Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader: Modern College/Camgirl AU
Summary: Cleansheet24 has a secret, one that nobody else knows. Nobody but MoxieMinx. She knows that he likes to be told what to do, and she's more than happy to be the one doing it.
Word count: 3.3K
Warnings: Both Bucky and the reader are over 18 and you should be too. Minors DNI. If you are not 18+ you do not have my consent to interact with this content. Content warnings are pretty similar to part one. Camgirl-client relationship. Sex work. Voyeurism and exhibitionism, mutual masturbation, sex toy usage, dom/sub dynamics. Sub!Bucky. If I'm missing something, please let me know.
Author's notes: This is definitely an unusual circumstance for me to post two parts of one story in the same day, but I'm trying to get this one in under the wire for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer Week 5: "Play with it: Cock worship". Future chapters will definitely be slower. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy it!
I do not consent to have my work reposted or scraped
Series Masterlist Main Masterlist
Part One
One week later
MoxieMinx is already naked with a wand pressed firmly between her legs when Cleansheet24 logs on for their weekly private session.
Things don’t usually start out this way.
It’s not exactly unlike her to surprise him. She often plays with the unexpected to keep him on his toes and help him explore what’s possible. But this is new, she's never started without him before and it hits him hard, a visceral shock to his system. A dirty kind of thrill like discovering that your sexy roommate “forgot” to close her door before getting in bed with her vibrator. He's so overcome- lungs seized, heart pounding, cock painfully stiff- he doesn't even know what to do with himself. But the beauty of it is that he doesn't need to know. In the games he plays with Moxie, she's always in charge. So for now, until she tells him otherwise, he can just enjoy the gorgeously filthy sight before him and the wonderful freedom of waiting for instructions.
“Hey- baby-” she pants out on broken breath- “I- I-” her pants abruptly turn to gasps and he thinks for sure she’s going to come. But at the last second, she pulls herself back from the brink- “I’m- sorry. I just need- I’ll- just a minute, baby- just a-”
This time there is no pulling back, her breath catches in her throat as she throws her head back and her whole body tenses. He barely notices that he’s leaning in close to the screen to watch her face as she falls apart, already palming his cock through his sweats.
After a minute, the tension in her body snaps and her shoulders drop. Her thighs fall open and from this angle, with the way she kneels facing him, he catches a glimpse of her glistening cunt. A quiet whimper breaks from the back of his throat.
Moxie rasps harshly for a long minute before trying to speak again.
“Sorry, baby,” she says between breaths, “I was just so wound up getting ready for you. I needed to come. I-” abruptly the hand gripping the wand- which fell loosely on her upper thigh- tightens and she clamps her legs around the toy once more- “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just- need another. I promise baby, I promise I’ll- we’ll- oh god!”
This time as she comes, she shouts, hoarse and overwrought, writhing as her hips rock into the toy of their own volition. The front of Cleansheet’s pants are wet with precum and his teeth grind as his hips buck up into his palm.
When she finds her voice, she apologizes again. But before she can get any farther, a wave of impulse too strong to deny overtakes her and she’s fucking herself against the wand once more.
This happens twice more and each time she says she’s sorry, so sweetly too, but he knows that's just part of the game. Especially when she gives him a mischievous, knowing wink before going right back to what she was doing.
MoxieMinx didn't need to ask him if this is the kind of game he would enjoy, she already knew. Roughly two months of weekly private sessions, and she understands him better than some of his long term girlfriends did. Which, he knows he’s at least partially to blame for. He’s never really told anyone what he wanted before.
Why is it that taking the lead in bed when a woman wanted him to never scared him, but even the thought of admitting that he wants to be told what to do terrifies him?
He knows what his therapist would say if he ever got the nerve up to tell him about it, that he's too comfortable putting other people’s needs first. And asking for what he wants is something he’s never had much practice with.
Even in his first private session, after he finally decided to pull the trigger and request one, he struggled to tell Moxie what he wanted. At first, he chickened out and just asked her to “do what you normally do”. Right away, he had the strange feeling that she could see right through him. But she didn’t call him out on it, she just told him that there is no “normally” when it comes to private sessions because they’re all about the individual. She suggested that if he wasn’t sure, he could look over her menu of options and see if anything stood out. Still, even with “soft dom” right there in black and white”, he couldn’t say it. Sensing his uncertainty, she took pity on him. She told him that he didn’t need to decide at that moment, instead, she sent him a checklist to look at in his own time and send back to her. She then suggested a little “choose your own adventure” for that first time. They could get started, she said, and every once in a while, she would pause and give him two choices for how to proceed. He easily agreed and barely even noticed that she must have picked up on what he couldn’t say, because at some point, the options stopped being questions and turned into directives. He came harder that first session than he ever had before and he knew he was hooked.
They’ve come a long way since then. They both know the way he likes to play now, which means Cleansheet absolutely should not be touching himself right now without her permission. But in this exact moment in time, watching Moxie come undo for him alone, he can’t stop himself from helplessly grinding his cock against his palm through his pants.
Finally, on the tail end of a shockwave that had her keening, she relents. When she finally lets the tension go from her body, she drops the wand on the bed beside her and makes no move to pick it up. For several heartbeats, he watches in fascination the way her chest heaves and her belly hollows as her lungs and heart fight their way back to normal.
Eventually, she turns her attention back to him. When she sees that he's touching himself, she frowns.
She looks wounded as she says, “Baby, you’re not jerking off, are you? You wouldn’t get off without me, would you?” she asks, wide-eyed and artless, as if she hadn't been doing exactly that herself.
Still, he’s quick to pull his hands back, knowing that her supposed guilelessness could easily turn into a rebuke if he's not careful.
“I'm very sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that- you’re just so beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Thank you.” She smiles sweetly before turning stern. “But that sounds like you making an excuse for yourself.” Her brow is raised pointedly.
“You're right, miss,” he replies quickly, eager to defer, “I broke a rule and have no one to blame but myself. I apologize and hope you can forgive me.”
Moxie hums, her expression unreadable and he holds his breath. A heartbeat passes before she finally smiles.
“I accept your apology. But I will need to see better control from you in the future. I really don’t want to have to discipline you to teach you a lesson.”
Ha, yes, she does, he thinks. And really, that’s fine with him. Because as much as he knows that she likes edging him into near insanity, she knows that he likes having the bounds of his stamina and restraint tested before being told when to come.
“Yes, miss. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“Good. Now-” she straightens and lifts her chin. Her chest glistens with sweat and his cock jumps eagerly at the sight of her peaked nipples. “I promised I wouldn’t make you wait much longer-” four orgasms ago, he thinks, snorting internally at her innocent act that they both know is fake- “and I really, really do want you to come. Last time,” her thighs flex seemingly of their own accord and her voice suddenly turns breathy, “you made such a mess, I get wet just thinking about it. I want you to do it again. I want you to make a mess of me too.”
Her hands slide over her belly and breasts. His cock leaks more precum into his already ruined shorts.
He nods eagerly before remembering that she probably can't see given the position of the camera.
“Yes, miss. I- I would love that.”
She smiles.
“You just have to do exactly what I tell you. Think you can do that, baby?”
Throat too tight to speak, he nods. When she raises a brow, he pushes out on a squeak, “Yes, miss.”
“Good, now get those fucking shorts off, I need to see my cock.”
Complying immediately, he stands and shucks them off before sitting back in his chair. Sometimes he lays on the bed, but he likes the chair for this, it’s easier to see her this way and something about gripping the arms when she tells him to feels a bit like being tied up.
“Oh, baby,” she says appreciatively, “so fucking gorgeous. Do you know how beautiful it is?” As she asks, the deliberately artful tone of her voice slips away, replaced by a sincerity that makes his heart thump. “I dream about it, about it buried deep inside of me.”
Cleansheet blushes and the appendage in question jumps like it can hear her. She notices.
“I think he dreams about me too,” she says with a bounce of her eyebrows. “Don’t worry, I plan to give my cock lots of attention.”
Shit, he loves it when she calls it “my” cock.
“But first,” she goes on and his nerves start to tingle with an intoxicating mix of trepidation and excitement, “we have to give the rest of that beautiful body some attention too.”
What comes next, Cleansheet can only describe as a deliciously torturous dance.
He’s already on edge, but she draws it out, building the anticipation even higher. She teases him by making him tease himself. At her direction, his hands move lightly across his chest and stomach, past his hips and down his thighs. She focuses on the places she’s learned that he likes to be touched and makes him explore new ones. His touch turns firmer and more focused when she says so. He massages and scrapes and pinches himself at her command. He whines and moans and pants. Every nerve in his body comes alive.
When she finally gives him permission to touch his cock, she forces him to go slow, making him explore himself like it’s the first time, tentative and curious, with light fingers and delicate strokes.
“Start at the head, just use your finger tips. Rub your thumb lightly over the slit, feel how wet you're getting. Don't let it drip, collect it with your fingers, that's it.”
The coil in his belly gets tighter and his balls ache but he forces himself to breath through it, making the urgent tension ease back just a hair.
“Now, run your finger tips around the ridge where your head meets the shift. Feel the way your foreskin is stretched so fucking tight because my cock is so desperate to be seen.”
Following every word like it's gospel, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. He likes to watch her, especially in times like this when she licks her lips and tenses her thighs and stomach like she doesn't know she's doing it. But he wants his fingers to be her fingers and in his head he can make them exactly that.
“Slide your fingers down your length, find the veins and trace each one. Lightly like the tip of my tongue.”
His hips jerk reflexively and he has to fight to keep them still. Blood rushes in his ears, thunderously loud, but he can still hear her.
“Yes, you like that don't you? Thinking about my tongue? I like it too. Useyour nails- carefully- and think of my teeth just grazing you as I kiss and lick my cock.”
Cleansheet whimpers.
“Keep one hand like it is and touch your balls with the other.” His legs widen as he follows her command and she groans. “Gorgeous. Fingertips only, baby, and nails. Feel my teeth there too, testing how sensitive you are, letting the weight press down against my lips. Squeeze them now, not too hard. I'd suck on them first, before taking my cock down all the way down my throat.”
Everything inside of him tightens painfully and his breath turns ragged. He's afraid he can't hold his orgasm back anymore, he's so close to snapping.
“Oh baby, hold on, hold on,” she says, “I know it's so hard. Take a deep breath, it'll be worth it I promise.”
Opening his eyes, he fights against his body, trying to force it to obey him. He takes a deep breath and she praises him, then encourages him to take another. The pressure starts to recede, but it takes two more deep breaths before he feels safe.
“That was amazing, baby,” Moxie praises. “You're doing so good. Not much longer, okay? My cock just takes so much abuse,” she teases, “I want to make sure it feels appreciated.”
He huffs a laugh.
“Yes, miss. It does, miss. Always with you.”
She hums appreciatively.
“Good, my pussy appreciates you both.”
He breathes out a rough breath at the thought. She bites her lip, clearly pleased.
Even as caught up as he is in his own body, he doesn't fail to notice the way that she reacts. He sees the little telltale twitches and flexes that give away her own growing excitement as she takes him further and further. As she's been talking, her hand has slipped between her thighs. She doesn't comment on it as she sometimes does and she keeps her legs closed, pressed close together for friction rather than wide open so that he can see. It's not an act of performance but of pleasure, and he loves it all the more for it.
MoxieMinx isn’t the first camgirl Cleansheet's ever visited, but she is the only one he’s ever wanted to keep coming back to. Four months since he discovered her and he likes her just as much now as he did when he first became a viewer, if not more. There’s something special about her.
Yes, she is gorgeous and sexy as hell, with a kind of imperfection that’s human and inviting and so fucking hot. But it’s more than that. Shit, in her free chats- where he first found her- she doesn’t even take her clothes off. Things can get a bit risque- her tops are often sheer and her shorts tiny- but things rarely ever venture beyond P-13. She does talk about sex, but she also talks about movies and music, articles and books, food and funny news stories. The best thing about her chats isn’t that they’re sexy, it’s that they're fun and an escape from the pressures and insecurities of the real world. Sex is only part of it, it's connection that keeps everyone coming back.
“Let's show my cock just how much we adore it, hmm?”
He nods and whines weakly in agreement.
“Wrap your fingers around it, slowly one at a time, make sure you feel each one.”
She shakes her head and her teeth prick into her bottom lip.
“So fucking gorgeous with my cock in your hand,” she says, her voice full of a kind of reverence that makes his cheeks heat with more than just arousal.
“It’s time now baby, stroke yourself. Slowly, keep your strokes long baby, give every inch the worship it deserves.” He does as she says and watches as her hips start to rock. “That’s it, baby, just like that, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
She devours him with her gaze as the tension in her own body starts to peak.
“Faster now, just like that, yes. Keep going, keeping going,” she pants out, rolling her hips faster and faster. “Fuck, baby we’re almost there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
His hand speeds up, unconsciously synced with her movements. He’s dizzy and breathless and everything inside of him is tight, begging for release. He’s so close, he wants to let go, he just wants her to come with him.
“Please, miss, please,” he begs breathlessly. “Together, please, together.”
“Yes, baby, I’m with you, I’m right-” her breath catches- “now, now, now, I’m-”
His ears fill with static as his orgasm hits him with all the force of a punch in the gut. Come spurts from his head at the exact moment that her body seizes and she lets out a throaty keen. Ropes of his seed spurt everywhere and just as she told him, he imagines it landing her, on her breasts and stomach and thighs, a primitive instinct to “claim”.
Waves of pleasure white out Cleansheet’s vision at the edges. He rides out his orgasm half-blind before slumping loosely back into his chair.
He’s not sure how long he sits there dazed before he comes back to himself. When he does, he blinks at the screen. Moxie’s ragged breaths sound loud in his speakers and she’s trembling. Her head hangs forward as she holds herself upright with fisted hands pressed to her thighs. She lets out a quiet dazed “fuck” like she was just as surprised by the intensity of it all as he was.
Something deep in his chest squeezes tight.
When she eventually looks up at him, something bright and eager shines in her eyes. She smiles a crooked smile and when she laughs, it’s a joyful, awed sound.
“You know,” she says, her voice teasing but missing the deliberate coquettishness of before, “I think we’re getting pretty good at that.”
He barks a laugh. That’s an understatement if he ever heard one.
“Yeah, although I don’t think I can take any credit for that, it all goes to you.”
“Thank you, but… it really doesn’t, you have to take at least some of it too.”
He wants to argue, brushing off her compliment, but before he can, she goes on.
“I mean, I am good,” she says with a cheeky smile, “but that- it-” she pauses, as if she can’t find the word she wants. He holds his breath, but doesn’t know why- “it’s not always like that.”
Cleansheet’s heart thumps hard and the hairs on his neck lift. But then Moxie’s smile flatters for a second, like she just processed her own words. Before he can react, her full smile is back and brighter than ever.
“So, um, that’s our time,” she says, her voice friendly but professional. “See you next time?”
He wishes he could ask her about what just happened, but he knows he can’t.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Great, until then,” she blows him a kiss, then leans forward and ends the connection.
He stares at the “session ended by host” screen for too long.
“Moxie” is a fantasy. A very convincing, very beautiful, very indulgent fantasy. But she isn’t real. Cleansheet knows it. All of her clients know it. It’s part of the social contract they’ve all willingly agreed to. Moxie happily plays her part and lets people live out their filthy fantasies for a little while, as long as everyone remembers where the line is drawn. That the very real person behind Moxie is not theirs for the having. She’s not the one on their screens every week.
But just now, just for the barest of moments, Cleansheet thinks that maybe he saw her. Like maybe what she said was real and not part of the game they were playing. And suddenly he knows that he’s in trouble. Because whether that’s what happened or he just imagined it, he realizes how desperately he wants it to be true. And wishing for something like that is very, very dangerous.
Summary: Bucky and Steve appreciate dominant women.
Series warnings: This is a smut collection, therefore, minors DNI, if you are not 18+ you do not have my consent to interact. These stories feature an established three-way relationship. The reader is the dominant partner with sub Bucky and sub Steve (although the roles can get shifted around sometimes). The reader is often playfully "mean". Bucky and Steve are also bisexual. They engage in direct sex acts with the female reader and each other. Discussions of consent and sexual health are assumed to have happened "off screen". This list of warnings is not complete, see each one-shot for specifics. You control your content consumption, do not interact with content that makes you uncomfortable.
Author's notes: Originally, this was a stand alone one-shot told from Bucky's POV. But then I had some ideas 👀 and there will now be a total of three different stories, each told from the POV of one of the characters. Only teasers are posted here, the full fics are posted on AO3. I hope you like them! 💋
*I do not consent to having my stories uploaded elsewhere (including to AI) without my permission.
Summary: Steve love-hates it when you let Bucky be your second-in-command.
Word count: 3.9K
Warnings: Established three-way, dom/sub relationship. Dom!reader, sub!Steve, sub/"assistant" dom!Bucky. Bisexual!Steve, bisexual!Bucky. Reader can be "mean" (overstimulation, orgasm denial/control, forced voyeurism). Praise kink. Explicit (male receiving) and implied (m/f receiving) anal play. Oral sex (m/f receiving). Implied sex toy usage and pegging. Swearing.
Author's notes: I don't even know where this idea came from but here it is. After what Bucky went through in the original, Steve clearly needed a turn being the focus of the reader's torment. I hope you enjoy the "torture" as much as he does!
"Bucky…”
You look up at the burnet and even through the haze, Steve can see the look of concern on your face and the exaggerated pout of your lips.
Summary: Tonight, as a special treat, your men get to be in charge.
Word count: 8.3k
Warnings: Consensual non-consent within an established relationship. Intruder kink. On screen consent and use of safe words (traffic light system). Dom/sub dynamics. Oral sex, vaginal sex, anal and double penetration. Fingering, orgasm control and denial. Overstimulation. Teasing, mild degradation, use of mocking nicknames. Mild praise kink. Reader is usually the dom, but temporarily playing the sub role. Dom Bucky, Dom Steve. Some competitiveness between Bucky and Steve. I think that's everything, if I missed anything, please let me know.
Author's notes: And the adventure into new things continues for me. This is definitely a new level of filth and fun for me. This completes the Patience is a Virtue trilogy (unless I get struck with some new unexpected inspiration, which might happen since the original was only ever meant to be a one shot). I hope you like this, thanks for reading ❤️💋
Your book is propped in your hand like sheet music on a stand. Your eyes are fixed on the page and you bite your lip thoughtfully. But you are most definitely not reading.
You meant to. You tried to. You hoped that you at least looked like you were reading. But you're not sure you're even pulling off a convincing pantomime. Not with your other hand drumming impatiently on the bowl of your wine glass and your head jerking towards the door every time you hear a noise in the hallway or anywhere else in the apartment building.
You should have known they would do something like this. You even suspected as much, but you never thought they'd drag things out this long.
Summary: “I will not let you go into the unknown alone.” -Bram Stoker
Word count: ~7.2k
Warnings: Dark themes, minors DNI. Angst (do I even need to say it at this point?). References to violence, murder, and death. Swearing. Fluff (in this story?!).
A/N: Well, hey there. It's been a long, long time since I've posted anything on here or even been a regular visitor. Life has been a challenge to put it mildly and the road has been rough. But this story has always lingered somewhere in the back of my mind and finishing it was a something I really needed for myself and that I wanted to give to those of you who loved and supported it right along with me. I haven't done much writing in recent months and I had no beta reader for this, so it might be rough in some parts, but I hope that you like it. This is the official final chapter of TH&TH, BUT I had a vague thought for a follow-up that I just needed these character to have and couldn't let go of and turned it into an epilogue. Because I didn't want to drop chapter 10, promise the epilogue, and then leave you hanging for however long again while I worked on it, I made sure that it ("After") was completed before I posted this. So shortly after this goes up, keep your eyes open for the epilogue (plus, a bonus, much fluffier, one shot set much farther along in the future). Thank you so much to those of you who supported this story from the beginning and those who found it somewhere along the way and decided to jump on board anyway, even when you saw that it was incomplete. I can't tell you how much your dedication has meant to me. (Please forgive me in advance if you post comments or reblogs that I don't respond to right away, sadly life has not calmed down much since I initially went AWOL). I hope you all know how amazing you are ❤️
Tagging (in the hopes that you're still interested): @justagirlinafandomworld @galactigoos @watarmelon212 @sebastianstansqueen @emmabarnes @physically-im-fine @cjand10 @leaaa008 @casa-boiardi
And a special thank you to @thelittlesundancekid, if you're still out there, your reblog tags always gave me such joy.
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Bucky knocks lightly then tucks his hand into his pocket to hide the nervous flexing of his fingers.
The seconds stretch painfully, beyond the limits of what physics should allow, until finally, the door quietly swings inward. To Bucky's surprise, M'Baku stands in the door with his youngest stepson curled against his chest asleep. Bucky hadn't even noticed his arrival.
As Sarah's husband, he should have been invited to the wedding. As the owner of a natural foods store, M'Baku's career exists well outside of the "business", so George had no reason to exclude him as a matter of politics. And yet, still, his name was pointedly absent from the guest list.
Bucky is certain that his brother did not want him here because M'Baku is one of the few people with the power to truly unsettle George. Largely because M'Baku refused to be unsettled by George.
M'Baku pulls the door wide, inviting them in. Bucky is already scanning the room as he steps into the spacious lounge, adorned with plush couches and furnishings designed to give the space an extravagant Victorian feel. Like everything else that George chose for you, it does not suit you, and he is almost not surprised when he does not find you here.
Besides M’Baku and AJ, the only other occupant of the room is Cass. Just like his younger brother, Cass is fast asleep, curled up snugly on the couch with a blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His face is relaxed and smooth, free from the tension that Bucky has come far too accustomed to seeing on his young face as if late. Bucky wonders how the boys can sleep so soundly after what they witnessed tonight. But then again, children always sleep better when the monster is dead.
Bucky’s eyes lift to the ornate double doors at the far side of the room. The bridal suite is divided into two separate sitting rooms, each with their own large closets and luxe bathrooms. This lounge is clearly meant for the bridesmaids and for socializing. The second room is the bride’s personal dressing room.
“They’re in the back.” M’Baku says, answering Bucky’s unasked question.
As he turns back, Bucky sees that M’Baku- without displacing AJ- has pulled Sam into a one-armed hug. Sam, in turn, grasps his brother-in-law’s shoulder tightly.
M’Baku releases Sam, and before Bucky realizes what’s happening, he pulls Bucky into a hug of his own. Startled, Bucky stiffens instinctively.
Physical displays- really, any displays- of affection were severely frowned upon in the Barnes family. Especially in front of an audience. Even after so much time together, the ease with which your family expresses their love is something Bucky is still getting used to. But, when M’Baku doesn’t loosen his hold, Bucky eventually lets himself relax into the bigger man’s embrace. A familiar gratitude for your brother-in-law rises in Bucky’s chest, easing away some of the day’s horror, even if only temporarily.
M’Baku is not a man easily impressed and he certainly isn’t a man to be made a fool of, so Bucky is certain that his acceptance of him in the early months of your relationship helped pave the way for the rest of your family’s willingness to let him in. Bucky squeezes M’Baku back, trying to tell him what he doesn’t have the words to say. When M’Baku pats his back firmly, Bucky is certain that he understands.
Breaking the hug and easing back, Bucky asks, “How is she?”
“Hard to say. She seems-” M’Baku hesitates and Bucky’s heartbeat kicks up. Normally so unflappable, M’Baku seems worried. “- not quite herself,” he adds finally.
Bucky nods grimly. He feared as much. Even though you hated George, to have willfully brought about his death is not something you would have borne easily.
Bucky crosses the room with urgent strides and raps quietly on the adjoining door. He senses Sam behind him as a quiet voice that isn't yours calls for them to enter.
Bucky pulls the door open a little too roughly, but stops short just past the threshold. Two sets of nearly identical deep brown eyes turn to him, neither of which are yours. His heart crushes painfully in on itself as he catches sight of you.
You don’t even look up.
Sitting on the velvet upholstered couch, with your legs curled under you and your mother and sister on either side- flanking positions, Bucky notes uneasily- you are here, but you’re not.
Your open eyes are unfocused and you seem to take no note of Sarah’s arm resting along the back of the couch or your mother’s hand in your loose grip. Your face is scrubbed clean of make-up, raw and bare. A thin satin dressing gown is cinched tight at your waist but hangs, loose and messy from your shoulders, like a combat bandage, hastily tied on by a field medic to stem the flow of blood just long enough to make it through the skirmish. In his periphery, the door to the bathroom stands open. When he glances over, Bucky sees your most recent wedding dress lying discarded in a crumpled heap on the cold tile floor. He wonders, regardless of whatever else you had been pretending, if you really had been sick.
Sam is the first to venture a cautious step forward.
“Hey,” he calls gently.
Darlene and Sarah dip their heads in reply. You show no sign that you heard him.
Sam glances back at Bucky, but he has nothing comforting to offer. He doesn’t know what he expected, but your silent reticence unnerves him. All the more because he swears that just for the barest moment, when he walked in the door, you flinched. If your silence isn’t shock, if you’re not dazed and unaware of them, then you’re shutting them out intentionally.
Sam tries again.
"How is everybody?"
Sarah gives Sam a flat look as if he wasn’t already aware of the inadequacy of his words. He frowns and lifts his hands to say that he's doing the best he can. Sarah's frown only deepens, but then you turn your head and whatever wordless sibling argument Sam and Sarah were about to embark on cuts off.
Bucky waits- they all do- breath held and tense. But then after a long minute you turn your gaze down again and say nothing.
Darlene is the first to recover. She leans across you to her eldest daughter.
"Sarah," she says softly. “Why don't we go help M'Baku with the boys, hmm?"
Sarah gives her mother an unsure look but doesn't argue. As they stand, both women bend down to kiss you on the top of your head, which you only acknowledge with a slight lift of your chin. Darlene whispers something against your hair, but Bucky can't make out her words.
As they leave, they hug Sam and Bucky in turn. Like Bucky's own mother, when Darlene releases him from her embrace, she cups a hand to his cheek. He’s surprised by the calm steadiness of her gaze. He knows that she is worried about you, but somehow, she doesn’t seem afraid. Is it the strength of her faith? Or does she- like his own mother- understand something that he doesn’t?
His heart aches. He wants so desperately for both of your mothers to be right.
Darlene pats him warmly and he dips his head, in gratitude and to hide the sudden wetness of his eyes.
When Darlene and Sarah depart, Bucky catches Sam’s eye, and he can tell that they both feel the same trepidation as they turn their attention back to you.
Facing you again, Bucky sees that you’ve shifted slightly in your seat. Your eyes remain turned down, but he can tell that you're listening, ready for them to speak.
All of his intended words dry up in his throat.
Sensing Bucky’s sudden aphasia, Sam takes the lead once more and steps over to the seating area. Taking Darlene’s vacated stop, Sam leaves Sarah’s seat open for Bucky, but he does not take it.
There’s something in the air. Something fragile as a soap bubble, but set to ignite with all the force of dynamite. Or maybe… it’s not in the air- maybe it’s just inside of him, pressure building in the small spaces between his tangled and fraught emotions, looking for a way to escape. Or worse, maybe it's you who is a hair trigger away from cataclysm, a trip wire strung tight, one wrong move away from springing.
Bucky takes the seat that mirrors Sam’s on the opposite side of the coffee table. He’s too far from you for his own comfort, but something in him says he should give you space for now.
Sam leans forward, and your shoulders tense minutely, a subtle defensive bristling. Even though everyone has a right to be concerned about you, Bucky doesn't blame you for your pique. You never cared much for being the center of attention to begin with, and now here you sit, like the core of a black hole, pulling everyone's anxiety towards you.
Asking how you’re doing is likely to get him nowhere, so Sam skips it.
“The police are here,” he tells you. “We had to call them, there were too many witnesses for us to handle it the usual way.”
It takes you a long minute, but eventually, you nod your head slowly and answer quietly.
“I assumed as much.”
Sam, brows lifted in cautious optimism, seems bolstered by this first voluntary acknowledgement of their presence. But Bucky remains uneasy.
Assumed as much? Bucky thinks. Planned for as much, more like. Just like everything else. And all alone because you knew no one else could save you.
His insides feel hollow.
“Doll-”
Bucky cuts off almost before he's begun when a muscle ticks in your jaw. A subtle flinch, like he burned you. Alarm rattles through him, then doubles when Sam shoots him a startled look. He saw it too.
Bucky swallows and forces himself to continue, though his voice has lost some of its confidence.
“We’ve already-”
The corner of your mouth twitches before you can quell it, and his breath catches as his lungs seize. This isn’t the constrained annoyance you showed when Sam first approached. This is something different, something sharper, and something for Bucky alone. Though you tried to suppress it, he can still feel the sting. Your disappointment in him must run deep.
Bucky’s throat closes. He tries to swallow around the tight knot, but it won’t budge. His eyes sting and he can’t blink it away.
Something shifts in you. Even without looking at him, even while wrestling with your own pain, you sense his pain like a beacon that you can't look away from. You turn your head towards him, brow wrinkled and concern etched into the downward curve of your mouth.
Ashamed, Bucky looks down at the ground before your eyes can meet his.
He deserves your anger and your indifference, for all the ways he failed you, he knows that. What he doesn't deserve is this sympathetic softening, your love for him pushing through your own pain for his sake.
He shoots Sam a pleading look. Taking his meaning and sparing him once more, Sam pushes on.
“The detectives are working their way through witnesses in the hall, but they’re going to want to talk to you, and soon.”
Reluctantly, you slowly pull your attention away from Bucky and give your brother a nod to continue.
“Before they come to see you-” Sam pauses and searches your face. What he’s looking for, Bucky doesn’t know, nor can he tell if he finds it- “is there anything we need to know?”
You draw in a slow breath and something shifts in you in you once more. Whatever emotions you let slip- however subtly- just moments before, you pull back into yourself and tuck away. You compartmentalize it so that you can focus on what you need to do right now. You’re good at that, putting aside your own feelings to do what must be done. You’ve had plenty of practice in the months since George claimed you, and Bucky hates it.
“Arguably,” your voice is quiet, but clear, “there are some things that it might be better for you not to know. For your own plausible deniability.”
You pause and both men tense- Sam ready to argue, Bucky ready to beg- but before either can intervene, you continue.
“But, in the interest of transparency-” Is that a subtle hint of sarcasm in your voice or did Bucky just imagine it- “you might like to know a few things that could come to light in an investigation.”
Sam shifts forward in anticipation.
“Did you know-”
When you start to speak again, Bucky’s skin prickles uneasily. There’s something… unnatural about your voice, blithe and oddly removed, like you’re telling a story that has nothing to do with you.
“-that they use nut oils in cosmetics?”
Sam raises his brows in surprise, and looks to Bucky, who nods in reply. He swallows and hopes that his voice does not crack.
“Yes, but-” he breaks off, startled when you turn and look right at him for the first time. He searches your eyes but sees only a mask of polite curiosity. A strange instinct nudges him to cower from your supposed detachment, but he forces himself to keep going- “they’re highly refined, with heat or chemicals, so they don’t contain any allergenic proteins that would trigger a reaction.”
“Normally, that is true, yes. However-” you look back and forth between the two men, with your lips turned down, as if you’re sorry to be the bearer of such unfortunate news- “many of these boutique, organic cosmetic companies have started using ‘cold pressed’ oils. And while that’s very ‘on trend’ the extraction process is...less precise and not as effective at eliminating the proteins.”
Sam lets out a surprised huff, but you don’t remark on it.
"Now, the research on this is surprisingly scant-" you continue as if giving a biology lesson- "but theoretically, if someone with an allergy was exposed to one of these unrefined oils, especially if they somehow got some of it in their mouth-"
You shrug, as if this is all just an interesting, but hypothetical, thought experiment, without any real consequences.
"The lipstick," Bucky concludes, more to himself than anything, but you flick your gaze to him. After a heartbeat, you nod in affirmation.
His chest tightens when you study him for the barest moment more. This time something flickers behind your dispassion, but your eyes flit away again before he can guess what it is.
"Concerns have been expressed that if a person's allergy was severe enough, exposure to one of these cold-pressed oils could cause a dangerous reaction. Especially, if there was some ‘accidental’ cross contamination with nut oils intended for cooking.”
Both men process this before Sam gives you a questioning look.
"But if a person had an epipen…?”
"Then they could avert a potentially lethal reaction, yes." You pause. "Assuming the epipen was functional, of course."
"'Assuming that it was functional'," Bucky repeats. "And not tampered with?"
You look at him again. Your mouth turns down, an expression of polite disagreement.
"It would be very hard to tamper with an epipen without someone being able to tell."
Bucky frowns, but you quickly clear his confusion.
"Of course, if an epipen had been part of a manufacturer recall- like the one a few months back- it couldn't be expected to work as intended."
“George would have replaced those though, wouldn’t he?” Sam counters.
“Yes, he did. Promptly. As soon as the replacements came in, he had his men swap the old ones out. George was a very careful man. He made sure of it. Although…” your brow wrinkles pensively, the look of a woman making an unfortunate connection for the first time, not one who orchestrated such “coincidences” herself- “at the time, he had only just recently turned over his whole workforce… and they were still learning all of George’s policies and procedures… and there were just so many emergency kits to keep track of, maybe the new hires didn’t know where to find them all? I wonder- if someone happened to investigate, for ‘whatever’ reason- I wonder if they would find that the kit we brought with us tonight wasn’t the only one that they missed when swapping out the defectives.”
You finish with a frown, pensive and concerned. And innocent, as far as anyone from the outside could guess.
Bucky shakes his head, as Sam lets out a low whistle.
“I know. Such a tragic oversight. Especially for such a cautious man.” you say with affected sorrow. “But… George did have a lot on his mind. He had only recently taken over the running of a multimillion dollar business empire and he was investigating the mystery disappearance of his father. Add to that the stress of planning a wedding, which is a huge job all on its own, especially with such a short timeline and even more so because George- as everyone knows-” you add pointedly- “ insisted on making all of the wedding decisions himself. He so wanted everything to be perfect, he chose everything. The venue, the staff, the music, the decor, my dress and my accessories…” You sigh with false fondness. “I didn’t have to lift a finger, I simply trusted that George knew best.”
Sam huffs a breath and leans back in his chair, pondering the execution of a perfect plan.
As if reading your brother’s mind, you shift back to your normal voice. “It’s not perfect. Coincidences are always suspicious, especially for an enthusiastic detective, so ’perfect’ it is not. But, what it is, is a compelling alternative theory, the kind that makes room for reasonable doubt and sways juries. And if for some reason, that’s not enough to dissuade the DA from pursuing a losing case, I’m hopeful that Senator Landen can be of some assistance."
Bucky’s head jerks up. Before he can give voice to his disbelief, Sam does it for him.
"Senator Landen? Why would he help us?"
You frown, your blithe facade slipping away, and a pained look taking its place.
“Because I know where George buried his niece.”
Bucky’s throat seizes and his heart with it. He tries three times before he can force words past the sudden paralysis.
“He told you?”
“Oh yes,” you reply mirthlessly, unable to meet either man’s eye, “he wanted me to-” you hesitate, and a moment later, when you push on, Bucky knows why- “to understand what happens to his toys when they cease to amuse him.”
The blood drains from Bucky’s face, leaving him cold and Sam’s expression twists with horror. The echo of your proclamation hangs heavy over the room.
When he can speak again, Bucky leans forward, trying desperately to catch your eye.
“Sweeth-”
You shift suddenly in your seat, uncomfortable and impatient, and cut him off, closing the door to that conversation before he can even begin. Compartmentalizing once more. Surviving.
Bucky bites his tongue reluctantly.
“I intend to tell Landen either way,” you explain. “Her family deserves to know, she- Caroline- deserves to go home. There will be no quid pro quo. But I am hoping that I can make the Senator see that George was always as much our enemy as his, and that with him dead and buried, there’s no reason for any lingering animosity between us.”
Surprise giving way to understanding, Sam takes this in with a slow nod. Leaning back in his chair, he muses quietly, “You really did think of everything.”
It’s subtle, the inhale of your breath. But there’s a sharpness to the quiet sound that has Bucky looking up in alarm. He catches a flash of emotion- a tick of your jaw, the hardening of your expression, the tightening withdrawal- and then it's gone.
“Apparently not everything,” you say, low and terse.
Lifting his head from the back of his chair, Sam blinks at your tone.
“What do you mean?”
Your jaw tightens, but it’s clear that you don’t intend to explain. Sam looks to Bucky with a searching look. Bucky, raw and exposed, is unable to hide anything from Sam’s probing gaze. After a long minute, Sam turns back to you.
“I think you’ve given me enough to be going on for now,” he says as if nothing unusual happened. “I’m going to check in on the detectives’ progress. I’ll let you know when they’re on their way to see you.”
Relaxing slightly, you bob your head in assent, and Sam rocks to his feet. Bucky can see the hesitance that still lingers in the stiffness of Sam’s shoulders, but Sam smiles anyway as he leans in to place a hand on your shoulder and a parting kiss on your cheek.
As he turns to go, Sam catches Bucky’s eye again, and he rises to follow Sam to the door. Hand on the knob, Sam pauses. He does not bother to hide his concern and Bucky can tell that he’s not sure what to say. Eventually, he says the only thing that really matters.
“Take care of her.”
Bucky’s eyes prick. Taking care of you all he’s ever wanted. He failed before, he doesn’t mean to again. Bucky is grateful that Sam still has faith that he can do it right this time.
Sam offers him a small smile and slips out the door. It swings closed behind him, settling back into the frame with a final click, and you are alone.
Bucky stares at the paneled wood a foot from his face. Concrete fills his stomach, poured and cured by the same fear that rattles his heart in his chest. He wants to go to you, to hold you, to talk to you, to make it right- more than anything- and still, he can’t move.
Imprisoned by his own panicking heart, he berates himself for his interia. It’s not until he hears the quiet rustle of fabric behind him that his paralysis breaks.
Stiffly, he turns as you leave the settee and cross to the long vanity at the far wall. You stop with your back to him. Head bowed, you press your palms to the smooth wooden surface. Tension runs through your arms and shoulders, and you pull in an uneven breath.
All remnants of his palsy gone, Bucky’s moving towards you before he even knows he’s doing it, tugged by the invisible cord that binds him to you.
Halfway across the floor, he finds his voice. Though he barely gets to use it.
“Sweetheart, ar-”
“You lied to me.”
He stumbles to a halt.
“What?” he asks, praying to god that he misheard you.
Stiff backed and slow, you turn and face him. He nearly recoils when you meet his eye.
“You lied to me.”
Each quiet syllable strikes him, sharp as the sting of a whip. The heat of your anger scalds him, while his blood turns to ice.
You don’t have to explain. Your meaning is clear. He’s only ever lied to you about one thing. He knows what you need him to say, but his apology lodges in his guilt-numbed throat.
Incensed by his silence, your eyes first widen in disbelief, then narrow.
“I asked you to be patient.” Your mouth pinches and your words blow through him like a gust of winter air. “I asked you to be smart. I asked you to trust me. I asked you not to do anything, and you promised.” Anger and pain vibrate through you. “And you lied.”
Bucky leans back instinctively. He wishes you were yelling, the quiet fury of your voice is more terrifying than shouting could ever be. But at the first glitter of tears on your lashes, and he trips forward on unsteady legs.
“Love, I’m sorry. I know and I’m sorry.”
When he’s close enough to touch, he reaches out to grasp your arms.
“I’m sorry. I know we promised. We did, and I-” he pauses, teeth digging into his bottom lip-” But… Sam and I, we couldn’t not-”
He only has a breath of warning, a flash of rage that transforms your face in an instant, before he’s stumbling backward, thrown off balance by a hard shove to his chest.
He stares wildly, as he tries to get his feet steady under him, then stiffens as you abruptly close the sudden distance between you in a stalk.
“I’m not talking about that!”
You’re so close now that his chest- rising and falling rapidly with panicked breath- brushes against the silky folds of your robe. Emotions war across your features, rage and unfamiliar disdain layer over your deeper fear and sharp-edged sorrow. Even in his confusion, all he wants is to grab you and pull you to his chest, holding you close and shielding you from the world as long as it takes to rid you of this misery. To rid you both. But he’s afraid to touch you, afraid that he might make a mistake, afraid that you or he or everything between you might shatter forever if he’s not careful.
“What-”
“Do you think that I didn’t know that you and Sam were planning something?” You demand, but don’t wait for an answer. “Do you think that I thought that you would just be content to sit ideally by and do nothing? I’m not an idiot!” He opens his mouth to argue, but a warning look from you snaps his lips closed. “But I thought that at least you would be careful! I thought you would be smart!”
Maybe it would be better for him not to respond, but he shakes his head in argument, in confusion. He wants to tell you that they were being smart, they were being careful, but he doesn’t get a chance.
As soon as you grab the lapels of his coat, he realizes that arguing would have been even more foolish than he first thought. Because you’re not just grabbing his coat, you’re feeling the lining. When your fingers close around the steak knife hidden against the seam and you look at him accusingly, he knows that he doesn’t have words enough to apologize for this.
Bucky doesn’t ask how you knew it was there. Despite his caution, you must have seen him grab it in the hall. He should have known that you would have been watching him, even if it all would have been easier to bear if you didn't. Once you knew he had it, you would have known that he would hide it up his sleeve, quick and easy and ready to use. But then, you killed George before he had his chance to act, and the knife became not only redundant, but a hazard as well. You would have known that- with the police on the way- he would have needed to get rid of it. A concealed knife up his sleeve would do nothing to keep him off the detectives’ suspect list. But with so many eyes on him, Bucky didn’t have a chance to dispose of it properly and he needed a temporary solution until he could.
You knew all of this and he doesn’t need to ask how. You know him- better than anyone- and that’s all you needed to guess everything else.
And because he knows you, he doesn’t need to ask what you were thinking as you put all of this together. Or how scared you were, knowing what would happen if the police found it on him. Or worse, what George would have done had he discovered it before you were able to put your plan into action.
“What were you thinking?! They could have seen you!” You jerk his lapels roughly. “It was stupid! It was so stupid! They would have killed you! They would have-” your voice breaks off with a crack. You try to wrestle to get it back again but are overcome by a hard, gasping breath. You give him an angry shake, though not nearly as rough as you meant.
He pulls you to his chest and presses his lips to your hair.
“You’re right it was stupid, so stupid. I know, I know-” He’s rambling, barely knowing what he’s saying, he only knows that he needs to make it right. “I just- I just- I couldn't- George, he-”
Suddenly, he’s stumbling back again, shoved away from you once more.
“Fuck George!”
He gapes open-mouthed and stunned as your beautiful face twists angrily.
“You think that he matters?! That he mattered?!” Your breath heaves, and you grind out bitterly, “George was inconsequential. For all the horrible things he did, all the things he intended to do, he could never break me.” Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, but you ignore them. “But you could.”
Something rends painfully in Bucky’s chest and his lungs stutter to a stop.
“What do you think my life could even be if you were dead?” you whisper. “How dare you be so fucking reckless when I need you?”
All self-preservation gone in the face of your agony, Bucky reaches out once more. He hesitates for just a moment before he touches you and is grateful when you don’t swat his hand away.
Squeezing your eyes tight, you shake your head. When you look at him again, your anger slips and then falls away completely, leaving only your fear, your pain, and your deep unshakeable love.
“I know you’ve suffered. I know it’s not fair. If I had to do what I asked of you-” you shake your head again- “I don’t know if I could have done it. But- Bucky, you can’t-” you make your wavering voice as firm as you can- “Never again. Swear it. Swear that you’ll never put yourself in danger like that again.”
The desperation hiding under your stern tone nearly buckles his knees. He wants so very desperately to give you what you're asking for, to promise you anything you want if it will give you even an ounce of comfort, but he hesitates. Because he can’t, not anything you want, not if what you want is for him to protect himself at the cost of you.
After a heartbeat, you read his silence for what it is and dip your head. He hates that he can't do this for you, that he must ask you to accept what he cannot give. But he won't start the rest of your lives together on a lie, not even when he knows the truth will hurt you.
You breathe in slowly and scrub a hand over your face. Eventually, you meet his eyes, still steely and determined, but you don't argue, you amend.
“Swear that you will never again decide for both of us what’s best. This is our family. From here on out, we decide together. We share the sacrifices.”
Bucky would prefer to keep your sacrifices down to none, but he knows you will no more accept that than he could promise to protect himself.
“I swear.”
Wetness still clings to your lashes, but your shoulders relax as you nod. But before you can settle into your relief, he counters.
“Now you swear.”
You blink at him in surprise, and he steps closer, lightly running his hands down your arms.
“I don’t get to decide for both of us. And neither do you. You don’t get to sacrifice everything and expect me to be okay with it. This is our family-” You expression softens and you place your hands on his chest as he gives your words back to you- “We decide together.”
“Okay, Jamie,” you whisper, “I swear.”
He lets out a sigh and pulls you against his chest. You melt into him, arms looped tight around his waist and head tucked firmly under his chin. A tremor runs through him and he feels its echo in you. He squeezes you tighter, so hard that it must hurt, but you only press yourself closer to him, squeezing him just as forcefully in return.
You cling to each other in silence for a long time. At first with muscles taut and hearts racing with the lingering vestiges of pain and the abrupt shock of relief. Eventually, the horrors that once held you both so tightly in their grip ease. Your embrace doesn't loosen, but the desperation fades, replaced by the gentle re-awakening of hope.
After some time, Bucky can tell that your silence turns thoughtful, but he doesn’t push. And when you, at long last, break the silence with a whisper- “Now I know”- he doesn't have to ask what you mean.
I’d do anything for my family.
It's a common phrase, an oath of loyalty thrown around so easily that it’s cliche. And maybe when people say it, they really mean it, some at least probably do. But for most, “anything” isn’t the promise they make it sound like it is. Because what they really mean is “anything within limits”. Sure they love their families, but not enough to completely break with society. Or its laws.
But in families like yours? They make their own society, they make their own laws, and anything means anything. It is not a question of limits or what you should do. It's only a question of- when faced with the choice- will you do what your family oaths dictate you must?
For Bucky, it was never really a choice. His father didn’t believe in “personal decision-making”. When the time came, Bucky did what was expected of him. Otherwise, he would have found himself disowned. And in the Barnes family, disownment was a very painful, very permanent kind of exile.
But for you it was different. Just like every other cabal in New York, the Wilsons are governed by their own gray morality. But outside of a life or death situation, no one would have expected you to have to make that kind of choice.
At least, not before George changed everything.
“It’s not even half of what I would do,” your voice quiet but sure.
Bucky eases back, cups his hand under your chin and turns your face up. His eyes rove slowly over your face. This is a truth about yourself that you don’t celebrate, he can see that much, and there is an edge of sorrow to your confession. But he sees no sign of regret for the choice that you made.
Still-
“If I have things my way,” he promises quietly, “you’ll never have to learn how much farther. Tonight, I’m going to finish what you started here. Tonight, I’m going to make sure that everyone knows the full strength of our family. They will know what traitors and would-be usurpers can expect if they try to move against us. And how very stupid it would be for anyone to threaten you-” your brow raises meaningfully and he amends- “us- ever again.”
You nod slowly and lift your hand to his face.
“And then you’ll come home to me.”
“And then I’ll come home to you.” He presses his forehead lightly to yours. “Tonight and every night after for as long as my heart beats in my chest.”
“You better.”
You pull him down and press your mouth hard to his.
The kiss isn’t sweet or soft, it's hard and indelicate. Teeth slide against tender flesh and he roughly urges your lips open with his tongue. He grips you tightly, crushing you against the full length of his body, connecting all of your curves and hollows together just as they were meant to be, until you both gasp for breath. Lungs burn in protest, but he can't let go and you don't pull away. You only press harder against him, digging your nails into his shoulders and back, deep enough to leave crescent bruises even through the fabric of his jacket. You open yourself up to him, and if he could, he'd pour himself into you, fill every part of you like cleansing fire, and burn away every shadow that George left behind. Your skin feels feverish to the touch and he wonders if he could will such a flame into being just by wanting it bad enough.
No longer content only to mark him through silk and cotton, you push his blazer roughly from his shoulders. His fingers tangle in the tie of your robe and he starts to tug. His fingertips only just ghost across bare skin when a knock sounds on the door.
Startled, you pull apart and look- panting and wide-eyed- towards the sound.
“Sis,” Sam's voice floats through the door, “just a heads up, the police are going to be here to talk to you in about five minutes.”
Bucky shakes his head peevishly. Those asshole detectives would just love it if they knew how shitty their timing was.
Your breath catches on a hiccup and and in his periphery, Bucky sees you bend your head. He thinks you’re crying again until he hears it. The most impossible thing, something he did not expect to hear today and once feared that he might never hear again.
You're laughing. Husky and half bewildered, but real. Your real laugh, and when you meet his eyes, your real smile. Just as impossibly, he feels the corners of his mouth tugging upward and a tickle rising in his throat.
“What?”
In reply, you gesture helplessly at his clothes and yours and the general state of you. He looks down and huffs a laugh when he finds you both far more disheveled than he realized.
Your robe and the strap of your slip have fallen from your shoulders, leaving you scandalously exposed. Your backside is pressed against the edge of the vanity- he doesn’t even remember walking you backwards- and one of your legs is hooked around his. His tie is loose and his shirt is half unbuttoned, haphazardly tugged open to the middle of his chest. When he catches his reflection in the mirror, his hair stands up at riotous angles.
Reluctantly, you start to untangle yourselves, giggling like wayward teenagers.
“That was reckless,” you say, trying to sound stern as you straighten and re-tie your robe. Mirth still lingers in your tone, but you both know you’re not wrong.
Just like you did this morning, you carefully put each other back together, concealing the evidence of your “indiscretion” from curious eyes.
“We can’t be seen together in public for awhile,” you say as you tame Bucky’s hair with your fingers, “not until things with the investigation have quieted down.”
Bucky nods in agreement.
Though he doesn’t really need the reminder, you add “We can’t give them-” you gesture with your head to the door, indicating the police- “anything concrete to build a case on.”
“Agreed.”
Careful not to undo your hard work, Bucky catches your arms lightly and pulls you close.
“You’ll be at your parents’ place tonight?”
“Yes, Sam will show you how to sneak in. There’s the old servants’ entrance from the 1800s that nobody would think to be watching. Although-” you flash him a cheeky smile- “if you want to be really enterprising, you could always sneak into the garden and then scale the balcony. Romeo-style.”
He barks a laugh.
“No thanks. I’ve never liked that story. It has a shit ending.”
“Yes, it does.”
“But not ours.”
“No, not ours,” you affirm, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s neck and drawing him in.
Bucky groans when a second knock sounds at the door, more urgent this time, and Sam calls out, “They’re on their way.”
You sigh, but time is a luxury you don't have right now.
You give each other another quick once-over to be sure you’re suitable for public scrutiny, then link hands and make for the door. As you step back into the large lounge, your family turns to face you. No one speaks, no one has to as a look passes amongst you. As if cued by an unseen director, everyone starts to move, taking their places on the stage for the final act of the night. But this time, you're not puppets in a pantomime of George’s making, this time you take to the stage for yourselves, for each other.
Before he steps away, Bucky bends to kiss you lightly. You linger for only a moment before slowly stepping apart. Bucky shares a nod with your mother as she comes to your side and leads you back to your private dressing room. He joins Sam and M’Baku near the door, then turns back to watch as you settle yourself on the elegant velvet couch. You deliberately slump against your mother with her arms clasped tightly around you, as if she is the only thing keeping you upright. You meet Bucky’s eye and give him one last small smile before expertly arranging your features into something between shock and despair, the perfect picture of an abruptly widowed bride.
When the police knock and M’Baku lets them in a moment later, everything appears just as you want it to. There is nothing to give the truth away to the detective’s prying eyes.
As they enter, Cooper and Atkins nod deferentially to your family.
Catching sight of Bucky, Cooper acts surprised to see him, though Bucky knows that he isn’t. There’s no way the detectives haven’t been keeping tabs on his every move.
“Mr. Barnes,” Atkins says, “we didn’t realize that you were here. We’ve just come to speak with the bride and her family.”
Bucky smiles, the kind that implies sharp teeth hiding just behind his lips.
“Just checking in to make sure that everyone is doing alright.”
Bucky keeps his tone ambiguous. Is he here as a matter of decorum? Or has he come to gloat over the bride’s misfortune? Bucky loves the slight narrowing of Cooper’s eyes as he tries to decipher it.
“That said, I should be on my way.”
Bucky gives Sam a somber handshake.
Turning back to the detectives, he touches his hand to his forehead- an invisible tipping of his hat- “Gentlemen,” he adds in farewell before stepping past them and out the door.
Before the door swings fully closed behind him, he catches Atkins’s artfully sympathetic tone as he addresses your family, “We’ve come to speak to Mrs. Barnes. Get her version of the events, if she’s ready.”
Bucky hates to leave you to the detective’s manipulative ways, but he knows that you can handle them. Making his way back to the ballroom, he finds himself feeling unexpectedly light and realizes that he is no longer afraid. Not of the detectives or the mess George made. Not of the work he has to do tonight. Not of the months of rebuilding ahead. Not anymore, not when he has you, brought back from the edge of loss and despair. Not when he and Sam have your family to lead and protect.
Whatever hits Bucky's confidence have taken in recent months, they roll off of him now, cast off like shed skin to reveal something new underneath. Something tempered by fire and the fear of loss, diamond-hard, and terrifying to behold for those who would oppose him.
With each step, he feels renewed, invincible, and as he looks around the reception hall, he can tell that everyone else can feel it too and he knows that inevitably they will all fall before him.
He searches for Steve in the crowd. When he finds him, their eyes lock and Steve nods in understanding.
Summary: “We’ll survive, You and I.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald
Word count: ~1.5K
Warnings: For the first time ever with this story, NO ANGST. Shocking, I know. This one is almost all fluff with a hint of smut. There's some mention of adultery but not committed by our pair.
A/N: As you can tell from the warnings, this one-shot is completely different in tone than the whole rest of this story. So if you came here for the angst and the fluff will ruin it for you, then this one isn't for you, and that's okay. I sometimes like to think about the better times before and after the events of the wedding and wanted to give these two a little bit of happy. This story is set a little over a year after the original story. No beta reader, so forgive any rough bits. I hope you enjoy it!
You gape open-mouthed at the array spread across your coffee table.
“And you’re certain Cooper doesn’t know?” you ask, lifting your eyes to your guest.
Jimmy shakes his head.
“I’m sure.”
You continue to stare at the photos for another long minute before breaking out into an irrepressible grin.
“Jimmy,” you say happily, “you are a gem.”
He smiles and tilts his head humbly.
Jimmy Woo has long been your favorite “odd job” man. He always delivers, usually even better than he promised. He has an amazing knack for appearing harmless and a high tolerance for being underestimated as a result. And all the while, as people are dismissing him as a bumbling naïf, he’s busy calculating all the angles and playing them out right under everyone’s noses.
You start to gather the photos into a neat stack and set them on top of the envelope he brought them in.
“Thank you for your excellent work, as always. Still prefer transfer over cash?”
“If you don’t mind. I’ve got a killer interest rate on my savings account.”
“Smart man,” you reply, picking up your phone and accessing the masked bank server for your “discretionary spending” account.
As you type Jimmy’s information in and initiate the transfer- adding an extra fifteen percent to show your appreciation- he says, “Congratulations, by the way.”
When you look up, he glances down meaningfully. You follow his gaze to your left hand. Meeting his eye again, you give him a crooked smile and pretend not to understand.
“Why, whatever do you mean by that?”
Jimmy returns your knowing smile and feigns ignorance as well.
“Oh, I couldn’t say,” he shrugs, as if he’s already forgotten what you were talking about. Then, he adds- just in case you weren’t already sure- “And I wouldn’t say, if anyone happened to ask.”
“I know.”
Discretion is another fine quality of Jimmy’s, especially when it comes to those who've earned his loyalty.
With your business concluded, you see Jimmy to the door, reminding him that he promised to come to your dinner party in a fortnight. He assures you of his attendance, and you bid him a warm farewell. As you lean in for a quick hug, neither of you comment on the not-quite-as-incognito-as-he’d-like-to-be man trying to lurk casually across the street from Bucky’s brownstone, but you share a knowing eye roll before Jimmy departs.
Once he’s gone, you close the door and head back the way you came. Pausing to grab the envelope and photos from the coffee table, you continue past the dining room and up the stairs. When you reach Bucky’s open office door, you knock lightly on the frame to get his attention.
He lifts his head and smiles as soon as he sees you.
“Hey there, love.”
“Hey baby,” you reply, stepping across the threshold. You hold up the stack of photos. “You’ll never believe what I have.”
Bucky eyes your prize curiously.
“Tell me.”
As you come around to his side of the heavy oaken desk, he shifts his chair to make room for you to stand beside him. He curves an arm around your waist as you bend to spread the photos like a deck of cards across the desk top. His eyes follow your every movement and shift away from you only reluctantly when you tap the topmost picture to draw his attention down to it.
“Remember our ‘good friend’ Detective Cooper?” you ask.
“How could I forget?”
“Well, this,” you tap the photo again, pointing to one of the two people featured in the photo spread you’ve brought him, “is him.” You can’t see his face in the current photo, but it doesn’t matter, there are plenty of others where you can make him out quite clearly.
Bucky hums in reply.
“And this-” you slide your finger a mere half-inch across the glossy surface of the photo to point to the only other occupant of the shot- “is Detective Atkins’s wife.”
Bucky’s brows shoot up and his eyes go wide.
“Oh my,” he deadpans. Leaning forward, he sifts through the photos, each more compromising than the last. “These photos do not leave much to the imagination, do they?”
“No, they do not,” you reply, smothering a laugh.
“Well,” Bucky says, giving the pictures a final once-over, “Cooper has either been a very good partner. Or a very bad one.”
You snort through your nose.
“My money is on the latter, given that Jimmy is sure that Atkins has no idea who his wife has been sneaking around with. He suspects that there’s someone, but he confided- ironically- to Cooper that he doesn't know who. Apparently, they’ve been very careful.”
“Oof,” Bucky replies with a hint of real sympathy. After a minute, he adds in a magnanimous tone. “Well, I suppose someone should let Atkins know. For his own good, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” you agree. “I hate to see the man hurt, but he really should know. And maybe it just might have the side benefit of keeping him out of trouble at work too. If the man has something else to focus on, perhaps then he’ll stop pissing his bosses off by investigating an accidental death that the DA has already warned him- multiple times- to give up on.”
“Yes,” Bucky nods his head with a faux pout, “I imagine these will keep him very busy.”
You turn and sit on the edge of Bucky’s desk and his hand falls to rest lightly on your thigh.
“I could run across the street and give these to him directly, but I figured I’d mail them instead. Let the man enjoy the last day of his unauthorized surveillance in peace.”
Bucky nods, as if to say “that’s very generous of you”.
You tip your head back thoughtfully.
“When we send them, should we send a note as well or just let the photos speak for themselves?”
Bucky snorts a half laugh.
“A note, hmm? Interesting thought. And what would it say? ‘Dear Detective Atkins, From one cuck to another, thought you should know. Sincerely, James Barnes?’”
You stifle a laugh and try to look serious.
“Well,” you say in mock sobriety, “if anyone knows about a philandering partner, it would be you.”
“That I do,” he says with all the sternness that he can muster, as he reaches forward and catches your left hand in his. “But I got my revenge, didn’t I?” He meets your eye with a wicked grin. “Forced her to come back to me. To pay her penance.”
His words are at odds with the way that he laces his fingers with yours. He gently turns your hand so that your palm is facing down and bends to press his lips reverently to the rings on your finger.
Unless they already know, most people- with the exception of the eagle-eyed Jimmy- don’t notice that the rings you currently wear aren’t the ones who left St. Joe’s Cathedral with so many months ago, on the day that saw you both wed and widowed. Though, if they bothered to give it a close enough look, they might realize that your pale tourmaline engagement ring is in fact not new to you. The really, really keen might remember it from the time before your ill-fated betrothal to George Junior. They might also notice that you started wearing it again- along with the delicate silver band that matches it- about two months ago. If they did, they might guess the reason, although none could say for certain. Only family was invited to the quiet little ceremony at your mama’s family home down in New Orleans, the one with the willow tree your parents once were married under.
As Bucky holds your hand, the metal of his own ring clinks lightly against yours. You only get the pleasure of seeing him wear it at home. It is unwise for him to wear it in public. But he does keep it close, safely clasped to a thin, custom-made leather cuff. In your mind, you eagerly countdown the weeks until the day you can finally stop hiding this newest development in your relationship from the public eye.
“And what a ‘terrible’ punishment it’s been,” you say, effecting a faux pout that does nothing to hide the mischievous glint in your eye as you think about your so-called “penance”.
Bucky’s arch grin widens.
“Speaking of which-” he leans back in his chair and drops his hand to his waist. Your eyes hungrily follow the movement. When he starts to unthread his belt buckle, your pulse begins to throb shamelessly between your thighs. You lift yourself from the desk and quickly slip your hands under your skirt. Grasping your panties, you eagerly tug them down and let them drop to the floor where you kick them aside.
Bucky watches you keenly, clearly pleased- as ever- by the effect he has on you. You lick your lips as he slowly pulls down his zipper.
“-why don’t you come sit on my lap and take your licks?”
Summary: Love and obligation. How can you serve one and still save the other?
Warnings: Dark themes. Threats and portrayals of violence, including murder and assault. There are references to but no depictions of noncon. Violent and abusive acts are directed at the reader, but not by Bucky. There is also betrayal, controlling/abusive behavior, death of loved ones/main characters, grief, LOTS of angst, a little bit of fluff, nonexplicit s.mut and sexual references. Please note, there is an element to this story that is a surprise and won't be revealed until about 4/5 chapters in. Therefore, I am not including the related warnings here, but I will include them in the tags in case anyone is truly uncomfortable proceeding without knowing what's coming.
A/N: I started writing this story ages ago, and I've been sitting on it because I put so much time and energy into it, that part of me was scared to share it. But I've decided to let go of that worry and just see what happens. I don't have a specific posting schedule but once I start, I hope to keep up the momentum. Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged as I post. Thanks all ❤️
Warnings: Smut (Minors DNI), unprotected p in v (but I contest that they are fastidious about their sexual health because they both know something like this was inevitable). Brief oral (f! receiving). Some swearing. Tom being a clown. Some implied angst and some fluff.
A/N: Hey all! This is probably tied with the original Spy vs Spy for the least amount of plot in a smut story I've written 😆 but it's still heavy on feelings because I can't help myself. This is an overdue contribution for the @buckybarnesevents Into an Alternative June-iverse challenge for my Modern square. This is not the smut that I intended to write for this but the smut muse clearly has a mind of her own, enjoy! ❤️
"Who is that asshole?"
You stop as abruptly as if pulled by a string. Your spine instinctively straightens as your head lifts and your senses sharpen.
Five years, three months, and twenty-three days since you last heard it, and yet his voice pours over you and sinks into your skin, raising every hair on your body and sending static down your veins, just like it always did.
