sigh at the way the head of his cock brushed your clit every time he dragged it through your slit over and over again.
âMm,â he chuckled, thumb brushing your bottom lip. âEyes rollinâ back already? And Iâve barely started. Thought my good girl could handle me.â
A broken sound left your throat, half whimper, half plea. âDonât get shy now,â Bucky teased, tilting your face back toward him. âI like watchinâ you come undone. Every little sigh, every flutterâfuck, bunny, youâre gorgeous.â
Your fingers curled around his wrist where it cupped your cheek. âFeels so good, Buck⊠canâtâcanât help it.â
âThatâs the point, sweetheart.â He leaned in, brushing his lips across the corner of your mouth but not quite kissing you. âI donât want you to hold back. Want you to let go. Be my sweet bunny, all soft and pretty for me.â
Your eyes fluttered again, a trembling moan slipping out as he bumped your clit again, this time pulling back slightly and pushing the tip in just so slightly, dragging another wave of pleasure through you.
âYeah,â he praised, voice tightening with hunger. âThatâs it. Thatâs my girl. You wearinâ my collar, lettinâ everyone know who you belong toâlook at you. Could eat you alive.â
Your lips parted around a gasp, his words making the heat low in your stomach pulse even sharper. âBuckyââ
âSay it,â he coaxed, thumb pressing against your jaw as his forehead rested against yours. âSay youâre my bunny.â
âIâmââ You broke off with a shiver, then managed, voice weak but certain, âIâm your bunny.â
He groaned low in his chest, kissing you hard, his hand still holding your face like you might slip away if he let go. âDamn right you are. Mine to hold, mine to love, mine to fuck senseless. And you take it so well, donât you?â
âY-yesââ
âGood girl,â he whispered against your lips, breath ragged. âThatâs my bunny. My perfect little thing. Youâre gonna let me take care of you, arenât you? Gonna let me give you everything you need?â
Your head tipped back again, eyes rolling as that charm pressed against your throat with every motion. âYes, Bucky, yesâplease.â
He smiled, dark and tender all at once. âThatâs what I wanted to hear.â
Your thighs were trembling from how long heâd kept you there, caged beneath him, both of you naked except for the black-heart charm glinting at your throat. His cock had been dragging against your slick folds for what felt like hours, grinding slow and cruel, never giving you what you begged for.
âBuckyâplease,â you whispered, voice hoarse, fingers curling in the sheets.
âPatience, bunny,â he drawled, rocking his hips just enough to make you whimper. âYou look so pretty like this. All wet and open for me, just wearing my collar and begging like a good little girl.â
Your nails bit into his shoulders. âItâs too muchâneed you insideââ
He smirked, brushing his mouth over yours. âToo much? Baby, Iâve barely touched you.â And then, finally, he pushed in.
The sting was instant, a slow stretch that had your back arching off the mattress. Your gaze shot down to where he was splitting you open, your breath breaking into shaky gasps watching the length of his disappearing inside of you.
âEyes down there, huh?â Buckyâs tone was smug, his hand sliding up your throat until his fingers wrapped firmly around your jaw. âCanât look away from how good I fill you?â
You whimpered, mouth falling open helplessly as he sank in deeper, every inch deliberate. âThatâs it, bunny. Take me slow. Feel me stretch youâfuck, youâre squeezinâ me so tight.â His eyes darkened as he watched your expression. âDelicious, isnât it? Hurts just right.â
You moaned in answer, throat working under his palm. âOpen,â he ordered suddenly, tilting your face up toward him. The command was sharp, firmâbut threaded with that praise that made you melt. Your lips parted instantly, obedient.
He let a slow line of spit fall into your waiting mouth, thumb pressing your jaw so you couldnât close until he said.
âSwallow.â
You did, eyes fluttering, the stretch of him inside you mingling with the heat that burned in your chest. âThank you, daddy,â you whispered, voice breaking on the words.
Bucky groaned, deep and rough, his grip tightening on your face. âGood fuckinâ girl. My sweet bunny, wearinâ my collar, thanking me for claiminâ you. Look at those eyes rolling backâGod, youâre perfect.â
You sighed, a trembling, wrecked little sound, your body shuddering beneath him.
âThatâs it,â he coaxed, rocking into you just enough to make the charm at your throat bounce against your skin. âSay it.â
âIâm yours,â you gasped, eyes fluttering shut before he shook your chin lightly, forcing them open again.
âFeels good, doesnât it? The sting, the stretch. Nothinâ in the world like takinâ me nice and slow.â You nodded helplessly, then shuddered when his tone sharpened. âEvery time it feels like youâre made for me. You are, arenât you?â
âYesââ the word came out as a gasp, trembling
âYes what?â he pressed, his hand tightening on your face, not letting you drift away.
âYes, daddyâIâm made for you.â
âMm,â he rumbled, dropping his forehead to yours, hips rocking deep and slow. Your eyes rolled again, another soft, broken sigh falling from your lips as his praise washed over you. âThere she is,â Bucky murmured, kissing your mouth like he couldnât help himself, still holding your face so you couldnât look anywhere but at him.
Your moans and hums of agreement started to get more and more high pitched, Bucky wouldnât be surprised at the shocked but knowing looks your neighbors would give him tomorrow when he went to grab the mail. âThatâs my bunny.â
Every thrust was deliberate, slow enough that the stretch never dulled, sharp enough that your nails dragged helplessly down his shoulders.
âBuckyââ you whimpered, hips twitching up to chase him.
He only smirked, kissing the corner of your mouth like he had all the time in the world. âEasy, bunny. Donât rush me. I like watchinâ you try to take it. The way your body squeezes meâfuck, youâre perfect.â
The black heart charm bounced with every roll of his hips, cool against your overheated skin. You wanted faster, harder, anything, but he just kept that same devastating rhythm.
âPlease,â you gasped, eyes rolling back again.
But he only chuckled, dragging out another long, slow thrust that made your vision blur. âNot yet. Not till I hear you beg.â
Your whole body trembled. âBuckyâIâm beggingââ
âNot good enough.â He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes locked on yours as your mouth fell open in another broken sigh. âTell me you need me to let you cum. Tell me you canât do it without me.â
âI canâtâI canâtâplease, daddy, let meââ
âGod, you beg so pretty, bunny,â Bucky groaned, his hand still gripping your jaw, thumb smudging over your cheek as if he couldnât stand to let you look anywhere but at him. âEvery âplease, daddyâ outta that sweet mouth makes me wanna ruin you worse.â
Your lips trembled, your voice catching. âThen ruin meâpleaseââ Tears brimming your eyes just made Bucky want to torture you a smidge more.
His chuckle was low and rough, his cock dragging deep as his flesh hand slid down between you. The first touch to your clit made your whole body jolt, a gasp tearing out of your throat.
âThere she is,â he praised, circling you harder, firmer, while his hips picked up a faster, relentless rhythm. âThatâs my bunny. So wet, so good for me. Can feel you squeezinâ already.â
Your nails raked down his shoulders as your head tipped back, eyes rolling, every thrust pushing the breath from your lungs. âOh my godâBuckyââ
âEyes on me,â he growled, snapping his hips forward harder. âDonât drift away, bunny. Wanna see you come apart while I fuck you.â
âIâI canâtââ
âYes, you can.â His forehead pressed to yours, sweat slick at his temple as his voice dropped to a command. âCum all over me. Right now. Let me feel how much you need me.â
The words cracked something inside you. The rough, fast thrusts, the tight circles on your clitâit was too much. You broke apart with a cry, body convulsing, your walls clutching him so hard it pulled a groan from deep in his chest.
âThatâs it,â Bucky snarled, fucking you through it, his thumb never letting up. âGood girl. My bunnyâfuck, youâre milkinâ me so good. Begginâ, shakinâ, fallinâ to pieces on daddyâs cock.â
Your cries turned into frantic little moans, your hands clawing at his back as aftershocks kept you trembling.
âAgain,â he urged, voice fraying, hips pounding harder as he chased his own edge. âCum for me again, bunny. I wanna feel you gush all over me till I canât hold back. Show me how good you can beg for it.â
âPlease, daddyâwant itâneed itââ
âFuck,â he groaned, his rhythm turning ragged, his praise spilling into filth against your lips. âThatâs it. Thatâs my perfect girl. Give it to me. Cum all over me while I fill you up.â
You gasped as another wave rolled through you, your orgasm crashing down again just as his hips slammed deep, his groan tearing out against your mouth as he spilled inside you.
Both of you stayed locked together, trembling, your breath tangled with his as he kissed you through itâfilthy, desperate, tender all at once.
âMy bunny,â he whispered, voice rough but softening as he pressed his lips to your jaw, still pulsing inside you. âSo fucking perfect when you beg for me.â
The room was thick with the sound of both your breathing, ragged and uneven. His hips stayed pressed to yours, but his hand gentled, sliding from your jaw to stroke your cheek with the backs of his fingers.
âEasy now,â Bucky murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your temple. His voice was raw but warm.
You whimpered softly, body still twitching from the aftershocks, and he pulled back just enough to ease his weight off you. His metal arm slid under your back, lifting you into his chest like you weighed nothing, cradling you against him. âYou did so good, baby, fuck- that was so hot.â
A breathless little laugh came out of you, almost a giggle. You were still on cloud 9, dizzy on him and the feel of his body and the weight of his words, you buried your face against his throat. âFeels so good, Bucky.â
âI know, sweetheart. Iâve got you,â he whispered, rocking you slightly as if you were fragile. His hand rubbed slow circles into your hip, coaxing the tension out of your muscles. âBreathe with me. In and out. Thatâs it.â
You matched his rhythm, breaths gradually evening out. The last thing you felt before drifting into dreamland was him unclasping the collar and the faint clink of it on the bedside table.
WELCOME TO THE FIRST INSTALLMENT OF THE MAN'S BEST FRIEND SERIES YESSSSSSSSSSS starting off strong with some gooning
i've lowkey never written smut before so be nice please it's my first time............
thank you to my best friend kayla for proofreading this even though she's not a bucky stan
warnings: 18+ only MDNI!!!! this is porn with little plot tbh, female reader, oral (f receiving), fingering, raw p in v (dont be like them), bucky being a gentleman, bucky being a FREAKKKKKK, dirty talk, swearing, i think that's it lmk if i missed anything
length: 2.8k words
lmk your thoughts! ty for reading <3
Bucky Barnes was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He pulled out chairs, held doors open, offered his jacket. He never pushed, never judged, never expected more than he should. He was rough around the edges, yet tender and gentle when it mattered most.
He'd brought you flowers on your first date, standing sheepishly outside your door, holding the bouquet with that awkward, teenage-boyish smile that screamed I think I'm in over my head, and I'm scared as hell, but I want to do it anyway.
He didn't kiss you goodnight, but he walked you to the door and waited until you got inside before letting himself leave. He declined coming in, stating work in the morning as his reasoning. He didn't textâhe wasn't a big fan of saying things without really saying them. He called, left voicemails, one time even mailed a letter because he was feeling nostalgic.
Bucky Barnes was sweet and soft and would never take without you giving.
And it drove you insane.
Every night since you two had been going steady, you'd thought about what his hands would feel like on your skin, on your body. For almost a month, you thought about what he'd say, how he'd say it, if his breath would hitch, if he'd moanâ
The third date. The tension was unbearable. Every glance, every joke, every brush of his fingers on your thigh under the table lit you on fire. You were nursing a glass of wine when dessert came: two slices of New York-style cheesecake, your favorite, something you'd mumbled once on the walk home the first time you met. Bucky remembered, because of course he did.
It's not that he didn't want youâgod, he wanted you so bad. It was almost torturous, you sitting there, legs crossed and cheeks flushed from the wine, dress riding up your thigh. He wanted to touch, wanted to feel, wanted to claim. But he didn't. Couldn't. He was raised better than that, in a time so different than this that it felt worlds away at this point.
You deserved to feel special when it finallyâhopefullyâhappened. Something with warm lighting and soft music, candles and security. Something that didn't feel rushed or too much or not enough, because god help him, he'd never forgive himself if he made you feel anything less than perfect.
Truth be told, you could give two shits about how romantic the first time with Bucky would be. I mean, sure, you wanted the soft touches and gentle lovemaking, but you were so beyond needy, you'd let him take you in the god damn restaurant if he could.
Dessert finished without any issue, the car door shut with a thud, and the wheels hummed softly on the drive back to your place. The radio played faintly, something old and familiar, while Bucky's thumb brushed along the back of your hand.
"I had a nice time tonight," he smiled at you. "Cheesecake was good."
You hummed in response, catching his eye before he turned his attention back to the road. "Can't believe you even remembered that."
He shrugged, vibranium squeaking ever so slightly under his dress shirt. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."
The darkness of the evening hid the blush creeping up onto your face, but still, you turned to glance out the window. He was a smooth talker, and the most infuriating part is that he wasn't even trying.
Stupid, smug, sexy, respectful man.
The neighborhood grew more familiar the longer he drove, houses and apartment buildings you'd come to know over the last few years blurring past the car window.
Before you knew it, the car came to a halt by the curb, and Bucky's thumb stilled. He killed the engine, gently tugging the keys out of the ignition before letting the silence consume both of you. When you looked at him, he was already staring fondly.
Thenâ
"I'll walk you upâ"
"âDo you want the house tour?"
You stared at each other as your sentences overlapped, Bucky's eyes full of a dazed confusion, yours swimming with mischief and lust and knowingness.
To be completely honest, he was nervous. It'd been a very long time since he'd done the whole dating thing, let alone the whole "do-you-want-to-come-inside-and-maybe-potentially-probably-see-me-naked" thing.
You took his silence as his yes. Your eyes didn't leave his as you opened the passenger side door and stepped out onto the curb. He followed.
The walk up to your apartment was quiet. The kind that settles in your bones and buzzes until you acknowledge the rippling in your stomach and the heat in your cheeks. Your hands shook slightly as you unlocked your door, Bucky standing close enough to your back that you could feel him radiating behind you, stiff and strong and so Bucky. Once the door swung open and you two stepped inside, the soft-yellow light from a lamp in the living room fought with the darkness looming elsewhere in the apartment. Bucky let his eyes wander as you toed off your heels, the height difference between you two becoming more apparent as your feet hit the hardwood.
Before he could take a step further, your voice, smooth as silk and sultry, flooded his ears.
"Take your shoes off."
He obeyed almost instantly, slipping the leather off and placing them next to your own. It shouldn't have been as provocative as he took it to be, but it was. Those four words shouldn't have sent a jolt down his spine straight to his dick, but they did. And when you turned around, bathed in the dim glow of that fucking lamp, staring up at him with those innocently impish doe eyes, he shouldn't have felt the primal urge to pounce on you and stake his claim.
But he did.
For one second, you two just looked at each other, daring the other to make the first move, until the tension snapped. One second was all it took for the front door to slam shut, your body pressed up against the wood as Bucky's breath fanned over your neck. His nose brushed against the side of your throat, breath ragged and almost pained. He wanted you. So. Fucking. Bad.
You wanted him. So. Fucking. Bad. You'd take him in every room, on every surface, against every wall and every inch of the floor. You were ready and feral and so unbelievably patient, but that restraint was wearing dangerously thin. The way his body was pressed against yours was sinful; his knee parting your legs with a gentle nudge, settling between your thighs, just shy of where you were aching for him.
"Tell me you want this," he grunted, pulling back from your neck long enough to hold your eyes. "I need to hear you say it."
"I want this. I want you."
The kiss was anything but gentle. It was teeth and tongues and heat and a battle. Groans and whimpers, bitten lips and fleeting air. You two didn't detach as you navigated through your apartment, through the kitchen and down the hall, him stopping every so often to pin you against the nearest wall. He slid his hands to the back of your thighs and gave them a gentle tap, followed by a muffled jump. Your legs wrapped around him at record speed, and the new position made it all the easier to attack his neck. He kicked your bedroom door open as you went at his neck incessantly, biting just enough on his pulse point to elicit a groan.
Your back hit the mattress and both of your clothes hit the floor, save for Bucky's boxers that were dangerously tight. The super-soldier settled himself between your thighs, metal fingers trailing down to your nipples, pinching until you squirmed underneath him.
"You look so fuckin' perfect like this," his breath hit your ear just as his fingers dipped lower and ghosted over your clit. You shuddered instantly, a gasp creeping out involuntarily. He lifted his head and met your gaze again, a smug grin spreading on his face.
"Love the noises you make for me." With that, he let his pointer finger slip down between your folds, gathering your slick before slowly pressing into you. Your eyes damn near rolled back into your skull at the contrast of cool metal inside your warm walls. It wasn't long until a second finger entered, pumping in and out at a pace that had you seeing stars.
His ocean blue eyes were glossed over with hunger and lust, almost grey with pupils blown so wide you couldn't tell where they ended and the irises began. The way he was watching you, like he was memorizing every twist of your face and sound that escaped your lips, made your walls flutter around him.
"Oh, fuck," Bucky grumbled, retracting his fingers and sliding himself further down the bed until he was eye level with your heat. You whimpered at the loss of contact, lifting your head to follow his trail down.
"What're youâ" The words died on your tongue when he flattened his tongue against you, dragging it up painfully slow until he met your clit. The passionate kiss in the hall on the way to the bedroom was nothing compared to the utterly filthy way he was eating your pussy. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time, with every flick of his tongue and tease of his fingers.
"Oh my god, James, don't stop," you mewled, head thrown back, eyes screwing shut as you let your hands find purchase in his dark tresses.
James.
He groaned into you. The way you uttered it like a prayer, something sacred that needed to be preserved, had him nearly exploding right then and there. His cock strained against his boxers, the tip leaking so much that he was leaving a wet spot on the sheets.
"You gonna cum for me? Gonna soak my face?" He spurred, chin glistening with your juices as he pressed two fingers inside. The moan you let out was beyond sinful, just shy of shameful, but you didn't care. You were lost in a whole different world, where the only thing that existed was the pleasure Bucky was giving you. He ducked back down, licking and sucking until your gasps got quicker and moans got higher. The knot forming in your stomach was seconds away from unravelling, his tongue coaxing your orgasm closer and closer until all you could manage to whine was Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.
It crashed into you like a wave, relentless and unforgiving. Bucky licked you through it, helping you ride out your high before pulling his fingers out and his lips away. As your breath settled, Bucky crawled back up your body, kissing his way up and leaving marks in his wake. He brought the vibranium, coated in you, to your mouth and tapped your bottom lip.
"Open."
They landed on your tongue, hot and heavy, and you licked them clean, eyes locked on his. The sight made him harder, if that was even possible at this point, and he promptly stripped himself of his boxers with his other hand. He pumped himself a few times before lining up to your entrance, then paused. He slid his fingers from your mouth and pressed his forehead to yours, eyes heavy with affection.
"Are you sure?" His eyebrows knit themselves together, his voice suddenly hushed. "We don't have to."
The care laced in his tone made your cheeks heat up and your stomach flip. He was looking at you, through you, it felt like, right to your soul. He didn't look like the big, brooding, commanding man he was just seconds agoâhe looked nervous and hesitant, like he was holding himself back from something he wouldn't be able to undo, and it scared the fuck out of him. And it did. This, it, you scared him, but not because of anything you'd done wrong. God, no. You were everything right that he wanted to believe he deserved, but couldn't quite convince himself yet. You were soft and funny and so kind to himâyou were everything. He wanted to give you what you deserved, even if it wasn't him.
You could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, unsure and timid. You didn't mean to, but you giggled, arms snaking around his neck to pull him closer to your mouth.
"If you stop now, I don't think I'd ever forgive you, James," you teased. The use of his first name cleared out any and all doubt in his mind, and the tip of him breached your entrance slowly. You moaned as the initial burn of the stretch turned into something you knew you'd be craving for the days to come. He bottomed out, and your legs came up around his waist to draw him in deeper, until you felt him kissing your cervix.
Then, he started to move.
Slow at first, like he was trying to hold onto whatever self-restraint he had left and not ruin you right off the bat. But when he felt your walls pulling him in every time he slid back, and your breathy little whimpers, he couldn't control himself anymore.
"Taking me so well, sweetheart," he breathed out, lips finding your neck to suck below your ear. He set a brutal pace, deep and hard and fast, each thrust taking your breath away. He fucked you like he had something to prove, and, in a way, he did. He was in a silent competition with every other male on the planet that had ever so much as breathed in your direction. You were his and his only.
"Tell me I'm yours," he said, meeting your eyes again, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.
"I'm yours." Somehow, the words found their way out, your brain absolutely too fucked out to think properly. His thrusts quickened, and you could feel him twitching inside you. Your release was so close you could practically taste it, and you knew he wasn't too far behind.
"I'm so closeâ" you began to whine, struggling to keep your eyes on his.
"Me too, babyâfuckâ" He brought his hand down to your clit, working it in tight, devastating circles that had your vision blacking out. Your ankles dug into his lower back, pulling him in until he was met with resistance. You were just about to fall over the edge when Bucky thrusted once, twice, then started to pull out before his own release came.
"No! Inside." You insisted, tugging him down by his neck to capture his lips, tongue already slipping into his mouth. He groaned into the kiss and buried himself to the hilt as he spilled into you, fingers still working you until you followed him with your own wave of pleasure. He was shooting into you, and you were milking him for all he could give.
"You're squeezing me so fuckin' tight, Jesus Christ."
"Oh, my god, you feel so good, Buck."
When both of you had come down from your highs, Bucky collapsed on top of you, becoming dead weight. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, and any attempt to catch your breath became futile. He buried his face into the crook of your neck and stayed in your embrace until he could feel himself softening. Fingers scratching his scalp soothingly, you pressed a kiss to his damp hair, a small smile tugging at your lips.
"Don't wanna move," he mumbled, peppering your skin with lazy, open-mouth kisses. "You're so warm."
You hummed, exhaustion settling into your bones. Your limbs felt like jelly, and your head was in the clouds. But still, there was part of you that wanted more.
"...Buck?"
"Hm?" He moved, noses brushing each other while he brushed your hair off your forehead. Your once innocent smile spread into a Cheshire grin, excitement pooling in your lower belly and between your legs. Bucky noticed too, the faint flutter of your walls around him, and he couldn't help the way he was hardening once again.
Poor guy.
"Still need to give you a tour," you started, smug as all hell, lips planting sloppy kisses along his jaw as you spoke. "Need to show you the couch...the kitchen counters...the windows..."
Bucky groaned, cock flushed once again, and dropped his head to your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly. You were already off the bed and being moved to the living room, lips attached to yours in a searing kiss that felt like a promise.
"You're gonna kill me." He pulled away, eyes hungry but tender, stormy but gentle. You couldn't help the way your lips lifted at the corners. Hands carded in his hair, heat stretched around his cock, and evidence of your love marked on his neck in purple splotches, your voice fell quiet, reverent:
decided i am NOT going in order of the track list for this mini series so that being said get ready for house tour bc itâs dropping tn đđđđđ
summary: you bake bucky his favorite cookies even though you're allergic to the cinnamon in them. when he finds out, he's not letting it slide.
warnings: reader is allergic to cinnamon, readers is kinda stupid, reader bakes, allergic reaction symptoms (migraine, rash, throat irritation), established relationship, protective bucky, domestic fluff, soft banter, kisses, food/comfort baking, happy ending.
wc: 3.5k
a/n: this may or may not be self indulgent.
masterlist
The kitchen is warm, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin from the oven running too long. Youâve already pulled one tray of muffins out, their tops cracked and golden, and the scent of vanilla still clings in the air. Baking has always been less about the end product and more about the ritual: measuring, stirring, waiting. Itâs steady. It fills the silence in a way you like.
The front door clicks open and shuts, and a familiar shuffle of boots makes its way down the hall. Bucky always walks heavy, like heâs still bracing for cobblestones under his feet. He doesnât call out when he gets homeânever hasâbut the second his head pokes around the kitchen doorway, the tension he carries everywhere eases a little.
âWhatâs cookinâ, doll?â His voice is rough in the casual way it always is, but softer at the edges, too. He leans against the counter, eyes immediately scanning the cooling rack.
âMuffins,â you say, sliding the tin closer to the edge of the stove to cool. âChocolate chip. Thought itâd be nice to have something for breakfast.â
Bucky grins like youâve just handed him a plate of gold. Heâs never subtle when it comes to food you makeânever hides the way he appreciates it. He reaches for one without hesitation, hissing when the heat bites his fingers.
âTheyâre hot,â you warn, unable to keep the laugh from your voice.
âThatâs never stopped me.â He tears the muffin open with his metal hand, steam curling into the air, then takes a huge bite. His shoulders drop with the kind of relief you only ever see when he eats something homemade. âGod. These are good. You know what I havenât had in years?â
You glance over from where youâre wiping down the counter. âWhatâs that?â
âSnickerdoodles.â He says it so casually, like itâs nothing, but thereâs this flicker in his eyesânostalgia, maybe even longingâthat catches you off guard. âUsed to get âem at a bakery near my maâs place. Big ones, soft in the middle, all that cinnamon sugar on top. Havenât tasted anything like it since beforeâŠâ He trails off, shaking his head as if to push away the thought. âAnyway. Muffins are amazing.â
You hum in response, trying not to let the word snickerdoodle lodge itself too firmly in your mind. Cinnamon sits on your tongue like a warning just hearing it. Still, you find yourself nodding, as if youâve already made a mental note.
Bucky finishes the muffin in a few more bites, licking a smear of melted chocolate off his thumb. âYouâre spoilinâ me, you know that?â
âMaybe I just donât want you living off takeout,â you tease, setting the dish towel aside.
âMaybe I like that better,â he shoots back, half-smiling. Then his expression softens, the way it always does when he thinks youâre not looking. âSeriously though. Thank you.â
The oven ticks as it cools, filling the quiet between you. You watch him lick the last crumbs from his fingers and tuck away the image of that look on his faceâthe kind of happiness thatâs unguarded, rare. And maybe, you think, it wouldnât hurt to try.
The thought doesnât leave you. Not after the muffins are gone, not after Bucky falls asleep on the couch later with the empty plate balanced on his chest.
Snickerdoodles.
It repeats in your head while you wash dishes, while you scroll aimlessly through your phone. Youâve never made them beforeânot for yourself, at leastâbut you can still picture the look on his face when he talked about them. The softness in his voice, the way his shoulders had gone loose like just saying the word gave him a little comfort.
By the next morning, youâve already decided.
Itâs a Saturday, the kind of day that feels too bright to waste indoors, and you find yourself walking the few blocks to the little family-owned market near the edge of town. The bigger grocery store wouldâve been easier, but you want something better than the dusty jar of cinnamon you know is sitting in their baking aisle. If youâre going to do this, you want it to feel special.
The market smells faintly of ground spices and coffee beans. There are baskets of produce at the front, and hand-lettered signs taped to shelves. You take your time, weaving through the narrow aisles, letting your fingers brush over the jars lined up like they were placed there just for you to find.
Thereâs a whole section for spicesârows of glass containers with neat labels, cinnamon among them. Your hand hovers, your throat prickling just at the thought of what itâll do to you. Still, you pick the jar up, its weight solid in your palm, the cinnamon dark and fine inside the glass. A better version than the kind youâd find in bulk, the kind you hope will taste like memory for him.
The rest of the list is easy: flour, sugar, eggs, butter. Things you already have at home, but you want them fresh. You stand in line behind a woman with a basket full of apples and listen to the cashier chat about the weather. Itâs all so ordinary it makes you smile.
Back home, you set the groceries out on the counter like itâs an offering. The cinnamon jar catches the light from the window, glinting at you, daring you. You pull a mixing bowl from the cupboard and start to work.
Thereâs comfort in the rhythm. Creaming butter and sugar together until the mixture is pale, cracking eggs one at a time, folding flour into the dough until it sticks to the spoon in clumps. The air grows warm with the oven preheating, and your hands move almost automatically, muscle memory from years of baking everything except this.
You set up a shallow bowl with sugar and the cinnamon, whisking them together until the air carries that sharp, sweet spice. It burns faintly in your nose, makes your eyes water just a little, but you push it down. You roll the dough into small balls, coating them in the mixture until your fingertips are sticky with sugar.
The first tray slides into the oven, and you lean against the counter, wiping your hands on a dish towel. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing in the scent thatâs beginning to bloomâwarm, sweet, unmistakably cinnamon.
You can almost see it already: Bucky walking in, catching the smell before he even rounds the corner, his face lighting up with something unguarded and childlike. The thought makes your chest ache in the best way.
When the timer dings, you pull the tray out, and there they areâgolden at the edges, soft in the middle, sugared tops crackling under the heat. They look exactly like every picture youâve seen, exactly like something worth remembering.
You donât taste one, you donât need to. The joy, you know, will be in watching him.
The cookies cool while you rummage through the cupboard for the little box youâd picked up weeks ago at the craft store. Itâs one of those things youâd bought without a plan, drawn to the neat fold-over lid and the window on top. White cardboard with a thin gold trim. Decorative but not flashy. Perfect.
You line the inside with a sheet of wax paper, stack the cookies in carefully, and fold the lid shut until it clicks into place. It feels almost silly, how much care you put into it, but something about giving them this way makes it feel like more than just a plate of cookies. It feels like a gift.
Buckyâs sprawled on the couch when you walk into the living room. Heâs half-slouched against the armrest, one hand draped over his chest, the TV flickering in front of him. A news channel, muted. His hairâs a little messy, like heâd raked a hand through it a few too many times.
You clear your throat softly, and his head tilts toward you.
âWhatâs that?â he asks, noticing the box immediately.
âSomething for you.â You offer it out, trying not to look too eager.
He sits up, curiosity flickering across his face as he takes the box into his hands. âFor me? Whatâs the occasion?â
âNo occasion.â You shrug, tucking your hands into your pockets. âJust⊠open it.â
The lid pops open, and for a second his expression doesnât change. Then the scent hits him. His eyes widen, mouth parting like heâs not sure heâs seeing right.
âYou didnât.â His voice is low, almost reverent.
âSnickerdoodles,â you confirm, a little shy despite yourself.
The way he looks at you makes your chest feel too tight. Heâs quiet for a beat, then sets the box on the coffee table and stands, closing the space between you before you can think. His hand finds the side of your face, rough palm against your cheek, and he leans in to press his lips against yours.
Itâs not rushed. Itâs not anything but soft gratitude poured into a kiss. Warmth blooming from the press of his mouth to yours. When he pulls back, thereâs a tiny grin tugging at his lips, like he canât help it.
âYouâre unbelievable,â he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw before he finally lets go.
Youâre still reeling when he sits back down and pulls the box into his lap. He takes one cookie out, studying it like it might vanish if he blinks too long, then takes a bite. His eyes shut almost instantly.
âOh my god,â he says around a mouthful, half-laughing. âThis is⊠this is perfect.â
He doesnât stop at one bite. He devours the whole thing, licking cinnamon sugar from his thumb exactly the way you imagined he would. And then, still chewing the last bit, he leans toward you again. This time itâs a quick kiss on the cheek, careless with how happy he is, the taste of sugar still on his lips.
The spot tingles almost instantly. A faint burn spreads under your skin, just enough to make your throat tighten in sympathy. You cover it with a smile, force your hand to stay relaxed at your side instead of pressing against the flush you know is rising.
âBest thing Iâve had in years,â Bucky says, licking a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. He doesnât notice the way you swallow a little harder than usual, doesnât see the way your eyes water just slightly before you blink it away.
All he sees is the box in his lap, and you standing there with that same quiet smile.
âSeriously,â he says again, shaking his head like he canât believe it. âYou didnât have to do this for me.â
You laugh, soft and easy, even as your cheek still burns faintly. âI wanted to.â
The first time after that, it isnât planned. Youâre already in the kitchen, measuring flour for something else when you see the jar of cinnamon on the counter. Before you can talk yourself out of it, the flour and butter are going toward cookie dough again. By the time Bucky wanders in from a run, his hair damp and shirt clinging to him, the smell is already curling through the apartment.
âYouâre kidding,â he breathes, peeling the damp fabric from his shoulder. âAgain?â
You slide the tray out of the oven, the tops of the cookies glistening faintly with sugar. âCouldnât help it.â
He doesnât even wait for them to cool. Burns his tongue on the first bite and laughs around it anyway, crumbs sticking to his lower lip. You laugh too, but while his eyes are closed in bliss, youâre tucking the itch at the back of your throat away, swallowing it down with a sip of water.
Another time, itâs because his day has gone sideways. He comes home late, shoulders drawn tight, jaw set hard. You can see the storm in him from the second he shuts the door. He doesnât say muchâjust hangs his jacket on the hook, kicks his boots aside, and drops heavily into the chair at the table.
Youâd already made the cookies earlier, just because. Theyâre waiting in the kitchen, stacked in a tin. You slide it across the table to him, wordless.
He glances at it, then at you, suspicion softening into something else when he lifts the lid. âYouâre trouble, you know that?â
But he takes one. Then another. By the third, his shoulders are looser, his sighs quieter, the sharp edges of his mood worn down by cinnamon sugar and the quiet way you sit across from him, pretending not to notice how heâs watching you between bites.
By the time the tinâs half empty, he leans forward, rests his hand over yours on the table, and says quietly, âDonât know what Iâd do without you.â
Your throat burns worse than usual that night, but you swallow it down with a smile, squeezing his hand back.
The third time, itâs just because the weatherâs turned cold. Rain lashes against the windows, thunder rolling low in the distance. Heâs curled on the couch under a blanket, reading something thick with a bent spine, when you bring over a small plate balanced in your hands.
âGuess what I made?â you say, though the smell gives it away immediately.
Bucky sets the book aside, his grin already spreading before he even sees the cookies. âI donât deserve you.â
You sit beside him, tucking your legs up under yourself as he takes one, warm enough that the sugar leaves his fingers tacky. He chews slow this time, savoring, then leans into your side with a content sigh.
âFeels like home,â he murmurs. âYou feel like home.â
You tilt your head against his shoulder, letting the heat of him soak into you, ignoring the faint prickle that flares when his lips brush the side of your temple in thanks.
It becomes a pattern after that. Sometimes he finds the box waiting for him on the counter when he gets back from missions, sometimes you bring a plate into the living room without warning. Each time, the joy on his face makes the tightening in your chest and the itching in your skin worth it.
You tell yourself itâs a small price. A handful of symptoms traded for the sound of his laugh, the rare softness in his eyes. The way he always kisses your cheek after the last bite, cinnamon sugar still on his breath.
It starts small. A headache you canât quite shake, one of those dull, pulsing things that creeps behind your eyes after the third batch in a week. You tell yourself itâll pass. It usually does. But then your nose wonât stop running, and your throat feels scraped raw like sandpaper. By the time Bucky gets back from the store that evening, your skin is prickling with a faint rash along your arms.
Youâre on the couch, blanket pulled around you, trying to breathe evenly when you hear the door unlock.
âHey, I grabbed milkââ he starts, but his words trail off when he sees you. His brow furrows instantly, groceries abandoned on the counter. âWhatâs goinâ on? You sick?â
âIâm fine,â you say too quickly, voice hoarse. You try for a smile, but it pulls weakly across your face.
He kneels down in front of you, metal hand resting on the edge of the couch, flesh hand hovering like heâs not sure if he should touch you. His eyes scan over the flushed heat in your cheeks, the way your nose is raw from tissues, the small red blotches climbing your neck.
âThis ainât just a cold,â he mutters. âWhat happened?â
You shake your head, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. âItâs nothing. Justâjust a migraine.â
âBullshit.â His voice is sharp, but not unkind. He leans closer, searching your face. âDonât lie to me. Whatâs wrong?â
Thereâs no use pretending when his gaze is that steady, that unrelenting. The truth claws its way up before you can stop it.
âItâs the cinnamon,â you admit, voice low. âIâm allergic.â
The words hang heavy between you. You expect him to laugh it off, maybe scold you lightly. Instead, his expression twists, something almost like betrayal flickering there. He leans back just enough to take you in again, as though seeing you for the first time.
âAll this time,â he says slowly, voice rough. âYouâve been makinâ those cookies. For me. Even thoughâŠâ His jaw tightens. âJesus, no wonder youâve been lookinâ off some nights.â
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Finally, you manage, âYou love them. You light up every time. I justâwanted to give you that.â
His hand finally lands on your knee, grounding, though his touch is still tense. âAt the cost of your own health?â His voice cracks in disbelief. âYou think I want that? You think cookies matter more than you beinâ okay?â
You swallow hard, throat burning in a way that has nothing to do with the allergy. âIt was worth it. Seeing you happyââ
âDonât.â He cuts you off gently, shaking his head. His thumb presses harder against your knee, almost like heâs trying to anchor himself. âDonât ever say that. Youâre worth more than some damn cookies.â
The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen. His eyes are wet around the edges, though he blinks it away before it can fall.
âI canât believe you hid this from me,â he murmurs, softer now, more hurt than angry. âYou couldâve ended up in the hospital. And I never evenââ He stops himself, jaw working, then exhales through his nose. âThatâs it. No more snickerdoodles. Not in this house. Not anywhere near you.â
A small laugh slips from you despite the lump in your throat. âYouâre really going to ban cinnamon?â
âDamn right I am.â His voice is firm, though the corner of his mouth twitches like heâs fighting a smile. âEvery jarâs goinâ in the trash tonight. Iâll tear through the pantry myself.â
You roll your eyes, but itâs hard not to melt when he shifts closer, brushing a hand carefully over the side of your face. His touch is gentle now, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone as though heâs afraid youâll break.
âNo more secrets like this,â he says quietly. âPromise me.â
You nod, throat tight. âPromise.â
He presses a kiss to your foreheadâsoft, lingering, nothing rushed. And for the first time, you let yourself lean fully into him, letting the warmth of his presence settle into your bones.
The cookies were always for him, but thisâthis is for you.
True to his word, Bucky doesnât even wait. The second youâve steadied yourself enough to follow him into the kitchen, heâs already got the pantry door swung wide and his sleeves shoved up, scanning every jar on the shelves like heâs on a mission.
âBuckââ
âDonât try to stop me,â he mutters, pulling down a spice rack with his metal hand. The glass jars clink together as he squints at each one, tossing cumin and paprika aside until he lands on what heâs hunting. The cinnamon.
You groan as he plucks it up triumphantly. âThatâs the expensive one. I went out of my way for that, you know.â
He doesnât even blink. The jarâs already heading toward the trash can.
âBucky, seriouslyââ
âNope.â He drops it in with a thunk and dusts off his hands like itâs a job well done. âDonât care if it costs a hundred bucks. Youâre not breathinâ that stuff in again.â
You cross your arms, trying to sound stern even as the corner of your mouth betrays a smile. âIt wasnât a hundred. It was twenty. Still. That was small-market, high-quality cinnamon.â
He turns, pulling his wallet from his back pocket with an exaggerated slowness. âTwenty bucks?â
âTwenty bucks,â you confirm, eyebrow raised.
Without hesitation, he peels out two twenties and presses them into your hand. âThere. Paid you double. Hazard pay for even bringinâ it in the house.â
You stare down at the bills, incredulous. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYeah, well, get used to it.â His grin is crooked, but his eyes are soft as he steps closer, brushing his thumb over your knuckles before tucking the money deeper into your palm. âNot takinâ chances with you. Not ever.â
The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the oven cooling, the faint scent of cinnamon still lingering in the air like a ghost. He leans down, presses a gentle kiss to your cheek this timeâcareful, sweet, without the sting that came beforeâand lingers there a moment longer than necessary.
âFrom now on,â he murmurs, lips close to your skin, âIâll find somethinâ else to crave. Something safe.â His eyes flick to yours, soft and steady. âGot a feelinâ I already have.â
You laugh quietly, shaking your head as you lean into him, the crumpled twenties still clutched in your hand. The cookies were good, sure. But the warmth of him wrapping his arms around you now, holding you like youâre the only thing that mattersâthatâs better than any recipe.
12 mini-fics about everybodyâs favorite soviet super-soldier, based on the 12 songs from sabrina carpenterâs new album!
iâm so excited to start writing these!! lmk which one youâre most excited for ;)
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đŒ-fluff đ„-angst â€ïžâđ„-smut
manchild - in which bucky barnes is oblivious, and she is fed up. đŒ
tears - in which bucky barnesâ existence is, well, to put it simply, unbearably sexy. â€ïžâđ„
my man on willpower - in which bucky barnes believes his girl deserves better than his baggage. đŒđ„â€ïžâđ„
sugar talking - in which bucky barnes learns that thereâs more than one way to apologize after a fight. đ„â€ïžâđ„
we almost broke up again last night - in which bucky barnes makes loving him unnecessarily difficult. đŒđ„â€ïžâđ„
nobodyâs son - in which bucky barnes canât believe how this generation of men treats women. đŒ
never getting laid - in which bucky barnes fights his jealous streak. đ„đŒâ€ïžâđ„
when did you get hot? - in which she is reintroduced to bucky barnes years after their first meeting.â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„
go go juice - in which bucky barnes receives the drunkest-drunk-phone-call in his life. đŒ
donât worry iâll make you worry - in which she self-sabotages the peace theyâve been creating. đ„
house tour - in which bucky barnes is invited upstairs on the third date.â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„â€ïžâđ„
goodbye - in which two exes rekindle their flame on a night filled with passionate arguments, hateful glances, snide comments, and a whole lot of sexual tension. â€ïžâđ„
