#stan-o-ween

[mcrdvcks]

you're lost and i'm insane

summary: You work at a mental institution filled with some of the most dangerous and deranged people. Your patient Bucky becomes dangerously fixated on you. word count: 18.7k+ pairing: patient!bucky barnes x fem!psychiatrist!reader notes: this is for stan-o-ween! i needed a ~spooky~ fic and wanted to try something a bit different. a tad bit inspired by born, madly & born, darkly by trisha wolfe, a dark romance duet! i even fear that this is like... way too dark and just too much but i wrote it and it's going to be put out so i don't cry about wasting hours/days on this fic so i don't even care if no one reads it this is dub-con/non-con - if you do not like DO NOT READ! i am not responsible for your media consumption. if you send me a message or ask saying it offended you or you were uncomfortable i will tell you that you shouldn't have read this because the warning(s) were made clear. warnings/tags: dub-con/non-con - 18+ only!!!, dark!bucky, inappropriate psychiatrist and patient relationship (or really just bucky being manipulative), dark sexual fantasies, mentions of violence and trauma, mention of reader blushing (as a manipulation tactic, not necessarily as a physical trait), implied stalking, smut, handcuffs, marking, fingering, oral (f&m!receiving), mention of hand in hair, unprotected piv, overstimulation, thigh fucking, slight cum play, breeding kink, very slight aftercare... well, not really more like vague threats, uhhh i didn't know how to end this fic so yeah here it is it's-tober! masterlist | stan-o-ween masterlist

The orderly’s keys rattled against his belt as he unlocked the heavy door to the interview room. The hinges groaned like something out of an old horror film, the kind you’d half-watched on a rainy night as a child, before burrowing under the blankets. The smell of the asylum clung to everything—bleach, old stone, rust, and something faintly sour that never really scrubbed away no matter how much disinfectant the janitorial staff poured into the cracks.

You adjusted the file in your hands, more for something to do than because you needed to. The paper inside had already been read through twice, your pen marks underlining words that were almost clinical in their emptiness: violent outbursts, manipulative tendencies, acute paranoia, possible PTSD, resistant to treatment. Each phrase felt sterile compared to the whispered warnings from colleagues who had looked at you with a mixture of pity and unease when they learned you’d drawn this particular assignment.

He was already sitting at the table when you entered, cuffs clamped around his wrists and linked to a bolted chain that allowed him just enough movement to rest his forearms on the scarred wood. His hair fell in uneven strands that framed his face, his jaw dark with stubble. He didn’t look up when the orderly shut the door behind you and left, but you felt his awareness all the same—like the air itself had shifted to acknowledge your presence.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you began, your voice steady but quieter than you intended. The metal chair scraped as you sat down across from him. His head lifted at last, and blue eyes fixed on yours. They didn’t blink often.

He smiled faintly, the kind of expression that wasn’t warm but deliberate. “Doctor.” The word stretched out, like he was tasting it.

You nodded, keeping your hands folded neatly on the folder so he couldn’t see the slight tremor in your fingers. “I’ll be meeting with you regularly. Our goal is to understand what you’ve been experiencing, and to see what steps might help.”

“Steps,” he repeated, his voice low, threaded with an accent buried under decades. “Steps where? Out of here?”

“Steps toward treatment,” you clarified. Neutral, professional.

That was when he leaned forward, the chains clinking softly. He didn’t break eye contact. “You smell like lilacs.”

The clinical script in your head faltered. It was an odd observation, inappropriate, but his tone wasn’t mocking—it was almost contemplative. “That’s not relevant,” you said, sharper than you meant.

He smirked, leaning back just enough to make the chair creak. “It’s relevant to me.”

You took a slow breath and flipped open the file. “Your previous psychiatrist noted that you refused to engage in structured conversation. You spoke in fragments, and at times refused to answer questions. I’d like to try again, if you’ll allow it.”

His eyes flicked to the open folder, then back to you. “She wore red lipstick. Thought it made her look older. More serious. She stopped wearing it after I told her it made her look like she was trying too hard.”

Your chest tightened. There was no note about that in the file. “How do you know that would be important to her?”

His smile widened just slightly, but it wasn’t pleasant. “People tell you who they are when they think you aren’t listening. I listen.” His gaze dropped to your hands, still folded neatly. “You bite your nails. Not lately. You’ve been trying to stop. Two weeks now?”

You curled your fingers in against the folder without thinking. The urge to defend yourself warred with the instinct to redirect the session, keep the upper hand. He hadn’t seen you outside of this room—he couldn’t have. Was he guessing, or was it some uncanny perception? “You notice small things,” you said, trying to bring control back into your tone. “That can be a strength.”

“Or a weapon,” he countered, his voice quiet again. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator measuring the reach of its prey. “I know more about you already than you know about me. That makes you nervous.”

Your pen tapped once against the paper before you forced it still. “What makes me nervous is when a patient avoids direct questions.” You looked up at him firmly. “Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”

He chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “You tell me. You’ve got the file. The doctors who came before you decided what I am.” He leaned forward again, closer than before. The chain pulled taut. “What do you think I am?”

For a moment, the room felt too small, the walls too close. You remembered the orderly’s warning glance before the door closed. Dangerous. Manipulative. He was trying to unsettle you. Still, you met his stare. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

His smile thinned, sharp as glass. “Then I look forward to our sessions, Doctor. I think you’ll enjoy them more than you expect.”

The clock on the wall ticked loud in the silence that followed. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. His eyes never left you, not even as you stood, signaled for the guard, and the lock turned again. And even as you left, you felt it—the sense of being studied, catalogued, remembered.

The second time you saw him, the asylum felt heavier. It wasn’t just the damp chill of stone walls or the flickering bulbs in the hallways—it was the knowledge of him waiting, somewhere behind a door, replaying the way he’d looked at you the first time.

You’d told yourself not to think about it afterward. You’d gone home, poured a glass of wine you barely touched, sat on your sofa with a book that you never opened. But even then, it had felt like his eyes were still on you, cataloguing every flick of your fingers against the page, every sigh, every unfinished swallow. The thought had burrowed under your skin: He shouldn’t know. He couldn’t know. So how did he?

Your colleagues had noticed something. You caught the sideways glances in the break room, the muttered “brave” and “reckless” when your name was paired with his on the assignment list. One older psychiatrist had cornered you, his hand heavy on your arm. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He gets under your skin. That’s his game. Don’t play it.” You’d nodded, thanked him, and promised you knew the boundaries. But even then, part of you had bristled at the warning, as if he was questioning your competence instead of his danger.

Now, walking the long corridor toward the interview room, the sound of your heels echoed louder than usual. Two orderlies flanked the door, and when you nodded, they opened it with a glance that said everything they didn’t say aloud: good luck.

Bucky was waiting. He always seemed to be waiting. His posture was deceptively casual, chair angled back slightly, chains pooled loose around his wrists. He raised his head the moment you entered. No smile this time. Just that relentless stare. “Doctor,” he greeted, voice low.

You shut the door behind you, nodded at the guard who lingered just a moment longer than necessary, then took your seat. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“You didn’t sleep well,” he said, almost immediately.

You froze with your pen halfway out of your pocket. “Excuse me?”

His lips curved, faint, deliberate. “Your eyes. Tired. Coffee before you came here—two sugars, no cream. You only do that when you need the caffeine more than the taste. Means you didn’t sleep.”

It was nothing he could have witnessed. You felt a prickle race up the back of your neck. “You can’t know that.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “I notice things. It’s what kept me alive. Noticing. You’d be surprised what people give away.” His gaze lowered to your hands again. “Even you.”

Your fingers curled around the pen too tightly. “This session is about you,” you said firmly.

“Everything is about me now,” he countered, quiet but assured. He leaned forward, the chain taut. “You’ve been thinking about me.” The denial rose on your tongue, sharp, professional. But he kept talking, his words a blade sliding between your ribs. “You went home after last time. Poured yourself a drink, tried to read something, couldn’t focus. You replayed what I said about the lilacs, didn’t you? Wondered how I knew. Wondered if I’d been near you without you noticing.” His eyes gleamed, satisfaction curving his mouth. “You wondered if I could be right outside your door.”

The pen snapped against the paper as you slammed it down, voice tight. “That’s enough.”

His laugh was soft, humorless, echoing in the small room. “Touched a nerve.”

You forced yourself to breathe, to sit straighter, to let the silence linger long enough for control to return. “Tell me about the night terrors,” you said finally, forcing the conversation back to the file in front of you. “Your previous doctor noted you reported vivid dreams.”

He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch until you looked up, and then he said, “Dreams aren’t the problem. Waking up is.”

“Explain.”

“You wake, and for a moment you don’t know where you are. You reach for something—someone—that isn’t there. Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, your lungs burn, your body begs you to believe it’s all real. Then you realize it’s not. And you’re alone.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “You know what that feels like, don’t you?”

The words slid under your skin like ice water. “This isn’t about me,” you said, more brittle than you intended.

He smiled again, slow, certain. “But it could be.”

The orderly outside coughed, the faint sound of movement reminding you there were other people within shouting distance. That reminder steadied you. “That’s all for today,” you said, closing the file with finality.

He didn’t protest. Didn’t move. Just watched you stand, watched the guard unlock the door, watched you leave. But just before it shut, his voice followed, curling after you like smoke, “sweet dreams, Doctor.”

You kept walking, even though your pulse hammered in your ears. And all through the rest of the day, no matter how many files you reviewed, how many colleagues you nodded to in the hall, the words stayed with you.

Sweet dreams.

---

The rain had been relentless all morning. The kind of storm that rattled the barred windows of the asylum and left the halls reeking faintly of damp stone. You sat at your desk with his file open, the pages already softening at the edges from the number of times you’d turned them. There was a note from administration at the top in neat, block handwriting, consider termination of sessions if patient continues to escalate.

You traced your thumb along the margin where you’d written observations after your last meeting. He knew too much. Not just about his environment, but about you. That wasn’t in the manuals, wasn’t covered in your training. The textbooks didn’t explain how to handle a patient who seemed to look through you like glass.

Still, you signed your name on the attendance sheet, and when the orderly opened the door, you walked in. Bucky was already there. He always was. He sat with his chair angled slightly away from the table this time, his cuffed wrists loose in his lap. The posture was a show—you could tell. It was carefully chosen to look unguarded, almost lazy, but the line of his shoulders was taut. He turned his head toward you when you entered, eyes catching the weak fluorescent light. “Doctor,” he said softly.

You set the file down. “Good morning.”

He chuckled under his breath, leaning forward until the chain rattled against the table. “Is it?”

“Do you want to tell me why it isn’t?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his voice dropped into something almost conversational, intimate, as though you were two people speaking in confidence instead of psychiatrist and patient. “I dream about blood,” he said. “The weight of it. Not nightmares, not really. More like… memories with teeth.” He looked down at his hands, flexing the one still covered in faint scars. “I remember their faces. Not all of them. Just enough. Screaming, choking, going limp. And I liked it.”

The air left the room. You were careful not to move, not to flinch. “You liked it.”

He lifted his gaze back to yours, unblinking. “You’re supposed to say I didn’t. You’re supposed to tell me it was conditioning, that I wasn’t in control. But I was. At least part of me. You can’t take that away from me.”

You inhaled slowly. The words were deliberate, crafted to provoke. “Why do you want me to take it away from you?”

A sharp laugh burst from him, humorless and low. “Because if you say I wasn’t in control, then I get to walk around thinking I’m not a monster. And if you don’t…” His smile spread, thin and sharp. “Then I know exactly what I am.”

“Which do you want to be?” you asked, steadying your voice.

His eyes narrowed, the smile lingering. “Which would you rather I be?”

The question caught you like barbed wire. It was manipulative, designed to entangle, but some part of you felt the trap tighten around your ribs anyway. You forced your gaze down to the notes in the file. “This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You come here, sit across from me, ask your questions with that careful tone. But you’re listening. Really listening. The others—they just want to put me in a box, shove me full of pills until I drool. You want to understand.”

“That’s my job,” you said.

He leaned forward, closer, the chain pulling taut. “No. It’s more than that. You need to understand me. You want to know how deep the rot goes. You want to know if you can fix me.”

The silence stretched. The rain battered harder against the windows. Finally, you asked, “and can I?”

His mouth curved, slow, deliberate, like a knife sliding free from its sheath. “No one fixes me, Doctor. But you… you might be the one I let try.”

Your pen dug into the paper, the ink pooling in a sharp dot before you forced yourself to keep writing. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, redirecting before the weight of his words could sink too far. “Tell me about what they made you do.”

His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes changed. Darkened. “They stripped me down. Took away my name, my memories, my choices. Left the shell. You want to know what it feels like to stop being a man and start being a weapon?”

“Yes,” you said.

His stare burned into you, unflinching. “It feels like being fucked by ghosts. Every time you blink, there’s another one inside you, another command, another hand on the trigger. You don’t even know where you end and they begin. And then they’re gone, and it’s just you. With blood under your nails and no excuses.” The words made your throat tighten, the pen nearly slipping in your hand. And then, softer, more insidious, “sometimes I wonder what command I’d follow if it came from you.”

Your pulse jumped hard enough that you prayed it didn’t show in your face. “That’s not appropriate,” you managed.

He smiled, wolfish now, tilting his head. “That’s not a denial.”

The orderly’s knock on the door broke the moment, sharp and sudden. You blinked, tearing your gaze away, closing the file too quickly. “That’s all for today.”

But as the guards came in to unchain him, he didn’t move his eyes from yours. His voice followed you out, low and almost gentle, “you could tell me to do anything. Anything at all. And I would.”

The door shut behind you, and for a long time, you just stood in the hall, the storm hammering against the building as though it wanted in.

---

The lights buzzed overhead with their usual sickly hum, the pale fluorescence tinting everything in the asylum to the same washed-out shade of grey. You’d grown used to it, but sitting across from him it was suddenly oppressive, like the bulbs themselves bent lower, dimming the air between you.

He was quiet when you entered this time. No greeting, no smirk. Just a steady gaze as you set the folder on the table and sat down. His posture was too still, his hands folded neatly in his lap—an imitation of calm, you realized, rather than the thing itself.

You clicked your pen and began, “I’d like to continue where we left off. You said Hydra took away your choices. That you felt like a weapon.”

His eyes flicked down to your hands, then back up. “That bother you? Hearing me say that?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Because you want to believe you can talk me into being human again. You want to believe your voice is enough to overwrite years of programming.” His mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “Like a magic spell.”

You let the silence hang, writing a note you didn’t need to. He leaned forward. The chains rattled, but the sound was soft, almost intimate. “You ever think about control?” he asked.

Your pen stilled. “Control?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low now, coaxing. “How much of it you really have. Over yourself. Over the people in this place. Over me.” He tilted his head, and the fluorescent lights caught on his eyes, making them gleam faintly. “Do you think you control this room?”

“Yes,” you said carefully.

He smirked, leaning back, the chair creaking under him. “Then tell me to do something.”

Your chest tightened. “This isn’t—”

“Tell me.” His voice was firm now, almost a command. “Tell me to do something simple. Anything. Say it.”

You hesitated, pulse spiking against your throat. Every professional instinct screamed that you should redirect, shut the suggestion down. But your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it. “Sit up straighter.”

For a moment, his expression didn’t change. Then, deliberately, he slid his shoulders back and straightened, spine rigid, chin lifting. The movement was slow, measured, exaggerated just enough to show that it was no real obedience—it was a performance. “See?” His voice was a near whisper. “You could tell me to do worse than that. You could tell me to get on my knees, to beg. You could tell me to wrap these chains around your wrist and drag you across the table. And I would.”

The room shrank, air pressing tight against your lungs. “That’s not appropriate,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

He laughed, quiet and dark. “But it’s true. You don’t believe in control, Doctor. You believe in power. Difference is, power doesn’t ask permission.”

You gripped the pen tighter, fingers aching. “You said before you dream about blood. Do you dream about power, too?”

His eyes narrowed, studying you, and then he spoke with a soft kind of certainty that felt worse than shouting. “I dream about you.”

Your heart stopped.

“In the dark,” he went on. “Your face at the edge of the light. The sound of your voice when you try to keep it steady. I see your hands—always your hands. Holding the pen, the folder, the little twitch of your fingers when you’re nervous. And I dream about what else those hands could do.”

Your throat worked, but no words came out. He smiled, sharp and slow.

“You think I don’t notice how you avoid touching this table? Like it’s dirty. Like if you keep your hands on the file you’ll stay safe. But I see it. I see the way you sit straighter when I get close, the way you hold your breath.” He leaned forward again, the chain taut. “I see you, Doctor. Better than you see yourself.”

The silence was unbearable. Your pulse thundered in your ears, the rain from outside pattering against the window like a metronome. Finally, you forced your voice into the space between you. “Do you think these confessions help you?”

His smile dropped into something flat, colder. “They help me remind you who I am. And who you could be.”

The orderly knocked at the door. The sound made you jump. He saw it. Of course he did. “That’s enough for today,” you said quickly, snapping the folder shut.

The guards entered, stepping behind him to unchain his cuffs. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move his gaze from you. As the door swung shut, his voice followed, quiet enough that it felt meant only for you. “Next time, tell me something you’ve never told anyone. Fair’s fair.”

The door locked, the bolts sliding into place. But you walked the corridor with the weight of him pressing against your back, his words burrowing under your skin where no lock could reach.

---

The storm had passed, leaving the asylum damp and eerily quiet. The hall smelled of bleach and wet concrete, the kind of sterile rot that never quite left the walls. You sat at the table first this time, file open, pen ready, spine held deliberately straight. You told yourself the posture was for control.

When the door opened, he entered with the guards, his cuffs already fastened. He didn’t look at them. He looked only at you, eyes locking the moment the threshold was crossed. A faint curl of a smile touched his mouth as he sat down, the chain scraping against the table. “You came back,” he said softly.

“It’s my job,” you replied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “That’s what you tell yourself.”

You wrote the date at the top of your notes page, ignoring him. The scratch of the pen was loud in the silence. “Did you think about what I asked you?” His voice cut through the quiet. “About telling me something you’ve never told anyone.”

You didn’t look up. “This is not about me.”

“It is now.”

His certainty pressed against your ribs. You inhaled slowly, kept your eyes on the file. “We’re here to talk about your experiences. Your memories. You’ve mentioned dreams, nightmares, memories with blood. Today, I’d like you to tell me what you feel when you wake.”

He leaned back, smirk widening. “Cold. Alone. And hard.”

Your gaze flicked up despite yourself, and the deliberate spark in his eyes told you he’d been waiting for it. “That’s not appropriate,” you said evenly.

“But it’s true.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You want truth, don’t you? Isn’t that why you keep coming back, no matter what the others say? You want me to bleed the truth out for you.”

“Truth is not the same as provocation,” you countered.

“Provocation is just truth with teeth.” He leaned forward, chain rattling. “You want me to bare mine? I’ll do it. But you’ll owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“A piece of yourself.”

The silence stretched, taut. His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. Finally, you said, “what do you want me to tell you?”

He smiled faintly, victorious. “Something small. Something soft. Something human. Not your resume, not your degrees. Something real.”

You shifted in your chair, the file heavy in your lap. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only way you’ll ever understand me. You can’t stand behind that glass forever. You want me to confess? Then you confess too.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “You show me your pulse, I’ll show you my knife.” Your throat tightened, words caught behind your teeth. He saw it, of course. His smirk deepened. “You’ve never been married,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You don’t wear a ring. No tan line. You don’t talk about anyone waiting for you at home. You go back to an empty apartment, don’t you? One glass of wine, sometimes two, maybe a book you don’t finish. You fall asleep with the TV still on so you don’t have to hear how quiet it is.”

Your chest went tight, your hand gripping the pen too hard. “That’s enough.”

But he leaned closer, the chain taut, his voice low and certain. “You hate being alone. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you keep walking back into this room, even when you should run. Because you’d rather sit across from me than your empty walls.”

The pen tip dug into the page, bleeding ink into a black dot. Your mouth was dry. “And what do you get out of this?”

He smiled, sharp as a blade. “Everything. Every look, every twitch of your hands, every word you won’t say. That’s my confession. I want you, Doctor. Not the way they think, not as some project to fix. I want to get inside your head the way you’re trying to get inside mine.”

Your pulse thudded, loud enough you swore he could hear it. “That’s not therapy,” you said.

He leaned back finally, but his eyes stayed on you, gleaming. “Who said I wanted therapy?” The orderly knocked on the door, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. You closed the file too quickly, stood too fast. The guards entered, unshackling him. As they pulled him to his feet, he bent his head closer, voice pitched just for you. “Bring me something next time. Not a file. Not questions. Something of you.”

The guards led him away, but his words lingered like smoke in your lungs, burning long after he was gone.

---

The room felt warmer than usual when you stepped inside, though the air vents hummed the same dull current overhead. You told yourself it was in your head. You told yourself a lot of things these days.

Bucky sat where he always did, cuffed at the wrists, but he looked different this time—slouched in a posture almost lazy, legs spread, chin tilted slightly as though he’d been waiting not just minutes but hours for you. His mouth curved faintly when he saw you, as though he’d been expecting you to arrive exactly like this. “Doctor,” he drawled.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“You look tired again.”

You set the file down, deliberately not acknowledging the comment. “We’ll begin with your last statement. You said you wanted to get inside my head. Tell me what that means.”

His gaze slid slowly down your figure, then back up, unhurried, deliberate. “Exactly what it sounds like. You think you’re the only one who gets to dig? You think I don’t notice how you cross your legs when you sit, like you’re making a barrier? Or how you keep your hands folded on the folder, like it’s a shield? You think I don’t see the pulse in your throat when I lean forward?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t look away. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” he murmured. “Because it doesn’t feel like therapy anymore. Feels like foreplay.”

The word hit the air like a slap. You froze, pen halfway between your fingers. “That’s inappropriate.”

He smiled, slow, dangerous. “So you keep saying. But you never walk out.”

You forced the pen to move, scratching a note you didn’t even read. “You said Hydra made you into a weapon. Did they also make you into this?”

His eyes darkened, the smile fading. “No. This is mine. This is the part they couldn’t take. The hunger. The way I look at you and imagine—” He broke off with a low laugh, shaking his head. “No. You don’t want to hear that.”

“Tell me,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

He leaned forward, the chain clinking as it pulled taut. His voice dropped with it, dark and intimate. “I imagine what you’d sound like if you stopped pretending. If you let go of that polished doctor’s voice and just… gasped. Moaned. Begged.”

Your fingers clenched around the pen hard enough to ache. “That’s not—”

“Appropriate?” he finished for you, smirk curving again. “You’re going to keep saying that until you believe it. But you don’t believe it now. Not really. You’re picturing it. You can’t stop.”

You inhaled sharply, tried to redirect. “You said you want me to confess something. What would you want me to confess?”

“That when you leave this place, you don’t think about the other patients. You think about me. About the way I talk, the way I look at you, the things I could do if these chains weren’t here. You go home and you sit in your quiet little apartment, and you wonder if I’m right. If I’d make you scream or if I’d make you whisper.” The pen slipped, clattered against the folder. His eyes flicked down to the movement, then back up, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Do you know what my nightmares really are?” he asked softly.

“What?” you managed.

“They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.” He leaned closer still, so close the chain strained. “They’re about you deciding not to come back. That’s worse than anything they ever did to me.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” His voice was velvet and steel, quiet but unyielding. “I know you’re the only one who sees me, not the weapon, not the file. I know you’re the only one who makes me feel alive. And I know that if you told me to get down on my knees right now, I would.”

The silence stretched, your pulse loud in your ears. You swallowed hard, forced the file closed. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look at the guards when they entered. His eyes stayed locked on you, his smile faint and chilling. “You’ll think about it tonight,” he said, his voice so soft it barely reached. “And when you do, it won’t feel inappropriate. It’ll feel inevitable.”

The door locked behind you, but the echo of his words followed like breath on the back of your neck.

---

The air in the room felt heavier every time you came back. You noticed it before you even sat down: a thickness in the silence, like someone had turned the oxygen down a notch. You told yourself you were imagining it. That it was just your own heart rate, your own anticipation.

Bucky was already there, as always, hands cuffed, posture deceptively loose. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t even greet you. He just watched you as you closed the door behind you, eyes following the movement of your fingers on the knob, the sweep of your coat as you sat down. “You’re late,” he said quietly.

“By two minutes,” you answered, opening the file.

He tilted his head. “Two minutes is a long time in here.”

You ignored the comment, wrote the date at the top of your notes. “We’ll continue where we left off. You said your nightmares were about me walking away.”

“They still are,” he said. His voice was flat, but underneath it was a tremor of something else—anger, or need, or both. “I wake up and I can’t breathe. Feels like you’ve been ripped out of me. I sit in this cell and I think about what I’d do if you stopped coming.”

“That’s not a healthy attachment,” you said evenly.

His lips curved faintly. “You think this is about health?” He leaned forward, the chain sliding across the table. “Do you think I’d let anyone else see what I tell you? You’re not just a doctor anymore. You’re a confession booth. You’re a church.”

“I’m not your priest,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re something else.”

The silence stretched, taut. You made yourself ask, “tell me what you dream about besides me walking away.”

His eyes darkened. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that filled the space between you. “I dream about you walking in. Only this time you lock the door behind you. Only this time you put the key on the table and slide it toward me.”

Your fingers tightened on the pen. “That’s not reality.”

“It could be,” he said softly. “You keep telling yourself it couldn’t, but you’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel. My hands on you. My mouth at your ear. You’d still be telling yourself you’re in control even when you’re on your knees.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp.

He smiled faintly. “Why? You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His eyes flicked to your hands, your throat. “You always do when you’re turned on.”

Your heart lurched, heat flooding your face before you could stop it. “This is inappropriate.”

He chuckled, low, dark. “We’re past that word. You don’t come back here for appropriateness. You come back here because you like the edge. You like sitting across from the thing you’re supposed to be controlling and wondering if you could survive it.”

You forced the pen to move, wrote something—anything—on the paper. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, grasping at the clinical like a life raft.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice softened. “They taught me a lot about pain. About power. About taking what you want. They taught me how to read people, how to find the cracks. You’ve got cracks, Doctor. Beautiful little cracks all over you. I think about sliding my fingers into them.”

Your breath caught. “Enough.”

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “But you never leave.”

He leaned closer, so close the chain went tight with a metallic snap. His voice was a whisper against the hum of the lights. “Do you know what I think about when I’m in my cell at night? I think about your voice. The sound it would make if I pressed you against a wall. The way you’d gasp if I put my hand around your throat. I think about how long it would take before you stopped telling me to stop.”

The air felt thin, your lungs too small. “You don’t get to fantasize about hurting me,” you said, but your voice wasn’t steady.

He smiled, wolfish now. “It’s not about hurting. It’s about showing you what you want. You want someone who sees you. Someone who doesn’t flinch. You want someone who can take all the darkness you hide and swallow it whole. That’s why you’re here.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you?” You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He sat back slowly, the chain relaxing, his gaze still locked on you. “Tell me something true,” he said. “Tell me something no one else knows. You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think it. I’ll see it in your face.”

You swallowed hard, gripped the pen until your knuckles whitened. “This session is over,” you said.

He didn’t resist when the guards came in, but his eyes stayed on yours. His voice followed, soft and sure, “you’ll think about me tonight. You’ll touch yourself, and you’ll hate yourself for it. And then you’ll come back.” The door closed behind you, but you still felt him, like a shadow pressed against your back.

---

The room felt different today, and not just because you’d decided it would. You had prepared for this session differently—grounding exercises before entering, controlled breathing, and a plan to shift the power dynamic. You’d even changed your seating; instead of sitting directly opposite him, you’d placed your chair at a slight angle, an old tactic meant to reduce confrontational energy and reclaim some control. When the door opened, Bucky’s eyes went first to the new position of the chair. He smiled without teeth. “Clever.”

You kept your tone even. “Take your seat.”

He obeyed, though the way he did it made it feel like he was humoring you. He sat with his legs slightly apart, the cuffs slack but still present, metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. His gaze stayed on you as you opened the file.

“Today we’re going to use a new approach,” you said. “You’ll answer questions. Directly. Yes or no.”

He tilted his head, amused. “A game of truth.”

“A structured session,” you corrected.

“Truth,” he repeated softly, as though savoring the word.

You held his gaze. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, a little too easily.

“Do you want treatment?”

He smiled faintly. “No.”

“Do you want to get better?”

“No.”

“Do you want to hurt me?”

The smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”

Your pulse thudded once, hard, but you kept your voice even. “Why?”

“Because it would make you look at me the way you should.”

You noted it, pen moving steadily. “Do you want to kill me?”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

“Do you want to control me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think about sex with me?”

His expression shifted—his head tilted, eyes darkening, the faintest curve of his lips. “All the time.”

“Describe it,” you said flatly.

For a moment he just watched you, the silence thick. Then his voice dropped low. “I think about you on your knees in this room. Not dressed like you are now. Nothing between my hands and your skin. I think about your hair in my fist. Your breath against my thigh. The sound you’d make when I—”

“That’s enough,” you cut in sharply, but your voice wasn’t as sharp as you’d hoped.

He smiled slowly. “You wanted me to say it. You’re writing it down, but you’re picturing it too.”

You inhaled through your nose, forced the pen to keep moving. “Do you understand that this behavior reinforces your confinement?”

He chuckled softly. “Do you understand that you’re blushing?”

“I’m not,” you said automatically.

“You are.” His eyes flicked down, back up. “Your throat, your cheeks. Every time I talk about you in my mouth, you color up like a candle.”

You shifted the angle of the questioning. “When you imagine control over me, what do you actually want? Physical domination? Emotional submission?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“That’s not an answer,” you said.

“It’s the only answer,” he murmured. “I want you bent. Not broken. Bent. I want to see you stop pretending you’re untouchable.”

You straightened your spine, flipped to a clean page. “Do you imagine me consenting?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Sometimes.”

“Do you imagine me resisting?”

A small pause. “Sometimes.”

“What’s the difference?”

He smiled faintly, leaned forward until the chain went taut. “How you sound.”

Your stomach clenched. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m confessing,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “You wanted confession, Doctor. Here it is.”

You set your pen down deliberately. “I want to try something else. A visualization exercise. Close your eyes.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed, lids lowering. “Alright.”

“Imagine yourself in a safe place,” you instructed. “Describe it.”

His lips curved faintly. “You’re there.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s what’s there,” he murmured. “A room. Small. Concrete walls. No cuffs. You standing over me, keys in your hand. You tell me what to do. I obey. And then…” He chuckled low. “Then you stop telling me what to do.”

You clenched your fingers against the folder. “Do you ever imagine hurting yourself?”

“No.”

“Do you ever imagine hurting others?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

His eyes opened again, sharp, unblinking. “Anyone who touches you.”

Your throat worked, but you forced the next question out. “Do you think that’s normal?”

He smiled faintly. “I think it’s inevitable.”

The silence stretched. The pen trembled faintly in your hand. Finally you closed the file. “This session is over.”

He leaned back slowly, the chain relaxing, but his eyes never left yours. His voice followed as the guards came in. “You’re getting good at the games,” he murmured. “But games end. You’ll come back. And one day, you’ll stop asking questions and start answering.” The door shut behind you with a heavy clang, but you walked down the corridor feeling his voice still against your ear, like a promise you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t shake.

---

The corridor to the interview room was quieter than usual. The storm had cleared overnight, leaving a grey morning behind. The wet smell of the concrete mixed with disinfectant, and every footstep echoed back at you like a countdown.

You’d spent most of the night building a plan. The techniques you’d used so far had kept you above water but hadn’t changed the current. He was always setting the tempo; you were reacting. Today would be different. Today you’d try something new. When you entered the room, the chair was already in place for you. You didn’t sit right away. You stood for a moment, file in hand, looking at him.

Bucky sat at the table in his usual posture—but not slouched. Upright. His wrists cuffed but resting loosely on the table. He didn’t greet you this time. He just watched, like a predator clocking a shift in the wind.

You set the file down, drew the chair out, and sat at an angle again. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said softly.

You opened the file, but you didn’t look at it. “I want to try something new today.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “New how?”

“Less clinical.” You made your voice steady. “More human. You’ve told me a lot of things. Violent things. Fantasies. But I don’t really know you. Not as a person. I’d like to.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or amusement. “You want to know me?”

“Yes.”

His smile was small, slow. “Finally, a real question.”

You nodded. “Tell me about something before Hydra. Before all this. Something real. Not blood. Not training. Something you miss.”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he leaned back, eyes going distant. “Brooklyn,” he said quietly. “Summers on the stoop. Smell of hot asphalt and cheap beer. Steve’s laugh when he still had a voice. The sound of a ball game on a radio from somebody’s window.”

Your pen moved automatically, but your gaze stayed on him. “That’s good. Keep going.”

He looked at you again, eyes sharp now. “You like that? You like me soft?”

“I like you human,” you said simply.

He chuckled low. “You’re good.”

You shifted in your chair, kept your tone calm. “This is how we move forward. This is how treatment works. If you want me to help you, you have to let me see the man, not the weapon.”

That was when his expression changed. The faint smile flattened, his eyes hardening. “Treatment,” he repeated.

“Yes,” you said. “We can discuss options—”

The chair screeched against the floor as he surged forward, the chain clanging taut between his wrists and the table. It happened so fast you barely saw it—one moment you were speaking, the next his body was lunging across the narrow space, the chain snapping like a leash at full stretch.

Your chair tipped back a fraction as you scrambled to move, your file sliding to the floor. His metal fingers slammed down on the table hard enough to leave dents, his face inches from yours. The guards outside banged on the door but hadn’t yet come in. His voice was low, raw. “Don’t say that word to me.”

“Treatment?” you managed.

“Like I’m sick,” he growled. “Like you’re going to fix me. You’re not. You’re mine.”

You forced yourself to stay seated, to breathe evenly, though your heart thundered against your ribs. “Sit back, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t move. The chain rattled as his hands flexed. For a moment you thought he’d pull the whole table toward you. “You think you’re in control,” he said, voice dark. “You sit there with your little notes, your soft voice, like you’re safe. But I’ve been planning every second you’ve been in this room. Every inch between us. Every breath you take.”

The door clanged as the guards burst in, shouting. Bucky’s head turned slightly at the noise, just enough for one of them to grab his shoulder. Another moved for his arms. He didn’t resist, not really—but he didn’t step back either, not until he’d said what he wanted to say. “You’re not going to fix me,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “You’re going to break first.”

The guards dragged him back, forcing him upright. He let them, a faint smile curving his mouth again, like the whole outburst had been a rehearsal. As they pulled him toward the door, he looked back at you once more. His eyes had gone cold again, but his mouth moved around words you almost didn’t catch. “You wanted to know me,” he murmured. “Now you do.”

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sat alone at the table, your pen on the floor, your notes scattered, the dents in the wood glinting under the harsh light. And in the ringing silence, you could still feel the heat of his body leaning over you, the metallic snap of the chain, the whisper of his voice like a bruise under your skin.

The corridors of the asylum felt longer on the walk back from the interview room. The guards didn’t speak; they just watched you from the corners of their eyes. Everyone always did after a breach. It was a ritual here: an incident, a debrief, a whisper network.

You forced yourself to keep your steps even, even though your hands still trembled. The pen was still on the interview table; you’d left it behind without realizing it.

Dr. Milton was waiting at your office door, a heavyset man with thinning hair and the permanent expression of someone who’d seen too many things. He shut the door behind you as soon as you stepped in. “Sit down,” he said. You did, setting the file on your desk with hands that didn’t feel like your own. “You were warned,” Milton said quietly. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He’s not an ordinary sociopath. He’s disciplined. Strategic. And you’ve been feeding him.”

“I haven’t—” you started.

He cut you off with a raised hand. “You have. You’ve given him attention, proximity, stimulation. And now he’s testing the perimeter. You saw what he did today? That wasn’t him losing control. That was him demonstrating it.”

You pressed your palms against your knees, forcing them still. “He’s a patient.”

“He’s a predator,” Milton said, his voice hard now. “You’re not here to rehabilitate him. You’re here to contain him. Don’t forget that.”

He left before you could answer, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a long time you sat at your desk, staring at the empty space where the file sat. Your heartbeat still hadn’t settled. You thought about his eyes inches from yours, the heat of his body across the table, the dents in the wood. Don’t say that word to me. His voice had been low, almost a growl, but there’d been something else under it, too—something almost like hurt.

You didn’t remember walking to your car. You didn’t remember the drive. But when you blinked you were home, key in the door, apartment dark and silent around you. You turned on the lamp by the couch and stood in the living room, still wearing your coat, staring at nothing.

The apartment felt smaller tonight. The walls closer. The hum of the refrigerator too loud. You dropped your bag on the counter and went to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Your reflection in the mirror was pale, eyes rimmed with fatigue.

You thought about what Milton had said. Predator. Containment. You thought about the way Bucky had leaned across the table, how his face had been inches from yours, how he’d said you’re mine like it was a simple fact.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you thought about his other words. His promises. His fantasies. The way his voice had dropped when he described what he’d do if you stopped pretending. You closed your eyes, pressed your palms against the cool porcelain of the sink.

You’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel.

The memory of his voice curled through you like smoke. Your stomach flipped. Heat pooled low, shame mixing with something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself away from the mirror, back into the living room. You poured a glass of wine but didn’t drink it. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked loud, loud enough that you could imagine it was footsteps in the hall.

In your head, you heard him again.

They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from an unknown number: Sweet dreams, Doctor.

Your chest tightened. No one outside the asylum had that nickname for you. You stared at the message, waiting for it to disappear, for it to turn out to be a wrong number. It didn’t.

You locked the phone, set it down. Your hands shook. You told yourself it was a coincidence. A prank. But when you looked toward the window, you swore you felt eyes on you from the street below.

Later, when you finally lay down, you left the light on. Sleep came in fragments. Dreams came in flashes: his voice at your ear, his hands at your throat, the snap of the chain going taut. You woke at 3:17 a.m. with your heart racing, the sound of rain against the glass, and the faint smell of metal on your skin that shouldn’t have been there.

You sat up, hugged your knees, stared into the dark. And you thought, not for the first time, that maybe Milton was right—maybe you weren’t containing him. Maybe he was already here.

---

The interview room had changed. The chair you usually used was bolted now, a subtle but unmistakable shift. The guards who escorted you didn’t speak but their eyes said everything: this was containment, not treatment.

You walked in with the file tucked under your arm, the pen already between your fingers like a weapon. Bucky sat at the table with both wrists cuffed and chained lower, the links shorter than before so he couldn’t lean too far forward. He still looked relaxed, but the set of his shoulders told you he hated the new restrictions.

He raised his eyes when you entered. This time, there was no smile. Just that steady, deliberate gaze that felt like fingers on your skin. “Doctor,” he said quietly.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“They’ve tightened the leash,” he murmured, glancing at the chain. “Does that make you feel safer?”

“It makes everyone safer,” you replied.

“Not you.”

You sat down across from him, your posture deliberately straight, the file opening with a crisp snap. “We’re continuing our sessions. But with new parameters.”

He tilted his head, almost amused. “Parameters.”

“You’ll answer my questions. Directly. No provocation.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then the session ends.”

He smiled faintly, slow and deliberate. “You’re learning to threaten me. I like that.”

You wrote the date at the top of the notes, forced your hand to stay steady. “Let’s start with last week. The outburst. Why did the mention of treatment trigger you?”

He leaned back slightly, the chain rattling softly. “Because you said it like you could fix me.”

“I want to help you.”

His gaze sharpened, his voice dropping low. “You want to understand me. That’s not the same thing.” You tried a new tactic: silence. You let it stretch, pen poised but unmoving, eyes steady on his. People hated silence. They filled it. Bucky didn’t fill it. He stared back, expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward until the chain stopped him, eyes still on yours. “You missed me,” he said softly.

“I’m your psychiatrist,” you said evenly.

He smirked. “You’re my obsession.”

“That’s not healthy,” you countered.

He chuckled low. “Stop talking like a textbook. You don’t sound like that when you’re home.”

Your pen twitched. “And how would you know how I sound at home?”

His eyes glinted. “You hum. You don’t even realize it. Little broken bits of songs. You did it Tuesday night while making tea.” You froze. He smiled faintly. “You left your blinds half-open. I know your kitchen light now. I know the way you tilt your head when you’re reading. I know which window is your bedroom.”

“Stop,” you said sharply.

“Why?” His voice was quiet but relentless. “You like being seen.”

“That’s a violation.”

“That’s a confession,” he said.

Your heart pounded, but you forced the pen to move. “Tell me what you want from me,” you said, trying another new tactic: direct confrontation.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice did—softer now, darker. “I want to watch you unravel.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you said firmly.

He smiled faintly. “It already is.”

You shifted, crossing your legs, pen scratching furiously on the paper. “Do you fantasize about harming me?”

“No.”

“Do you fantasize about controlling me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain.”

His eyes gleamed. “You walk in here wrapped in rules, in coats, in professionalism. I want to take each layer off. Slowly. Until there’s nothing left but you.”

“That’s not reality.”

“That’s inevitability,” he murmured.

You set the pen down, trying a final tactic: empathy. “I think you’re lonely,” you said softly. “I think all of this—the threats, the fantasies—is about connection. You’ve been hurt. You’ve been used. You don’t know how to want someone without trying to own them.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression. A crack. A shadow of something softer. But then it was gone, replaced by that slow smile. “You’re good,” he said quietly. “But you’re not safe.”

The guards shifted at the door. The tension in the room was palpable.

You stood, closing the file. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move. He just watched you, eyes following you to the door. His voice followed, soft, low, like a promise, “soon, you won’t leave until I tell you.”

The door shut, but you walked the corridor with the sense of him pressed against your back, as if his words had weight and hands and were already on your skin.

---

It started quietly that night, the way most bad dreams do—with something ordinary. You were in your apartment, lights dim, rain whispering at the windows. The clock on the wall ticked softly. You were making tea, humming without realizing it.

Except it wasn’t quite right. The air was heavier than it should have been. The light from the lamp flickered. The hum of the refrigerator slowed down, like someone dragging a fingernail across a record.

You turned, mug in hand. The kitchen was empty, but the apartment felt occupied. That sensation—of being watched—pressed against your back like a hand. You set the mug down on the counter and looked toward the hallway. It was dark there. Darker than it should have been. A heavy kind of dark, the kind that eats the edges of things. “Hello?” you said softly.

Nothing.

You stepped toward the hall. The boards under your feet creaked like they were further away than they actually were. When you reached the hall, the apartment was gone. The walls were concrete now, damp and grey, lined with pipes. The hum of the refrigerator had become the hum of fluorescent lights. Somewhere in the distance, a chain rattled.

You looked back over your shoulder. The kitchen was gone too. Just a long corridor, doors on either side, closed and numbered but without handles. A shadow moved at the far end of the hall. You told yourself to wake up. You even tried to move your fingers the way you’d practiced in college when you’d read about lucid dreaming. But your fingers felt heavy, like they weren’t yours.

The shadow moved closer. A man’s silhouette. Broad shoulders, dark hair falling across his forehead. “Where are you going, Doctor?” His voice echoed, low, dark, familiar.

Your stomach lurched. “This is a dream,” you whispered.

He laughed softly. “Is it?”

You started to run, but the hallway stretched as you moved, every step landing in slow motion. The doors on either side began to rattle, as though something inside them wanted out. You reached the end of the hall and found a single door ajar. Dim light spilled through the crack. You pushed it open and stepped inside. It was his cell.

The bed was there, the table bolted to the floor, the single high window. The air smelled like metal and damp concrete. But the cuffs were empty on the table. You turned to leave but the door slammed shut behind you.

You spun back, heart hammering, and found him there. Not the chained version from your sessions. This Bucky was unbound, standing in the center of the room. His hair was damp, clinging to his temples, his blue eyes fixed on you. “You keep coming here,” he murmured. “Even in your sleep.”

“This isn’t real,” you said, though your voice was shaking.

He stepped closer. “You think you can study me, write your notes, go home to your quiet little apartment. But I’m already there.”

You backed up until your spine hit the cold wall. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself. “Wake up.”

He kept moving, slow and deliberate. “I told you I dream about you. Did you think you wouldn’t dream about me?” When he reached you, he lifted his metal hand and placed it against the wall beside your head. The cold radiated through the concrete. His body was a breath away from yours. “Say my name,” he said softly. You shook your head. His smile was faint, dark. “Say it.”

You forced your mouth open. “Bucky.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s better.” His flesh hand came up, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your head up. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured. “The edge. The danger. Me.”

“No,” you said, but it sounded like a lie.

He chuckled low. “Liar.” You tried to push him away, but your arms wouldn’t move. They felt like they were encased in concrete. His hand slid from your chin to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, his thumb brushing over your pulse. “You feel that?” he asked. “That’s what control sounds like.”

“Stop,” you whispered.

“You don’t want me to,” he said. He bent his head closer, his lips almost touching your ear. “Soon, you won’t wake up.”

Your heart thundered. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself again.

“Wake up,” he echoed, his mouth curving. “Or don’t.”

He pressed closer, the weight of his body pinning you lightly against the wall. His hand at your throat wasn’t squeezing but you could feel the strength there, the threat of it. His mouth brushed your jaw, not a kiss but a promise.

You jerked awake with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. The room was dark, the rain whispering against the window. Your heart was hammering. For a long time you sat in the dark, your palm pressed to your throat where his thumb had been in the dream. The skin there was warm, but you swore you could still feel the cold edge of metal.

On the nightstand, your phone lit up with a new text from the same unknown number. No words this time. Just an image: a concrete wall, grey and damp, with a handprint pressed into it.

---

The asylum was humming with its usual unease when you arrived the next morning. The air smelled faintly of bleach and damp fabric, like it always did after a storm. Staff moved through the halls with their clipped steps, clipboards clutched close, their eyes sliding over you but not quite meeting yours. Word of the incident had traveled. It always did.

You went through security as you always did—bag checked, coat hung, file folder pressed against your ribs like armor. The guards didn’t say anything, but one of them, a younger man with a shaved head, gave you a glance that lasted too long. A warning, or pity.

By the time you reached your office, you were already tightening your shoulders against it. You opened the door, flicked on the light, set the folder down on your desk.

And froze.

There was something on your chair. A folded piece of paper. Crisp, clean, resting directly where you would have sat. Your hand hovered before you picked it up. No one was supposed to have access to your office without keys. Security was strict. Files were checked out and logged. But the paper was there, simple as breath.

You unfolded it with slow, careful fingers. Inside was a single line, written in neat block letters: You hum when you’re scared. I like that one the most.

Your chest tightened. You folded the paper again, shoved it into the desk drawer, locked it. You didn’t tell anyone. You should have. You knew you should have. But the thought of handing it over to Milton or the guards made something inside you coil tighter. If you gave it up, you’d be admitting he’d gotten past the locks. Past the rules. Past you.

When you saw him later that day, he didn’t say a word about it. He sat with his hands folded, cuffs gleaming, eyes calm and steady. But when the silence stretched and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Like he knew you were carrying his words in your pocket.

The gifts didn’t stop. The next came at home. You walked into your apartment after a long day, dropped your keys on the counter, and there it was: a book lying on the table. You knew you hadn’t left it there. An old copy of Dracula, worn at the edges, the spine cracked. Inside, a bookmark pressed between two pages—a scene where Mina writes about feeling watched. In the margin, a neat, sharp hand had written: She wanted it too.

You slammed the book shut, your stomach flipping. Your locks were intact. No windows broken. No sign of forced entry. But the book was there, solid and undeniable. That night you called maintenance, asked for new locks. The man who came the next day installed them without comment, but you swore you saw the faintest smirk tug at his mouth when you asked if they were “secure.”

By the third gift, you couldn’t keep it to yourself. You came into your office one morning and found a single lily lying on your desk. White, perfect, dew still clinging to the petals as though it had just been cut. No note this time. Just the flower. Your stomach clenched. Lilacs, he’d said once. He’d smelled lilacs on you that first session. Now it was a lily—stark, pure, funereal.

Milton walked past your office just as you were staring at it. He stopped, frowned. “What’s that?”

You swallowed. “A flower. Someone must have—”

“No one should be in here,” Milton said sharply. He stepped inside, looked at the lily, then back at you. “Barnes?”

“I don’t know,” you said quickly.

He studied you for a long moment, then his voice dropped. “He’s gotten into your head.”

You looked down at the lily, at the pure white of it, at the way it seemed almost obscene against the stack of sterile files. “Maybe he always was.”

Milton picked up the flower, snapped the stem, and tossed it in the trash. “You need distance. Or you’re going to drown in him.” When he left, you sat alone, staring at the trash bin. The lily lay bent, crushed, but still beautiful.

That night, you dreamed again. Only this time there was no corridor, no doors, no transition. You were just in your apartment. The lights flickered. And Bucky was there, sitting in your chair like he belonged in it, metal fingers tapping against the armrest. “I told you,” he said softly, “I’ll always bring you something.”

When you woke, there was nothing in the room. But on the nightstand, where you were certain there had been only your lamp and your phone, there was a small piece of folded paper. You opened it with shaking fingers. Soon you won’t have to wake up alone.

---

The asylum corridors had always been sterile, humming with fluorescent light and faint bleach, but lately they felt hostile. You noticed it in the way the guards lingered longer outside your office. In the way staff lowered their voices when you passed. In the way Milton’s eyes followed you like he was waiting for you to collapse.

But it wasn’t them you noticed most. It was him. Every time you entered the interview room now, he was already watching. Sometimes with that faint half-smile, sometimes with nothing at all, but always steady, like he had been waiting for you specifically. “Morning, Doctor,” he said one day, his voice low, conversational, as though the chains didn’t exist. “Blue dress today. You haven’t worn that one in a while.”

You glanced down before you could stop yourself. He was right. You hadn’t worn it in months. You made your voice firm. “We’re not here to discuss my clothing.”

He smirked. “You put it on for me, though. Didn’t you?” You ignored him and wrote the date, your handwriting tighter than usual.

At home, the intrusion became subtler—or maybe you were simply starting to notice what had been there all along. One evening you came back late, coat damp from the rain, and found your apartment exactly as you’d left it. Almost. The lamp by the couch was turned an inch to the left. A book you’d left on the coffee table was open, spine cracked to a random page. You told yourself you might have done it, might have forgotten. But when you closed the book, a note slipped out.

It was short, written in the same neat block letters as before: You should eat more. Skipping breakfast isn’t good for you.

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t eaten that morning. You hadn’t told anyone. You crumpled the paper and shoved it in the trash, then immediately dug it back out, smoothed it flat, and locked it in your desk drawer at home. You told yourself you’d bring it to Milton. But you didn’t.

By the third week, you were jumpy. Every knock on your door, every footstep in the hall, every shadow under the streetlamp outside your apartment window—you flinched at all of it. At the asylum, you tried new tactics: grounding exercises, silence, even simple rapport-building techniques. One day you tried to take control by leaning forward first. “You said you wanted me to know you,” you said. “Tell me something real. Not fantasy. Not control. Something from your childhood.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment. Then his mouth curved. “Your aunt’s maiden name is Carroll. Your father worked in insurance. You moved to the city when you were eight.”

Your pen froze on the page. “That’s not about you,” you said, though your voice wasn’t steady.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s about how much I already know about you. More than you know about me.” He leaned forward until the chain tightened, his voice low. “Tell me something real, Doctor. Or I’ll keep leaving pieces of you on your desk until you admit you’re mine.”

That night, the gift wasn’t in your apartment. It was in your car. You slid into the driver’s seat after leaving the asylum, file clutched tight in your hand, and saw it immediately: a single Polaroid lying on the passenger seat. Your chest tightened as you picked it up. The picture was grainy, dim. It was your building. The window to your bedroom, lit from within. On the back, written in those same block letters: I like the way you look when you read in bed.

Your throat closed. You dropped the Polaroid like it burned.

Sleep stopped coming easy. When it did, the dreams came back. Always the same walls. Always the same corridor. Always him. Sometimes cuffed, sometimes not, but always moving toward you with the kind of certainty that made you feel like running was pointless. One night you dreamed of being back in the interview room. You sat at the table with your pen and file, and when you looked up, the cuffs were gone. He was across from you, leaning forward, his hand sliding the file away from you like it was a toy. “Stop pretending you want to save me,” he murmured. “Say what you want.”

In the dream, you did. You told him you wanted him. And he smiled like he had been waiting for it all along. You woke up sweating, your sheets twisted around you, the echo of his laugh still in your ears. On the nightstand, where there had been nothing when you went to bed, there was another note. You’re almost ready.

By the time you arrived at the asylum the next morning, you were trembling with exhaustion. Milton stopped you in the hall, his face hard. “You need to step back,” he said. “Barnes is escalating. He’s not safe. And you’re compromised.”

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Milton’s voice dropped. “He’s in your head. Everyone can see it.”

You tried to protest, but the words tangled. Milton shook his head. “One more incident, and I’ll pull you off his case. Permanently.”

You walked away before he could see the way your hands shook. But in the interview room, when you sat down and opened the file, Bucky looked at you with that slow, knowing smile, and you understood something you hadn’t wanted to admit: You were already his case.

---

The storm came back with a vengeance that night. You could hear it even inside the asylum—rain slashing the walls, wind clawing at the windows, thunder rolling so low it rattled the pipes in the floor. The lights flickered once, twice, and then the entire building went black.

The sudden silence was worse than the storm. The hum of the fluorescents gone. The steady drone of the security fans cut off. For a moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the concrete and the faint, too-close sound of your own breath.

The emergency lights didn’t come on. They should have. But they didn’t. Staff voices called in the halls, radios sputtered static. You caught one guard saying “generator’s down” before the words blurred into noise. Someone shouted for flashlights, someone else cursed.

You were already moving down the corridor toward the patient wing. Your pulse was hammering, but you told yourself it was procedure—make sure high-risk inmates were secure, check doors, and confirm locks.

Bucky’s cell was halfway down the block. The hall was pitch-dark. You used your own small flashlight, the beam thin, bouncing off concrete, throwing long shadows. Every door looked the same, steel reinforced with narrow viewing slots. When you reached his cell, you lifted the flashlight, shining it inside. Empty. The bed was there. The table. The chains bolted to the wall. But no Bucky.

Your throat went dry. You flicked the light across the room again, heart hammering. Empty. Absolutely empty. “Shit,” you whispered. You spun, hand fumbling for the radio clipped to your belt. Static only. No voices. No signal. “Shit,” you said again, louder this time.

That was when you felt it.

A breath against the back of your neck. You froze. The flashlight trembled in your hand. You didn’t want to turn. Every part of you screamed not to. But you did.

Too late.

An arm snaked around your waist, the other clamping over your mouth, pulling you back into a body that radiated heat and strength. The flashlight clattered to the floor, beam spinning uselessly across the concrete.

“Miss me?” Bucky’s voice was low, right against your ear. Calm. Almost amused.

You thrashed immediately, shoving at his arms, twisting, trying to stomp back at his shin, but his grip only tightened. His flesh arm crushed your torso against him; the metal hand at your face was unyielding, cold against your skin.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Stop fighting.” You shoved again, desperate, nails digging at the band of muscle around your ribs. He grunted but didn’t loosen. “I said stop.” His voice sharpened, the steel underneath flashing through.

You tried to scream into his palm, but it came out muffled, pathetic. He laughed softly, the sound curling hot in your ear. “That’s cute.”

You twisted harder, nearly broke free for a breath, but he caught you by the wrists, spun you, and slammed you against the wall. Not hard enough to knock you out—but hard enough that your breath left you in a gasp.

Your wrists were pinned above your head in his metal grip, his body close enough that you could feel every line of him against your back. “You think you can run?” he murmured, breath rough now, chest rising against you. “You’ve been running since the first day. But you came back. You always come back.”

“Let me go!” you hissed, voice ragged.

He chuckled, low and dark. “No.”

You tried to kick backward, catch his shin, but he only laughed again, dragging you away from the wall. His grip didn’t falter. You fought every inch, heels digging into the floor, but he was relentless.

He pulled you toward his cell. The door was open. The locks that had been shut when you’d looked in were now unlatched, hanging uselessly from the frame.

Your heart thundered. “No—”

“Yes.”

He hauled you inside, the shadows swallowing both of you. You clawed at his hands, your voice breaking as you tried to scream again, but his body dwarfed yours, his strength absolute.

When you saw where he was dragging you, your stomach dropped. The bed. The cuffs bolted into the frame. “No—stop—”

He shoved you down onto the mattress, the metal frame groaning under the weight. His flesh hand pressed your chest down as he snapped one cuff around your wrist with the other. The sound of it closing was deafening in the dark.

You twisted violently, tried to pull free, but the restraint held fast. “Stop fighting,” he said again, firmer now. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You snarled, kicking up at him, but he caught your ankle easily, pinning it against the mattress. His body loomed over yours, his breath ragged now, matching yours. The second cuff closed around your other wrist. Cold, unyielding, locking you to his bed.

For a moment, he just stood there above you, breathing hard, staring down. The shadows cut across his face, eyes gleaming with something raw and hungry. Then he leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “Now,” he whispered, voice a promise and a threat all at once, “you’re not going anywhere.”

The frame of his bed was cold beneath your back, the thin mattress no buffer at all against the steel. Your chest rose and fell fast, breath shaking, your arms stretched above you and tethered wide.

Bucky was still standing over you, his shoulders rising and falling with his own breath. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, a mix of sweat and rain. The storm outside pounded against the barred window, thunder rolling in low and long like a warning drum.

“Stop fighting,” he said again, voice lower now, roughened from exertion. He braced a hand on the bed by your hip, leaning down until his face was a few inches from yours. The smell of him—sweat, metal, the faint tang of something darker—filled your head. “I told you what would happen if you kept running.”

You yanked at the cuffs, twisting your wrists hard enough that the metal bit into your skin. “Let me go!”

He chuckled, soft but dangerous, his eyes flicking down your body and back up to your face. “You still don’t get it. You’re not here because I let you be. You’re here because you came back. Over and over. And now—” he dragged a knuckle slowly down your sternum, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you shudder “—now I’m done waiting.”

You thrashed again, trying to get a knee up, but his hand slid to your thigh, pressing it back down against the mattress. The metal arm shifted, catching your other leg when you tried to kick, pinning you open. “Stop,” he said again, this time a growl against your ear. “Stop fighting.”

“No—”

His metal fingers wrapped gently but unyieldingly around your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The cold of the vibranium contrasted with the heat of his flesh thumb brushing over your pulse. “You think I don’t like it?” he murmured. “You think I don’t like watching you try?” He leaned closer, until his lips were at your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “But we’re past trying now. You know it. I know it.”

He shifted, his body coming over yours, caging you without even needing the cuffs. His weight was held just enough to keep you pinned without crushing. One of his knees slid between your thighs, prying you open by inches.

You bucked against him, wrists straining against the cuffs, but it only made the metal creak and your skin burn. He caught your chin again, made you look at him. His eyes were dark, but not wild—steady, intense, like a tide pulling you out. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly. “Look at me while you fight.” You did, even though your heart was hammering, your breath ragged. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the look. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

His hand left your chin and trailed down, slow, deliberate, fingertips skimming the collar of your blouse, tracing the line of fabric as though mapping it. His metal hand stayed braced above your head, gripping the bedframe, anchoring him.

Outside, thunder cracked. The emergency lights flickered once, then died completely, plunging the cell into a dim blue darkness from the storm beyond the bars. The only illumination came in flashes, lightning strobes that cut across his face and the gleam of his metal arm.

He bent closer, his mouth a breath away from yours, voice a low growl threaded with something like a promise, “now stop running.” His palm flattened against your stomach, sliding upward a fraction, the heat of it stark against your skin. “Or don’t,” he whispered. “It just makes it better.”

You yanked at the cuffs again, wrists aching, chest rising and falling fast. You felt the mattress shift under you as he settled his weight more fully, knees braced on either side of your hips, caging you completely. The sound of the rain on the window and the thunder outside blurred with the sound of your own pulse.

“Say my name,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “Say it while you’re still fighting.” His mouth descended, aiming for yours, but you jerked your head aside, jaw clenching. Your heart hammered. His lips brushed your cheek instead, hot and insistent, stubble scraping your skin as he murmured, “still fighting? Even now?”

You twisted away again, baring your teeth, refusing the kiss. A dark, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. The metal hand slid from the bedframe and caught your chin, steel fingers unyielding as they guided your face back to him, thumb pressing against your lower lip, prying it open. “Look at me,” he ordered again, voice molten and low. “I said look at me.”

You glared up, jaw aching, breath coming fast—but he only grinned, leaning in so close you could taste the heat of him. His mouth crashed onto yours, not gentle or coaxing, but hungry, claiming. You tried to twist free but he held you there, tongue sliding past your lips, swallowing the start of a protest. Your defiance was fuel to him; he devoured it, teeth scraping your lower lip until you gasped, the sound muffled against his mouth.

His flesh hand moved to your throat, palm warm as it circled the column of your neck. He squeezed—not enough to cut off breath, but enough to claim, to hold you steady. “Keep fighting,” he whispered against your mouth, breath hot. “Let me see how much you want to lose.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, the weight of his body shifting, chest pressing yours into the thin mattress. His hips slotted against you, the hard line of his cock a promise through the thin fabric. Your legs kicked uselessly beneath him, but he only rocked his hips, grinding down until you felt the heat of him, thick and aching, through both your clothes.

He dragged his mouth from yours to your jaw, then lower—lips and teeth marking a trail along your neck, finding the place where your pulse pounded wild. He nipped there, sucking until you whimpered, the sound escaping before you could choke it back.

“Mine,” he said, lips brushing the new bruise as his hand slid down, gripping the buttons of your blouse. You tried to buck him off, arching your back in defiance, but he pinned your hips, the metal hand slipping to your jaw again to hold you steady.

One by one, he popped the buttons open, slow and deliberate, baring your chest to the cold air and the heat of his gaze. Lightning flickered again, and you saw his eyes devour you—greedy, wild, possessive.

He bent to your collarbone, kissing, then biting, leaving marks in his wake. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by the slick heat of his tongue, soothing the sting. You writhed, wrists aching, and he just growled softly, his hands everywhere—stroking, gripping, exploring every inch of newly revealed flesh.

His mouth closed around your nipple, tongue circling, sucking until it peaked and you gasped, arching into the touch despite yourself. He lifted his head, breath ragged, lips glossy with spit. “You taste fucking perfect,” he growled, then bit down just hard enough to make you whimper again, pain blooming bright and hot under his mouth.

You turned your head away, panting, refusing to look at him. He grabbed your throat again, turning your face back, eyes burning. “No hiding,” he snarled. “You want to fight? Fight. But I’m not letting you go.”

His metal hand slid lower, cold against your ribs, slipping beneath your skirt, pushing it up inch by inch. His palm cupped your thigh, squeezing hard, thumb pressing bruises into your skin as his mouth claimed your lips again, bruising and relentless.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held you wide, the bed unyielding beneath you, his body a cage. He kissed you harder, tongue invading, swallowing every protest, every moan. When he finally broke away, your breath was ragged, lips swollen and tingling from his rough attention.

He stared down at you, his hair shadowing his eyes, chest heaving. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he said softly, a threat and a promise both. His hands moved lower, peeling the rest of your blouse off, exposing you to the dark and to him.

“Keep fighting,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger, “and I’ll just mark you up more.”

His mouth returned to your skin—biting, kissing, licking, each mark a declaration. Your body arched, torn between defiance and a pulse of want that you tried, desperately, to deny. Lightning flashed, painting the room in stark relief, the silver of his arm gleaming where it pressed between your thighs, cold and merciless as he spread you open. “You’re not going anywhere,” he repeated, his lips dragging lower, mouth hot and hungry as he tasted his way down your body. “You’re mine now.”

He pressed your skirt higher, bunching it around your hips, then slid his hands—flesh and metal—down to your knees. His palms urged your legs wider, baring you to the chill air and the heat of his gaze. You bucked in the cuffs, wrists aching, but he only smiled, holding you open, drinking in every involuntary shudder and the flash of anger that lingered behind your eyes.

His mouth descended, tracing a path from your knee up your inner thigh, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin there until you jerked, a choked sound tearing from your throat. “That’s it,” he murmured, lips pressed to the softest part of you. “Let me hear you.” His stubble scraped rough, tongue soothing the sting in a pattern that left your skin tingling and raw.

He mouthed up, his nose nuzzling the edge of your panties, breathing deep, the warmth of his breath making you squirm. You turned your head away, refusing to look, but the hand at your thigh squeezed, metal thumb digging a warning into the soft flesh. “Eyes on me.” You ignored him, breath coming in short, angry bursts, but when you didn’t obey, he hooked his thumb under the thin cotton, dragging the fabric aside with a single, patient motion.

Cool air licked over you. Then his mouth was there, hot and wet, tongue flat against your folds as he licked a broad stripe up the length of your pussy, groaning low and hungry against your skin. “Fuck, you taste—” his words cut off as he buried his face deeper, tongue circling your clit, lips sealing around it as he sucked, slow at first, then with building pressure.

You twisted in the cuffs, a desperate little gasp ripping from your lips. He didn’t let up, the metal hand pinning your thigh, his flesh fingers spreading you wider, holding you perfectly open for him. His tongue was relentless, lapping through your slick, tracing every line and dip until your hips bucked against his mouth, searching for escape or for more, you didn’t even know anymore.

He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your clit, and you felt the deep answering throb all through your body. His mouth was hot and possessive, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver, then soothing the spot with soft, slow licks that threatened to undo you completely. Every time you tried to pull away, he followed, locking you down tighter, eating you like a man starving.

“Let me hear you, doc,” he growled, lifting his head just enough that his breath teased across your soaked skin. “Let them all know who you belong to.” Then he dove back in, tongue swirling, two fingers sliding inside you without warning—thick, relentless, curling to hit that spot that made your whole body arch off the mattress, a ragged, involuntary moan bursting from your chest.

“N—ah, f-fuck—!” Your thighs trembled, legs trying to close, but the grip of his hands and the cuffs at your wrists left you nowhere to go, nothing to do but take every hungry, punishing lick he gave you. His tongue flicked and circled, his fingers thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every wet sound from your cunt, every tremor from your core.

He watched you with hooded eyes, lips slick with you, drinking in every shiver, every gasp, every filthy, unguarded noise. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked and triumphant. “You can fight all you want, but your body already knows who owns you.”

He leaned in, mouth sealing over your clit as he sucked, fingers pressing up, unrelenting, until the tension coiled so tight in your belly it felt like breaking. “Come for me,” he growled into your skin. “Now.”

And when the pleasure finally broke, crashing through you—hot, unstoppable, loud—you screamed, the sound echoing off concrete and steel, your body thrashing under him as he held you pinned and open, feasting on every shudder and sob that ripped free.

He licked you through every aftershock, savoring the taste, then finally lifted his head, lips swollen, eyes wild and greedy. He crawled up your body, pressing a filthy, possessive kiss to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

He didn’t bother undressing himself; his clothes stayed on, rough fabric scraping against your bare thighs as he braced over you, knees spread between yours. His cock strained the front of his pants, pressing hot and thick right where you ached for friction. He dragged the head of it through your slick folds, coating himself with you, grunting in pleasure at the way you whimpered and tried to close your legs—even though he had you pinned, nowhere to go.

“Look at you, fuck,” he rasped, grabbing your jaw in one callused hand, forcing your head back so you couldn’t look away. His other hand slid between your bodies, pulling his cock free just enough to push the head against your entrance, stretching you as he thrust in slow and unyielding. “So fucking wet for me. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

You writhed beneath him, every inch a live wire, wrists aching in the cuffs. He held you pinned, his cock forcing you open, inch by thick inch. The first thrust burned, made you gasp, but he didn’t pause; he bottomed out, groaning as he filled you to the hilt, hips grinding down, pelvis pressed to yours.

You twisted, fighting against the grip he kept on your face, your voice breaking, “N—let go—!”

He just smirked, rolling his hips, grinding deeper. “Why would I let you go when you sound like that?” His metal hand slid down, bracing your thigh wide open, thumb digging into the soft flesh. He drew back and fucked you hard—slow at first, making you feel every ridge, every stretch, every time your cunt gripped and fluttered helplessly around him.

His mouth dropped to your throat, biting hard, leaving fresh marks beside the others. “You hear that?” he growled, voice muffled by your skin. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like when you’re mine.”

The rhythm picked up—harder now, desperate, each thrust shoving you up the bed, making the cuffs rattle and the mattress squeal under your hips. Your skirt bunched higher, the thin cotton soaking up your slick, panties stretched and useless where he’d pushed them aside. Every time you tried to twist away he just fucked you harder, pinning you down, chest pressed to yours, breath hot at your ear.

You clenched around him, every thrust driving a whimper or gasp from your lips, but he shushed you with a kiss, tongue forcing your mouth open, stealing the sounds right out of your throat. “Keep fighting,” he panted, biting your lower lip, “keep fucking fighting. Feels better when you try—ngh—” His cock slammed deep, grinding, the head rubbing right where you needed it, drawing a sharp, broken moan from your chest.

He shifted, angling his hips, one hand slipping down to rub circles against your clit, merciless and fast. The pleasure punched through your body, white-hot, shattering the last of your control.

You came with a strangled cry—legs shaking, cunt pulsing tight around his cock as he kept fucking you through it, hips snapping, fingers never stopping on your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, sharp and endless, making you sob and gasp, every nerve lit up.

He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, riding your orgasm out with brutal precision, hips never faltering. When you tried to squirm away, he just pressed you down, fucking you until you were shaking and soaked, the cuffs creaking with every helpless jerk of your arms.

And through it all, he never came—just kept you pinned and open, marking you with every thrust, every bite, every growl of your name in your ear. His cock throbbed deep inside you, thick and hot, but he denied himself the release, focused only on wringing every last cry and tremor from your body.

When you finally collapsed beneath him, raw and trembling, he leaned down, pressing a filthy kiss to your jaw, lips curling in a satisfied smirk.

He didn’t release you. Instead, he leaned over, eyes dark and sharp, hands spreading over your chest and belly, holding you down as he rutted slow against your thigh. “Not done,” he growled, voice low, lips brushing your ear and jaw. “Want your mouth on me.”

Before you could answer, he moved—kneeling over your head, knees braced on either side of your shoulders, his bulk and presence blocking out everything but him. His cock was swollen and leaking, the tip flushed, slick with your arousal. He gripped the base and tapped it against your lips, smearing a line of salty precome. “Open,” he ordered.

You clenched your jaw, turned away, but his metal hand slid under your chin, fingers cold and strong as they forced your face up. “Don’t make me ask twice.” He pressed forward, cock sliding along your lips, and when you tried to bite, he just laughed—a deep, savage sound—and wedged his thumb between your teeth, prying your jaw open. “That’s it. Wide.”

He guided himself into your mouth, thick and insistent, groaning as your lips stretched around him, the taste of him filling you. His hips rocked slowly, pushing deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck, that’s good. Take it.” His flesh hand tangled in your hair, holding your head steady, as he fucked your mouth with slow, unhurried thrusts, dragging out the slick wet sounds, the choke and swallow of your throat.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held your arms above your head, body pinned under his weight. His metal hand slid down, tracing your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as he watched himself disappear between your lips. “Such a pretty mouth, doc. Bet you never thought you’d be here.” He pulled back, letting you gasp for breath, spit slicking your chin, then thrust in deeper, making you gag, drool sliding down your neck. “That’s it. Take it. Let me feel you fight.”

While he rocked into your throat, his other hand drifted down between your legs, fingers finding you slick and sensitive. He stroked your folds, teasing your clit, then shoved two fingers inside you, curling and thrusting in rhythm with his cock, forcing you to moan around him, every sound vibrating up his shaft. “Gonna make you come again like this,” he snarled, hips snapping harder. “Wanna feel you choke and shudder, wanna fuck your throat while you come on my hand.”

You squeezed your thighs around his arm, trying to squirm away, but he only fingered you harder, the heel of his hand grinding your clit, his cock filling your mouth, choking you with every thrust. The air was thick with the sounds and the desperate, helpless whimpers that spilled out as you lost the rhythm of your breathing, your body betraying you, hips rolling up into his hand.

“Look at you, fuck,” he grunted, pulling back just long enough for you to gasp, air and spit flooding your lips, then slamming forward again, cock hot and heavy and unforgiving. “Such a mess for me. You like being used, don’t you? Say it—ah, fuck—say you’re mine.”

You tried to speak, but he kept you full, only more muffled sounds escaping. The pleasure built fast, shame and need tangled as his fingers drove you wild, his thumb never leaving your clit, his cock stretching your throat until tears prickled in your eyes.

The orgasm hit hard—tight and sudden—your body shuddering around his hand, pulse racing, cunt gripping his fingers as your mouth and throat fluttered helplessly around his cock. He fucked you through it, not letting up, his own breath ragged, hips slowing only when you finally collapsed, spent and gasping, drool and spit slicking your lips and chin.

He pulled out, cock glistening, one hand stroking your cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice still hungry but gentle now, his thumb tracing your lip. “Not finished with you, doc,” he whispered, “but you take me so fucking well.”

He pulled back from you, your legs sprawled and trembling from the last brutal wave he’d forced from you. He knelt between your thighs, palms pressed possessively to your inner knees, spreading you wider—your skirt bunched around your waist, panties still only dragged to the side, the cuffs at your wrists tight enough you felt their bite in every throb of your pulse.

His cock was still out, hard and flushed, glistening from being buried in your mouth and from the mess he’d made of you. The air was thick with sweat and storm, a low thrumming energy in the dark.

He dragged you a few inches down the bed, grip strong and certain, until your thighs bracketed him perfectly. He held your legs wide, savoring the sight—his jaw flexing, lips parted, eyes locked on your face. “Look at you. All fucked out and still trying to glare at me.” He spat in his hand and stroked himself, slow and deliberate, the thick head of his cock nudging the inside of your trembling thigh.

The rough fabric of his pants scratched your sensitive skin as he settled between your legs, pressing your thighs together around him. “Hold still,” he growled, guiding his cock into the slick heat of your thighs, sliding the shaft along your soaked folds, the head catching on your clit with each drag. “Gonna use you just like this.”

His metal hand slid up, cold and firm, clamping over your knee to keep your thighs squeezed tight around him. The pressure forced every pulse of your cunt against his cock, slicking him up, every thrust making obscene, wet sounds as he fucked the soft flesh between your legs. Your breathing stuttered, your body betraying you with another sharp pulse of pleasure as his cock ground just right, the head nudging your swollen clit again and again.

Bucky grinned down at you, breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s how wet you are for me. You wanted this—you wanted every fucking inch.” He pushed harder, rutting between your thighs, the roughness of his uniform scraping your skin, his cock sliding faster, wetter, hotter every second.

The hand not pinning your leg moved between your bodies, two fingers shoving back inside you, curling mercilessly as he fucked your thighs, stretching you wide while he worked your body in rhythm. The pressure, the friction, the slick grind of his cock against your clit—all of it coiled tight, so tight you couldn’t hold back another desperate moan.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice raw: “Come again. Right now. Squeeze my fingers, let me feel it.”

He worked your cunt, fingers pressing and stroking, the head of his cock gliding up and down, every thrust bumping your clit. You sobbed, shaking, your body spasming as another orgasm ripped through you, thighs clamping hard around him, cunt clenching on his fingers as you cried out, the cuffs rattling above your head.

Bucky didn’t stop—he growled, his own pleasure cresting as he fucked harder between your slick thighs, squeezing your legs around him until with a rough, choked gasp, he came, cock throbbing hot against your skin, spilling messily between your thighs and over your cunt, marking you with every pulse. His breath came heavy and wild as he shuddered through it, grinding until there was nothing left but the slow pulse of the storm and the filthy heat between your bodies.

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, dragging them up to your mouth and smearing your lips with the taste of yourself and him. “Good girl,” he murmured, thumb pressing between your lips, watching your mouth part for him. “Take it all. Every fucking drop.”

Bucky stayed between your legs, his palms dragging up your trembling thighs, slow and lazy, as if he had all night to enjoy you. His gaze flickered up to your face, and a crooked, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You swallowed, pulse rabbiting in your throat. You tried to summon your voice, tried to wrestle your breathing into something that sounded like authority, like you still had a shred of power left. “Bucky. Listen to me. You don’t have to—”

He cut you off with a low laugh, leaning over you until his face was right above yours, his hair hanging in your eyes. “Don’t have to what, doctor?” He dipped down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, rough and taunting. “Don’t have to make you beg? Don’t have to keep you cuffed?”

You tried again, shaking, “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you—”

His lips crashed down on yours, swallowing the words, tongue pushing past your lips, hot and insistent, filling your mouth before you could protest. His metal hand cupped your jaw, angling your head just the way he wanted, the cold steel forcing your mouth wide. He kissed you hard, tongue fucking into you, devouring every attempt at speech and turning it into ragged moans.

You tried to keep talking, words muffled against his mouth, “you can’t—ah, Bucky, let me—let me go—!” but he just growled, lips dragging along your tongue, claiming you deeper, swallowing every desperate syllable. Every time you tried to speak, he just kissed you harder, relentless, wet and possessive. His tongue traced the roof of your mouth, circled your teeth, played with the soft, shuddering muscle of your own tongue until you couldn’t do anything but gasp into him.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, breath ghosting your lips. “Keep talking,” he taunted, a dark glint in his eyes. “I love feeling you try to fight with your mouth full.”

He kissed you again, tongue plunging in deep, teeth scraping your lower lip until it throbbed, then sucking it into his mouth. The taste of him was everywhere—his cock, your own slick, the sweat and salt of the storm around you. He devoured every word, every whimper, every attempt at reason.

You squirmed, wrists aching, but the cuffs just rattled uselessly. Your thighs clenched as he pressed his hips down, grinding the sticky mess of his spend against your cunt, smearing it all over your skin. “You keep thinking you can talk your way out of this?” he murmured against your lips, a smirk in every word. “Maybe I should fill your mouth with something better than arguments.” He pressed two fingers into your mouth, pushing past your lips, making you suck them clean. “Go on. Show me you can be good for something.”

You glared up at him, spit slicking your chin, but he just pushed his fingers deeper, tongue lapping at your lips before he bit you again, kissing you until your head spun.

“Bucky, you have to let me—” he just cut you off with another filthy, devouring kiss, tongue plunging deep, making you choke on the taste of yourself and him. You kept talking, trying to reason, voice breaking around his tongue. “You don’t have to—please, Bucky—let—let me go, you can’t—”

He grinned against your lips, biting hard at the corner of your mouth, words curling dark and rough in your ear, “why should I ever let you go? You look so fucking pretty like this—open, ruined, mine.”

His cock, still rock-hard, nudged at your thigh, leaking against your skin as he rutted slow between your trembling legs, grinding his mess against your slick, swollen folds. The sensation made you shudder, moaning into his mouth even as you tried to bite back the sounds. “Keep talking,” he taunted, voice dropping to a growl, “I want to feel you try to say no while I’m tasting you.”

He dragged his tongue down your neck, kissing you until you went limp for a second, breathless, only for your body to tense again when he shifted, bracing one knee on the bed, the other hand palming your belly—pressing down, holding you flat. His lips brushed your ear, his teeth grazing the shell, then his words dropped low and dirty, a promise that made your whole body jolt.

“Maybe I should just fuck you full,” he whispered, voice hoarse with want, “breed you so you’re marked as mine for good. Have you dripping for days, walking out of here with my come inside you, everyone knowing who fucked you open like this. Would you fight me then? Or would you beg for more?”

You shook your head, but the denial came out ragged, helpless—caught between defiance and the pulsing ache of want. He ground his cock against you, teasing your entrance with the thick, slick head, letting it slip up and catch on your clit, rolling his hips until you gasped again. “Say you want it,” he taunted, lips catching yours, his tongue fucking deep, filthy, until your protest was nothing but a muffled moan. “Say you want me to breed you. Make you mine for real.”

His words lit something molten in your belly, shame and need twisting tighter. You shook again, half sobbing, half cursing, but he just kissed you deeper, tongue pushing between your lips, swallowing everything, not letting you look away.

“You’re not going anywhere, doc,” he groaned, fucking his cock through your folds again, threatening to push inside, “not until you give me everything. I want you dripping. I want you ruined. I want everyone to see you and know I did this—marked you from the inside out.” He sucked a bruise high on your throat, lips dragging down to your chest, hands never softening their grip. “You’ll take it,” he growled, tongue flicking over your nipple, teeth scraping. “Every drop. You’ll take it all, and then you’ll still beg for more.”

He devoured your mouth again, hips grinding, his cock poised at your entrance, his words a low, dangerous promise between filthy, breathless kisses: “You’re mine. And by the time I’m done, you’ll never forget it.”

You shook your head, tears prickling at your eyes, every breath trembling. “No, Bucky, don’t—”

He caught your jaw, turning your face to his, eyes burning into you. “No more running,” he breathed, voice rough as gravel. “You want me to stop? Say it. Mean it. Or else I’m going to keep you like this all night.”

His mouth crashed down on yours, devouring, tongue forcing your lips wide as he kissed you breathless, swallowing every protest, every moan. When you tried to speak, he fucked his tongue deeper, sucking on your tongue until you were gasping, voice ruined, heat pulsing between your legs.

He broke away, breath hot on your cheek, his words curling filthy and low in your ear. “You’d look so good bred full of me, doc. My come dripping down your thighs, so everyone knows you’re mine. Maybe I should just keep fucking you until you take it all—until it’s inside you, leaking out, marking you where nobody else can touch.”

He pressed his cock against you, the head sliding inside, slow, stretching you until you couldn’t do anything but moan and jerk in the cuffs, the sounds spilling raw and desperate as he filled you, every inch driving his claim deeper.

Bucky fucked you steady and deep, each thrust grinding into your core, pelvis slapping your ass as he set a rhythm meant to push you over, again and again. His mouth stayed at your ear, voice all threats and promises: “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take all of me—let me breed you. Let me make you mine forever.”

Your legs tried to close, but he forced them wide, his metal hand gripping your knee, holding you open as his cock pistoned in and out, thick and relentless. You felt him everywhere—filling you, stretching you, every stroke sending sparks up your spine and down to where his fingers pressed bruises into your flesh.

He reached down, thumb working your clit in tight, brutal circles, his hips pounding faster as you broke apart, body clenching tight around him, crying out as your orgasm tore through you, wet and shattering. He never stopped, rutting through your climax, cock dragging every tremor from your wrung-out body.

With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, cock throbbing as he finally let himself go, pulsing hot inside you, filling you so full you felt the slick drip down your thighs with every last grind of his hips. His breath stuttered out as he collapsed over you, mouth biting your throat, grinding the claim in with one last roll of his hips.

He stayed there, pressed tight to your body, his come leaking out, the cuffs biting your wrists, your body so used you felt you’d never be empty again.

His voice was low, dangerous, as he nuzzled the shell of your ear: “You’re mine, doc. Now, tomorrow, forever. No one else will ever have you.”

He didn’t move for a while. His breath stuttered against your skin, forehead pressed to the hollow of your throat, hands gripping you tight as if the world might drag him away. You could feel the shape of him inside you still, the warmth of his come pooling between your thighs, marking you just as thoroughly as his bruises.

When he finally lifted his head, his face hovered above yours—hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and hungry both. The storm had left the cell almost black, but every flash of lightning painted his expression in sharp, unforgettable lines. He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle for a heartbeat as he looked at you like he’d never get enough.

“You did so good,” he murmured, kissing your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, his lips softer now, dragging tenderness through the rough aftermath. “So fucking good for me. Didn’t think you could take it, did you?”

Your voice was little more than a hoarse, ruined whisper. “You… you didn’t have to—”

He shushed you, gentle. His thumb pressed your lips until you stopped talking, until all you could do was shiver as he laid kisses down your cheek, the corners of your mouth, your jaw. His fingers stroked soothing patterns down your ribs, thumb catching on the raw lines where your wrists had pulled hard against the cuffs.

Then his touch changed, shifting from gentle to possessive. His metal hand traced the curve of your thigh, squeezing hard, pressing into the bruises he’d left behind, the cold a jarring shock to the warmth of your flesh. He dipped his fingers between your legs, swirling through the mess he’d left, then dragging his hand up, smearing it over your belly, marking you all over again.

“Look at you. Look at what I’ve done,” he said, voice low, somewhere between wonder and cruelty. He made you meet his eyes, the look in them making you want to flinch and melt all at once. “So fucking pretty with my come dripping out of you. With my marks all over you. No one’s ever going to touch you again without knowing I was here first.”

You tried to look away but his grip on your chin tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to make clear you weren’t going anywhere. His mouth slanted over yours, kissing you slow, deep, stealing every breath you had left. He gentled again—fingers carding through your hair, his body curling around you, heavy and sheltering and immovable.

“You’re safe here,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, voice thick with something like devotion. “As long as you stay mine.”

But the cuffs stayed locked. His arms curled tighter around you, the heat of him sinking into your bones, and when you tried to shift, tried to test your freedom, his hand moved to your throat—light but warning, a reminder of every edge you’d just been pressed over.

His words were soft, almost loving, “go on. Rest. You’re not leaving until I say so.”

Outside, the storm rolled on, the world reduced to darkness, to heat, to his body and his claim and the ache of being owned so completely.

And you knew, as you drifted on the edge of exhaustion, that this was both the promise and the threat: he could be so gentle, so soft, until the next time he wanted to break you open all over again.

edit (11/12/25): i've gotten multiple asks and comments about a part 2 for this. there will be no part 2, simple as that. i talk about why in these two posts: one and two, and also this extremely well-worded post from someone else. and i had to make a third post to get my point across again. i sincerely thank you for reading and enjoying my story, but please stop asking for more.

[elixirfromthestars]

No Rest For The Wicked

Pairing: Vigilante!Bucky x FBI Agent!Reader 

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

WC: 31.5k

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

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

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

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

For the fourth time today, no less. 

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

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

“Last night.”

“Liar.”

“I swear.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it's written all over their faces.

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

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

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

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

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

"Lamar is not my work husband."

"No? Then why is Hopkins bringing you homemade breakfast and lunch every day? Not to mention, he's the one always driving you two around like you're his pretty little passenger princess."

"First of all, those meals are made by his wife and they're delicious. And second of all, what the hell is a passenger princess?"

You sigh internally—here they go again.

You tune out their bickering, used to the way they get under each other's skin and quarrel like siblings. Sometimes you wonder if they had been in another life.

Your mind goes back to the case at hand, The Brooklyn Ripper case. It's files strewn across your desk like pieces of a puzzle you have yet to solve. This case lies between your typical serial killer investigation and a potential connection to Hydra. A criminal organization tied to a litany of crimes including blackmailing influential figures, money laundering, exploitation, mysterious killings, and more. All with the end goal of moving their organization to the top and spreading their influence beyond New York.

Even if it means entertaining a serial killer in their ranks.

The Brooklyn Ripper has taken the life of seven women so far. The first was killed in September of last year, with NYPD detectives handling the investigation. They were in charge of the first four murders, but when the fourth woman was found to have been working for Hydra, they dropped the case and handed it over to the FBI. Anyone working in law enforcement knows how dangerous it is to cross Hydra. Not many would step up to go against them, unlike your boss Nick Fury, the director of the FBI. He has no issue making Hydra his enemy.

You've worked in the New York branch of the FBI for a few years in the counterterrorism and counterintelligence unit, before being transferred over to the criminal services unit eight months ago. You didn't mind the transfer due to budget cuts since you felt like you needed a change of routine anyway. And as fate would have it, out of all the cases that could have been assigned to you, you got The Brooklyn Ripper case along with Special Agent Laura Barton as your partner. Since you've been on the case, three more women have been killed, with all three women having connections to Hydra.

Laura left for maternity leave two months ago, and ever since then you have been investigating the case alone due to too many cases on priority and not enough staff to handle them. Out of seven women, one of them was murdered under your watch alone, and that's a fact that makes you lie awake at night.

"I still think the killer is the White Wolf," at the mention of that specific alias falling from Carol's lips you come back to the present. Your head snapping in her direction, eyes widening ever so slightly having been caught off guard by the name. She tilts her head at you, shaking it with fake disappointment, "You weren't even paying attention to me were you? You really should go home."

The reassuring smile you give her is not convincing at all, "No, no, I was listening. I just got lost in my thoughts for second, why did you bring up the White Wolf?"

"Because, he's obviously your killer."

"He might be one of the possible suspects, but I think others make more sense than him," you reply, composing yourself from your earlier slip up, "He's only ever taken credit for the deaths of higher officials with deep ties to Hydra. Rumlow still makes more sense than the White Wolf here. We don't even know who the guy is or if his background matches what we're looking for," you point out.

Your colleagues have no idea who the White Wolf is, but you do.

You had dinner with him last week.

"I hate to say it, but Danvers might be right," John cuts in, agreeing with Carol for the first time in his life. "He's the only possible suspect who's gone after Hydra apart from the FBI. The last few women have all worked for Hydra, it makes sense he'd go after them."

Carol can't believe what she's hearing, "Walker is making sense—the world is ending."

"You never give up, do you?"

"But he's never gone after women or children, why would he switch up now?" You ask, cutting into their exchange to play along in the conversation. You don't want them to think you're playing defense for the White Wolf.

John shrugs, "Guys like that, they snap," he snaps his fingers for emphasis, "Maybe something happened in his personal life and it set him off. Made him think he had to go further with his vigilante justice and started going after whoever he could get his hands on at Hydra," he theorizes, but everything he says is further from the truth of what the White Wolf stands for—of who Bucky really is.

"Maybe, but as a theory it wouldn't explain the motives for the first three women who were never found to be connected to Hydra at all. In the end, none of the suspects make complete sense," you say, sighing in solemn displeasure.

"Look, your main suspect is still Brock Rumlow—Hydra's guard dog. Lamar and I, we're working hard on the Hydra case, but that doesn't mean we can't find the time to help you out with something. Our cases are most likely connected, so we could always help enough to get some of the weight off your shoulders," John offers again, a soft genuineness to his voice that most don't experience often from him. You give him a small appreciative smile, "Thanks, John. I'll keep that in mind."

He returns the smile before looking at the notification that pops up on his phone. "Crap, I'm gonna be late," he gets up from his chair, putting the files on his desk into one pile, "Sorry for ending the conversation here ladies, I gotta go. You two have a good night." And with that, John packs up the last of his stuff and he's gone.

"Jealous?"

You frown at the question, completely lost as to why Carol would ask you that and why she's smirking at you. "Jealous? Of what?" The pure confusion on your face has Carol letting out a breathless laugh, "You really weren't paying attention, huh? John's going out on a date tonight."

You snort, "Oh? When is he not?"

"So you are jealous…"

You roll your eyes at her attempt to tease you, "Carol. No. John is my friend and he's nice and all, but you know I don't date divorced men—it's too messy."

She shrugs, taking a few steps forward to take a seat on his desk. Oh, if only John could see her now. "Yeah, but you know I'm right when I say he likes you." You look at her like she's said possibly the dumbest thing you've ever heard, "Carol, please be serious. John has flirted with every single female agent in the bureau. Well, except for you, but only because you scare him."

Carol snickers in delight, "That's true. And it's not like he hasn't gone after some of our friends. I still cringe every time I think about how he fumbled that dinner date with Ava," you both grimace at the reminder, "But god, its kind of pathetic how many rebound dates he's gone on that have gone nowhere. He needs to be stopped for the sake of all women in New York," she can't help but take a jab at him even when he's not around.

"Okay, that's enough about John. How's the Punisher case going?" She thankfully takes your cue to move the conversation along, and begins updating you on her investigation. You do your best to keep up as you organize the files in front of you, but truthfully, it's all going in one ear and out the other.

"You know I can tell when you're not paying attention to me, right? I just act like I don't," she calls you out with mirth, you have the decency to be sheepish, "Sorry…"

She shakes her head softly, speaking to you in a tone only a big sister would use, "Don't be, just go home. Take a day off if you can. The case will still be here tomorrow."

"So will the killer."

She can't deny that, "He will, but that's just how things are in this line of work. You take one down and another one pops up tomorrow. There's not much we can do about it—that's just the way the world is." What Carol says may be true, but you don't want to dwell on such harsh realities. Not when it'll make you spiral more into a darker hole than the case already has you in.

Maybe it is time for you to call it a day.

"Are you heading home too?" You ask her as you start to gather your belongings. She nods, the relief she feels at you finally deciding to go home evident in the way her demeanor changes. "I am, but I'm gonna head over to tech first and see if Stark can figure out what's going on with my access ID. This thing only works half the time and I'm sick of it. I think I need to get it replaced."

You grab your messenger bag in one hand and the small bakery bag in the other, "If you're seeing Stark then let's hope he thinks a new ID is in the budget," you jest, causing her to groan. "God, don't say that. Stark and his stupid budget will be the death of me." You laugh, wishing her luck talking to Stark before you're off as well.

Autumn brings in the beginning of change. Trees shed their leaves, going from forest greens to vibrant shades of auburn, blanketing the ground and blowing in the wind like they're searching for their final resting place. The chill in the air invites you to wear your coziest sweaters and visit your local shops to try anything with cinnamon, maple, or pumpkin spice to really welcome the season in.

Tonight, however, the breeze you feel when you step out of your car is icy and sinister in a way that makes you do a triple take of your surroundings. It has you guarding your bag close to your body and locking your car twice. A season that used to bring you a serene comfort is now cold and unforgiving like the end of life.

The wisps of the wind curl around your body, clinging to you as you step into your apartment building. You give a small yet polite greeting to the property manager's father, Yori. A sweet old man who sits at the front desk all day playing crossword puzzles or watching baseball games on a small television behind the desk. A cheerful smile spreads across his face as he returns the greeting. Thankfully, he's engrossed in a Yankees game or he would have pulled you in for a conversation already.

The sound of a crunching leaf that's stuck on the sole of your shoe follows you into the elevator and to the third floor. The clinking of your keys joins it, echoing down the hallway as you walk to your apartment. You're just about to insert your key when the door to the apartment next to yours opens, a meow you can only describe as a hello follows it.

It's your neighbors, Bucky and Alpine.

"Hey you two," you greet them warmly, appreciating the sight of your very handsome and very muscular neighbor holding his cat in his arms like she were something precious and delicate. The sight of him in his navy Henley is enough to turn your night around for the better.

"Hey," Bucky starts, but then Alpine interrupts him by hopping out of his arms and prancing her way to you. She rubs her soft fur against your legs, before pawing at them—her way of saying she wants you to hold her.

You laugh softly, placing your messenger bag on the floor against your door and crouching down to pick her up. You stand with her cradled in your arms as careful as Bucky did in his. Alpine immediately nuzzles into them, letting out a content purr.

Bucky looks at the two of you in a way that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. "She missed you. Haven't seen much of you lately," he points out, voicing only half a truth. What he really wants to say is he missed you, but he'll let that truth hide in the affection of his expression.

You give Alpine a gentle head scratch, your smile turning softer, "I missed her too—and her dad," you add, not being able to hide it like Bucky can. The affection in his eyes only grows fonder at your words.

"Sorry I haven't visited lately. This case has a hold on me and I'm not sure it's going to let go of me any time soon," you say honestly, holding Alpine just a little tighter. Bucky notices, stepping closer to get a good look at you. There's no hiding the tiredness that seems to stick to every part of you like it's a second skin. "I thought so. You dedicate yourself to your job more than others, and it's admirable. But you have to take time to take care of yourself, doll," He reminds you and you find yourself exhaling a little harder, "You're not the first person to tell me something like that today. I try, but it doesn't feel right focusing on anything else when he can strike at any point again."

Bucky searches your eyes as if they hold the answer to how he can get through your stubbornness, "There's a difference between working hard and overworking yourself."

You have nothing to say to that.

Bucky leans down, grabbing your bag and nodding toward his door. "Let me make you dinner. Something tells me you haven't had a proper meal in days." As if on cue, your stomach lets out a grumble loud enough to reach your ears. Bucky bites his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, sparing you further embarrassment by walking back to his apartment and holding the door open for you. You follow him inside with ease, having been at his place enough times to consider it a second home.

"I'll have you know I had a muffin today, and like four cups of coffee," you mumble out that last part, feeling small at the thought of Bucky being able to read you so closely—like there was nothing you could ever hide from him. He lets out a sound between a huff and a chuckle, "Exactly my point. None of that is a proper meal," he places your bag on the couch in the living room, "You should get some rest while I finish making dinner." You open your mouth with a question on your mind, but he narrows his eyes like he knows exactly what you're about to ask, "No talking of the case right now. Not until after dinner."

"But I want to know—" he cuts you off by shaking his head, "I know what you're going to ask, and no—I haven't found any new leads in any of the Hydra communications and their databases haven't been updated. There's nothing new since last month's murder. Now sit," he insists gently, and this time you listen. He makes his way to the kitchen, and you plop down onto the couch, settling comfortably against the cushions while Alpine makes herself comfortable on top of you. There's a part of you that wants to stay awake and pay more attention to Alpine, but as soon as your body sinks into the couch, you doze off, letting the world around you disappear.

Bucky looks through what he has in his cupboards and refrigerator, deciding on making a simple Alfredo pasta. He calls out your name, wanting to know if that's something you'd want to eat, but when he hears no response, he strolls over to check on you. He sees you fast asleep with Alpine in your arms and he can't help the warmth that grows within his chest at seeing you snuggled up in his home like this. He reaches over to the armchair and grabs a throw blanket—the red and black plaid one you gifted him. He covers you with it, gently tucking both you and Alpine in.

There's a lightness to his step when he goes back to the kitchen. He takes his time making dinner, all with a lingering smile on his face. If anyone had told him before he met you he would be granted these moments of peace—of normality from his somewhat unconventional life—he wouldn't have believed them. It seems like it was just yesterday when he was still in the clutches of Hydra, doing their dirty work as the Winter Soldier to save his family from a fate far worse than death.

And all for what? In the end he escaped, but at the cost of his former life. Disappearing from Hydra's traces and distancing himself from his family and friends for their safety. Years of never staying in one place for more than a month, living alone across the country on the run—all to come back to New York to seek revenge on the organization that took everything from him.

He never made a place a home. And then over a year and a half ago he moved here, thinking it would be a temporary place to set some of his plans into motion, but staying here ultimately led him to Alpine and you.

Alpine, a scrawny little kitten he found in an alley, under the pouring rain in a unforgiving city. Left to fend for herself—she reminded him of himself in a way.

You, his next door neighbor with a heart of gold and a smile that never fails to make him weak in the knees. You're everything good in this world he wishes he felt he deserved.

There's nothing he wouldn't do to keep this new life—this fresh start—safe and sound.

When dinner is ready, Bucky reluctantly walks over to you, crouching down to softy nudge your shoulder. As much as he wants to let you sleep, he knows you need to eat something before you go to bed for the night. After a few nudges, your eyes slowly blink awake, but as the scent of dinner drifts your way you perk up, causing Bucky to chuckle fondly at the sight. Alpine yawns from where she lays across your torso, standing on her paws and stretching as she awakens from her beauty sleep.

"Come on, doll. Didn't wanna wake you, but dinner's ready."

You yawn as you get up from the couch, giving your body a good stretch before you follow Bucky to the kitchen table where there's already two delicious bowls of pasta waiting. Bucky pulls out the chair for you and you utter a dozy thank you before digging into the plate in front of you.

You hum in satisfaction at the taste, "Have I ever told you, you could make it as a personal chef?" Bucky takes a seat beside you, practically preening at the way you compliment his cooking. "No, but it wouldn't work out anyway for me. I don't like cooking for other people."

You frown, taking another bite of pasta, "But you cook for me." He grins, a twinkle in his eye like he knows something you don't, "You're not just people to me, doll. You should know that by now." His words have your heart fluttering in your chest in a way only Bucky ever seems to make it. You shove another bite of food into your mouth, anything to preoccupy yourself from thinking too deep and asking him what he means by that.

You don't need to have that answered right now.

Bucky can tell you're holding back, but he doesn't pry—just smiles to himself and continues eating beside you. Your curious nature will get the better of you soon enough, and Bucky is a patient man. He can wait until you're ready to discuss this.

Whatever this is.

There's a comforting silence that falls between you, only interrupted once by the little tune of Alpine's automatic feeder signaling her food is ready. The silence continues until it stretches to the point you feel like breaking it.

"We talked about you at the bureau today," you mention, catching Bucky's attention.

"Oh?" He mutters out between bites, his tone in that one syllable indicating he's wary of where this conversation is going. You know he said not to talk about the case, but this surely doesn't count, right?

"Yeah, my coworkers think that you—the White Wolf—are the Brooklyn Ripper," you say, words laced with an undertone of mirth at such a inconceivable thought. Bucky on the other hand reacts differently to how you thought he would. He finishes his bite, his jaw tensing like it's hard to swallow.

"Do you?" he asks, the air between you shifting into something heavy. You adamantly shake your head, upset that he even felt he had to ask, "Of course not. I'm pretty sure I've been your alibi for almost every victim, Bucky," you let out what can only be described as an awkward attempt to laugh while trying to lighten the mood, but he's looking at you like what you say next could break him.

"But if you hadn't been… Would you believe that I was the killer? That I was capable of that?" He holds his breath waiting for your answer. The weight of what he's asking settles itself deep in your heart. He's asking you if you would ever believe him to be a cold-blooded killer. Someone who kills for the sake of it and not with a morally just reason behind it. Bucky's past is no secret to you. He's been open and honest about everything from the moment you gained his trust. You would never take that for granted by believing him to be someone as cruel and ruthless like the Brooklyn Ripper.

You lock gazes with Bucky, needing him to clearly see the truth in your heart, "No. I would never think that of you, Bucky. I swear." The conviction in your voice eases the fear in Bucky's heart, feeling like he can breath again. He finds solace in the color of your eyes, and after a moment, the air shifts back to something comfortable—familiar.

"Why was I even brought up in the first place?" He wonders, and you wish you would've paid attention earlier to give him an exact answer, "I'm not sure. My mind was elsewhere when Carol and John were talking. It wasn't until they mentioned you that I started to listen. I think they were throwing around ideas for suspects since Rumlow isn't talking."

"Still? Let me guess, Pierce keeps covering his ass?"

"More like sending us on a witch hunt every time we want to ask a question or collect a piece of evidence. He impedes every step of the case with legal jargon."

He grunts, having firsthand knowledge of how Alexander Pierce operates, "Just say the word and I'll delete all the files on his computer—for fun."

"You wouldn't."

"If you asked me to I would."

The temptation to make Pierce's life a bit harder is difficult to brush off, "I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I'm also not going to tell you what not to do." The mischief that makes its way to his face is impossible to miss.

You're halfway through the pasta in your bowl when you've had enough of the conversations involving you, "Anyway, enough about my work, anything new in yours?"

"Not really. Same old boring I.T. stuff," he waves it off like it's not even worth mentioning.

"How's Sam?"

"Still a pain in my ass."

You playfully bump his shoulder with yours, "Stop it, he's not that bad," his face deadpans at your defense of his coworker, "Sam's nice. He gave me the recipe to his grandma's pecan pie when he came over for my birthday dinner."

"Yeah, cause he's a kiss ass," he grouses, nose scrunched up in annoyance. You giggle, watching as Alpine jumps onto Bucky's lap, her head butting his abdomen in an attempt to ease her dad's grumpiness.

The bubble of serenity surrounding you bursts at the sharp and sudden sound of your ringtone. Your stomach lurches with a sense of dread, losing all its appetite. You know there's only one person that can be calling this late.

Bucky utters your name like a silent plea for you to ignore the call and go back to how you were, but you're not listening. You're already up from your seat when he says it, walking over to your bag, and picking up the phone.

"The Brooklyn Ripper struck again."

And just like that, your night takes a turn for the worst.

Bucky feels helpless sitting at the kitchen table, watching as your face falls to something grave as Fury relates to you the details of everything he knows about the most recent victim. There's not much he knows, so he's sending you the location of the crime scene for you to investigate.

The call is over before you know it. You start packing your stuff, needing to head out to the scene of the crime as soon as possible.

"I have to go. There's been another murder."

"Let me go with," Bucky knows you'll turn him down, but he offers anyway. The wooden chair scrapes against the kitchen floor when he stands up, striding over to where you're standing. He knows there's nothing he can say to make the situation better, but at least he can try to do something—be helpful.

You shake your head, looking over at him with eyes that say I wish you could, "It's not a good idea, Bucky. The White Wolf is still on the suspect list and as long as Hydra is connected in some way, you'd only be putting yourself at risk for exposure." Against his better judgment, he pushes the topic, "I don't care if Hydra finds out that I'm in the city or if the FBI figures out who I am. I only care that you're safe."

You swallow hard, the depth of what he's saying not getting lost on you. You need him to understand the sentiment is mutual, "Bucky, I would never forgive myself if you were found out because of me. I care about your safety too and I'm not letting you fall back into the clutches of Hydra for my sake," you stand firm on your decision, "Let's just stick to what we usually do. I go out into the field and you stay here listening in on the Hydra communications and checking the databases for all the information on the victim," you instruct, leaving no room for argument. He had no choice but to listen.

"I don't like this," he says like it's painful to watch you go. "I know, and I'm sorry, but that's just the way things have to go," you remind him solemnly, not able to look him in the eye while heading towards the door. Two bowls of unfinished dinner going cold at the kitchen table.

Alpine meows beside Bucky almost as if to say goodbye or stay, you weren't sure. You couldn't meet her eyes either.

"See you later, Buck."

"See you."

The door clicks shut behind you.

It take you about twenty minutes to arrive at the crime scene. You mask your face with indifference as you walk past the vultures who call themselves the media. It's like at the first spill of blood they can scent it in the air—scrambling to get a headline instead of seeing it for what it is.

Someone has lost their life today in a brutal way. The least the media could do is have the decency to offer the family privacy and the chance to find out the devastating news from the proper channels and not through a social media post.

You ignore their existence, eyes darting to the buildings surrounding the crime scene to try and locate any cameras. The Brooklyn Ripper is smart enough to avoid them, usually placing the bodies in blind spots if there are any. He always kills the victim in one location and then drops it in another, meticulously staging it so the only clues you find are in the victim's autopsy.

If there are any camera's around, Bucky is probably looking through them right now. You sent him the location Fury gave you as soon as you got into your car. He's probably sulking as he watches from afar instead of at your side. You feel a strange sense of comfort wash over you at the thought of Bucky watching your back through the cameras. It helps knowing there's someone looking out for you with a case this severe on your hands. You hope Bucky understands you look out for him too—in your own way.

You pass by the buzz of local news station reporters, and a small crowd of people forming at the sight of law enforcement. You flash your badge to the NYPD officer keeping the reporters at bay, and he lets you pass the yellow crime scene tape. Like all the other crime scenes, nothing seems to be special about this one for the killer to have picked it. It's your average looking alley, tucked ominously between scattered operating businesses on the almost vacant street. It's late enough that most businesses are closed and the streetlights offer but a sliver of light to enter. There's a metallic bleach like scent that hits you almost at the same time that the foul odor of the garbage from the bins does. It's potent enough to be aware of it, but not enough to bother you. You've smelled worse in this line of work.

You carefully make your way over to the black tarp covering the victim's body. The chief medical examiner, Dr.Helen Cho, is discussing something with one of the members of the crime scene unit when you approach. There's about a handful of the unit here collecting all the evidence they can find.

You know if the presence of Dr.Cho was warranted, then there's no doubt who the culprit of this murder is.

"Dr.Cho, did she have the markings?" you inquire, cutting straight to the point. Dr.Cho nods grimly, beckoning you to come and see for yourself. "An off duty officer found her. He was in a drunken stupor when he stumbled his way out of the bar from a few doors down and ended up here. He claims to have sobered up when he saw the body." She hands you a pair of evidence gloves. You slip them on, bracing yourself for what you're going to find.

"He called the FBI tip line when he saw her neck," Dr.Cho crouches down to carefully lift the tarp from the victim's face. You follow suit, crouching down beside her to get a better look. At first glance you notice the way she's laying in a sleeping beauty pose, no blood on her clothes or hair. She looks like she was heading somewhere nice, having no idea of the end that was awaiting her. But most damning of all is the wound on her neck, fitting the Brooklyn Ripper's M.O..

There was an end to end gash along the front of her neck that would indicate it was sliced open. However, when you look closer you can see the swelling and faintest marks of bruising underneath the skin of the wound. A slight deformity that Dr.Cho is sure to conclude happened prior to the slicing. A slice that was clean and precise, with little blood around it. It wasn't done in the heat of the moment or with abruptness. It was done because he needed to do it, not because he wanted to. Without a shadow of a doubt when the victim is transported for an autopsy, Dr.Cho will find she died of a broken neck.

The slicing was done as a cover up.

"I'm confident enough to say the Brooklyn Ripper did this," you conclude solemnly, scanning the alley as Dr.Cho covers the victim again. "Let me guess, there's no evidence the victim was murdered here, is there?" Dr.Cho shakes her head, lips pursing at the lack of evidence. "There are no blood splatters, footprints, or any other indicators that anyone else had been here besides her. The only organic matter we have apart from the trash in the bins is the vomit from the officer who found her body. Other than that, everything else is staged as usual. The victim was laid on the ground in a sleeping beauty pose with her belongings tucked at her side. Her purse seems to have everything in it, but the phone is missing, same as the other victims."

After Dr.Cho recaps the evidence, you ask for the purse. Once you have it you search it and find a few packs of gum, lip gloss, a pocket mirror, some miscellaneous receipts and bits of trash, and what you were looking for—her wallet. You take it out, reading over her ID for the basic information.

Beth Johnson, twenty eight, born on October 10th—her birthday had been last Friday.

You swallow the lump in your throat with a regret you're in no place to have.

Inside the wallet you find a few dollar bills, a debit card and a couple credit cards, but what stands out to you most are two things tucked away behind her ID.

The first item, a polaroid picture of the victim hugging a child in her arms. They share the same smile and fluff of blonde hair. The words Toby's fourth birthday, are written on it in blue marker.

The second item, Alexander Pierce's business card.

You waste no time calling Fury after that, informing him of all the details you knew so far. This was now the second woman to die under your watch, and the eighth woman the Brooklyn Ripper has taken overall. You weren't going to drag your feet in this investigation.

Fury was livid. He hated feeling like someone got the upper hand on him and this war with Hydra was driving him up the wall. He made it clear he wanted you back at the bureau as soon as possible. He was going to call in John and Lamar for an emergency conference and he would be seriously considering formally connecting both the Hydra and Brooklyn Ripper cases once and for all. There's too much overlapping evidence for him to not start connecting them.

You let Fury know you'd be there as soon as you were done at the crime scene before hanging up the call. You take a picture of the victim's ID and the polaroid in case it comes in handy later. You then hand all the victim's belongings to the crime scene unit to be put away in evidence bags.

You step away from the crime scene, letting the crime scene unit finish their job without you hovering. You converse with a couple of the NYPD officers to help them locate the next of kin to deliver them the tragic news. It wasn't until it was absolutely certain that you weren't needed that you walk back to your car, pass the police tape and away from the reporters yelling at you for a chance at an interview.

Your hand grips the handle of the driver's side door tightly, your heart and mind an entangled mess of emotions, blurring the lines between personal and professional. It was never this complicated when you worked in counterterrorism. It was second nature to detach yourself in that unit, but in this one? You can't avoid it.

Before you step into your car, it starts to drizzle. You look up at the night sky and manage to spot a traffic camera on a streetlight.

The sight of it brings you comfort.

"You seem to conveniently neglect the decision my client has made to remain silent over these preposterous accusations."

"I recognize the decision, but given that it's a stupid ass decision—I've elected to ignore it."

Nick Fury and Alexander Pierce have been going at it for over half an hour, not letting Brock Rumlow get a word in—not that Pierce ever does anyway. He sits in the metal folding chair opposite you in the interrogation room, eyes glued to the table. His shoulders droop like he's about to fall asleep and his face is resting in a look that can only be described as pure boredom.

You've been studying him the entire time you've been in here, your role as the good cop meant you couldn't push and get on their bad side like Fury was doing now. But there's only so much rapport building you can take until you eventually break. Having to refrain from spilling all the questions and accusations you keep behind tightly sealed lips can only hold for so long.

There's a knock at the door that breaks Fury from his rant. He strides over to the door, and Rumlow takes this brief moment without him to make eye contact with you. It's only for a split second, but the challenge you saw there was unmissable.

He's daring you to make a move—to show your hand. He's been in plenty of interrogation rooms with you to know you're both tired of this game.

You want to get to the truth.

Special Agent Lamar Hopkins is on the other side of the door, discussing something with Fury and handing him a folder with what you assume is evidence from the case against Hydra. Pierce whispers something in Rumlow's ear while Fury shuts the door. He makes his way back to your side, opens the evidence folder, and plasters a multitude of pictures on the table for everyone to see.

It's pictures of Rumlow and the victim, all taken from seemingly harmless and innocent interactions. Rumlow helping her into a car, passing by her at a nightclub, leading her into an office, dropping her off at home, and many more. There's nothing necessarily incriminating in them, but the twitch in Rumlow's jaw is a blatant tell this struck a nerve with him.

"We can go in circles all damn day if you want, but I'm more interested in what the hell you were doing being seen with the victim so many damn times. And these pictures, they're just from this month," Fury drops another two dozen pictures on the table, "these are from the last four months."

Pierce scoffs, swiping his hand in the air in dismissal of the evidence, "This is ridiculous. My client can be seen with all employees at some point on any given day, this doesn't prove anything. This is a reach and you know it." Fury slams his hand on the desk, "Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it seems to me like she's another woman who was last seen with your client that ends up dead." The brash accusation cuts through the tension like a knife, and you can tell it's testing Pierce's patience on another level.

But more than anything, it severs your willingness to continue the good cop bad cop play.

"Brock, if you didn't do this, then I need you to help us here. Look at her," you take out your phone, having had enough of this endless back and forth. All eyes are on you as you slide the picture of the victim and her son in front of Rumlow. He looks down at it, but you get no reaction from him at the photo.

"Beth, she had a son, Toby. I'm sure you already knew that, maybe even knew him. Last Friday, she and her family celebrated her twenty eighth birthday, and now she's gone. In a few hours, Toby will wake up and ask his grandparents where his mother is, and they won't know what to say to him. It'll be awhile before he understands his mom is gone and never coming back. She won't be there for his future birthdays, she won't be taking him trick or treating on Halloween, having dinner with him at Thanksgiving or Christmas. When the new year comes in, he'll have to welcome it without her," Rumlow bites the inside of his cheek—this is good, you got him to react. "I don't care about what the FBI wants. I just care about him," you point to little Toby in the picture, "I care about giving him answers and catching the bastard who took his mom away from him." There's a conviction to your voice that clearly drives the message home.

For once, Rumlow beats Pierce to speak.

"You ain't got to worry about the kid. She was one of us, we take care of our own—including him," Rumlow's voice is rough with disuse, but at the very least you finally got him talking. You plead with your eyes, leaning in as a calculated sign of trust, "But he still deserves answers. I know there's something you could tell me that'll help me here." Rumlow looks at you with something that's close to pity, "Sorry, honey, don't know anything that could help. And as for finding the guy, I'm sure you're more than capable of it." He grins smugly, like he's doing you a favor with the half compliment. Irritation make its way up your body, hands eager to take action, but you can't. Instead, you give Rumlow a look like you're disappointed in him, but your eyes tell the full story. And his, it's like they're taunting you with the words cut the bullshit. It's clear you don't trust each other. Everything either of you do or say is done with ulterior motives.

Neither of you will get the full truth from each other any time soon.

"Alright, are we done here?" Pierce spits out in indignation, but Fury mocks him with an ardent laugh. "Not even close. You might as well start getting comfortable in here. Excuse us for a moment." With those parting words, Fury escorts you out of the interrogation room. Outside, John and Lamar stand on the other side of the two way mirror, having been listening in the whole time.

There's only a brief acknowledgment between you with an exchange of glances before Fury starts speaking. "I want you three to go to the main conference room and start operating as if we're connecting the Brooklyn Ripper case and the Hydra one. Agent Hill has already supplied it with with the evidence files from both cases. There's a few protocols I have to follow before I can officially connect them, but when I'm done I want you two," he points to John and Lamar, "to take a round interrogating Rumlow. You have a deeper rapport with those two, so I'll be counting on you both to get something useful out of them. In the meantime, exchange notes to prepare for the interrogation, and you," Fury turns to you, "as soon as you're done filling Hopkins and Walker in on your case—go home. You've done a great job tonight, but I'll need you rested and ready tomorrow for what comes next." You know better than to argue with him, so you bite your tongue and reply with a clear, "Yes, sir."

He turns and walks off, leaving you three to head to the conference room.

"What a way to end our Monday, right?" Lamar breaks the silence between you awkwardly. You let out an uncomfortable sound you try to pass for a broken laugh, "Yeah, you could say that…" You know he means well by the question, but it doesn't sit right in the space between you, falling flat.

"This didn't ruin any plans did it?" John cuts in curiously, directing his question at you, disrupting the discomfort in the air. You shake your head, a pang in your chest when you think about Bucky watching you leave. "Just dinner," you say it with a somberness you hadn't intended, so you quickly add, "but I'm sure you're more disappointed about your date being cut short. And I bet Mrs.Hopkins isn't any happier about Lamar getting called back to work." Your last statement brings out a small chuckle out of both men, and the sheepish expression on Lamar's face is confirmation enough that you're right.

"My date wasn't really going well, so I don't mind being called in. I don't think she'll be calling back for another, so I appreciate work keeping me busy," John admits, voice laced with self deprecation as you enter the main conference room. The table in the middle already stacked with files from both cases, just like Fury had said. You take a seat next to John when Lamar mutters something about a delivery and walks back out. You feel sympathy for your friend, the dating scene is hard enough, you can't imagine what it must be like navigating it as a divorced father.

Before you can second guess yourself, you place a comforting hand on his shoulder, he meets your eyes at the gesture, "Hey, don't let it get to you. I don't think many of us have a good track record with dating. I mean I think it comes with the job. I'm sure the right woman for you is right around the corner." Your words seem to strike a chord with him, the corner of his lip tugging, "Thanks. I'm sure she is."

He doesn't look away from you when he says that.

Before you can fully wrap your head around any deeper meanings, Lamar walks in with a pizza box in his hands. The strong scent of pepperoni pizza distracts you, your hand falling from John's shoulder like it never belonged there in the first place. Lamar is none the wiser, putting the pizza box in the center of the table and sitting across from both of you.

"I thought we'd need it for the long night ahead of us—coffee's already brewing in the break room," Lamar adds and you both utter a thank you. You try to brush off whatever just happened, even though a strange air lingers in the space between you. Even. Carol's voice echoes in the back of your head with a boisterous I told you so.

She's going to have a field day with this when you tell her.

There's an orange piece of paper that suddenly slips off the pizza box when Lamar opens it. You reach for it out of reflex, the big bold letters in black contrasting with the pumpkin orange background catching your eye.

FOR TWO WEEKS ONLY—THE CARNIVAL OF TERROR IS BACK IN THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS.

"My oldest loved going last year. I'm taking the whole family again this year," Lamar comments when he notices you reading the flyer. The nostalgia hits you hard, "How nice. I remember when my dad used to take me to these things when I was little. Those memories stick with you forever." You have to pull yourself back from drowning in a sea of memories you'll get lost in. From the past, from memories you used to hold close to your heart, to happier moments you used to give yourself the grace to experience.

To the person you used to be before this case ever landed in your hands.

You shake those thoughts away, hands gravitating to grab your phone. You're not sure what for at first, not until you open your text messages and click on your conversation with Bucky. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, typing up a quick text letting him know you'll be staying at the bureau for a bit. You're not sure what time you'll be getting out of here and you'd hate to have him waiting around for you. His response comes not even a minute later.

Okay, doll. Let me know if you need anything.

Will do. Goodnight, Bucky. Give Alpine a goodnight kiss from me. <3

What about mine? :(

You can't hold back the smile that forms after reading that text.

Have Alpine give it to you for me x

Fine. But yours would have been better. Goodnight.

"Is that your boyfriend?"

Lamar's question makes your head break away from your phone, mouth slightly parted as you blink at him. "What?" A boyish grin appears on his face, eyes crinkling like he's discovered a secret, "Your boyfriend. That's who you're texting, right? No one smiles at their phone like that unless it's someone special on the other end." You find yourself unsure of how to respond because while Bucky may not be your boyfriend, it feels wrong to deny he isn't someone special to you.

Lamar takes your silence as a yes.

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, harshly clearing his throat, "I think that's enough small talk, we should focus on the case," his words slash through the silence, causing you to nod in agreement. You need to focus on what you're supposed to be doing—updating these two on everything you know about the Brooklyn Ripper case, so they can go back to interrogate Brock Rumlow.

It's gonna be a long night.

The next morning when you wake up, the sun is at its highest point in the sky. You manage to find the energy to slip out of bed and into the shower. The water cascades down your body in an attempt to wake you, but it does little to help. You continue your morning routine, nevertheless, putting on a hoodie and pajama bottoms before you make your way to the kitchen. Much to the dismay of the rumble in your stomach, your fridge is empty of everything—even leftovers. You also can't remember the last time you went grocery shopping.

Just as you've resigned yourself to brew a batch of instant coffee for breakfast, there's a knock on your door that stops you. On the other side is Bucky with containers of food in his hands.

"Good morning," you greet him with a lazy smile, trying not to make it obvious you're staring at the way his muscles strain against his workout shirt. He chuckles, eyes raking over your hoodie with a twinkle in them, "Good afternoon, doll. I brought over some leftover pasta from yesterday. Thought you'd be hungry and have no food in your fridge."

You step aside to welcome him in, one word in particular catching your attention, "Afternoon? Wait, how did you know I was awake?"

"Thin walls," he shrugs like that explains everything, "Didn't hear anything all morning, so I figured you slept in." He looks at your hoodie again, "Is that my hoodie?"

You still, looking down at the dark gray hoodie on your body. You know it's not yours, but you're in no mood to give it back, "No." You don't sound convincing, and the gleam in his eyes tells you he's thoroughly enjoying this. You cross your arms, dropping the subject all together, "There's no way I slept in, I don't do that."

You glance behind Bucky at the clock on the wall. It's already noon.

You overslept.

He gently taps your nose to get your attention before you start worrying about what you missed, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Oversleeping is not the end of the world. Just let your boss know what's going on while I get lunch ready, okay?" He heads over to your kitchen like he belongs in that space, the lingering comfort of his gentle tone stays with you as you walk to your room to grab your phone. You notice you have a couple missed calls from Carol, so you send her a quick text before sending Fury an apology and letting him know you'll be at the bureau later. Almost immediately he tells you there's no need, John and Lamar have already done the interview with Beth's parents and are currently following leads from it. So instead he orders you to continue with the routine protocol you follow after the victim's family has been interviewed.

Meaning, it's time for the stakeout.

You head back to the kitchen, a bowl of pasta already waiting for you. You sit on a stool at the kitchen island and Bucky joins you on the stool beside you. "Care to fill me in on last night?" He asks and you do, filling him in on the investigation, the victim, the interrogation with Rumlow and Pierce, and your conference with John and Lamar—excluding the part where you might've lead them to believe Bucky is your boyfriend.

You didn't feel that was necessary to include.

"So I guess I'll have to start co-investigating the Brooklyn Ripper case with the Hydra one," you reiterate, looking down at the bowl of pasta like it held answers to the gut feeling you couldn't shake off.

"You don't seem happy about that," Bucky points out, and you sigh, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. "It's not that I'm not happy about it. Something just doesn't feel right," you can't find the exact words to describe what about it feels wrong. You feel like you're missing a big piece of the puzzle—maybe one of the most crucial pieces—and not being able to pinpoint it is eating away at you.

"I think I know what you mean. Last night, I went through all of Hydra's communications, but the only time the case was mentioned was when they took in Brock for questioning," Bucky mentions while you move the pasta in your bowl absentmindedly before you reply. "I don't doubt he's done some terrible things. I can see it in his eyes—the look of someone who could care less who lives or dies as long as he gets paid enough to do it. But I don't think he did this. If it is someone at Hydra doing this—it's not him."

Bucky nods in agreement, "Brock's been an asshole since the day I met him, but Hydra wouldn't make their golden boy do this. They'd have someone else do it. Like one of the other Winter Soldiers they recruited when I left." The reminder tastes like acid on his tongue, his jaw clenches, eyes glossing over with the ghosts of his past. Your hand reaches out to gently hold his wrist, the metal cold to your touch and yet it brings him the kind of warmth only you seem to provide him.

"Maybe," you give his wrist a light squeeze, he turns his metal hand over to hold yours, like he needs it to anchor him, "but I have a feeling no matter who the suspect is, the answer lies with the first three women the Brooklyn Ripper killed. The ones without any connections to Hydra."

"The ones the NYPD screwed up embarrassingly?"

"Yeah, those. It was like they had never worked a homicide before. By the time me and Laura were put on the case none of the families wanted to talk, so Fury instructed us to prioritize the most recent victims instead. But even those victims don't make complete sense. They all worked for Hydra, sure, but in different sections for different people—like they were chosen at random. An assistant, an exotic dancer, a housekeeper, a working girl, and the most recent, a club waitress. Asking anyone at Hydra is a dead end, the families won't talk to us, and we always end up with very little to go on. It just feels like were on a wild goose chase while that bastard chooses his next victim," this time Bucky gives your hand a steady squeeze when your frustration gets the better of you.

"Hey, we're gonna get this guy. He might be smart at covering up his tracks, but he's bound to slip up—they always do. And when he does, we'll catch it and get him. Don't forget we're a team, doll. The killer doesn't know you have a Hydra expert on your side, and that is your upper hand," his little pep talk does wonders to reignite that spark of hope in you.

"Let's hope he slips up sooner rather than later," you add before looking at your phone. It's almost time.

"Thanks for lunch, Bucky. I don't mean to cut this short, but I gotta get going."

"Are you heading to the bureau?"

You shake your head, "No, I'm heading out to do a stakeout. Gotta get some pictures for evidence, some protocol Fury wants me to follow. It's usually John and Lamar that go, but they're busy following some leads so Fury's sent me instead." Bucky nods, getting up from the stool, "I'm coming with." You open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head firmly, "Nothing you say will make me back down from this one. I couldn't be there yesterday, but there's no reason I can't be in the car with you this time."

He's right, there really is no issue with him coming with you this time, and truthfully you feel safer knowing he'd be there.

"Fine. But this is my case, so you follow my lead, alright?"

A cheeky grin grows on his stupidly handsome face, "Yes, ma'am."

"I can't believe you brought Alpine along," you laugh incredulously as Alpine gets out of her carrier and makes herself comfortable on a blanket Bucky fluffed out in the backseat for her. He scratches the back of his neck, before he explains, "She's got separation anxiety." Your eyes dart to Alpine, then to him, and then back to her, holding back a burst of giggles, "She's got separation anxiety?"

"Yeah, she can't stand being away from me for too long."

"Sure, Bucky."

"I swear, doll."

"I'm sure you do."

Bucky's deadpan expression does little to nothing to stop you from laughing. Even Alpine is looking at her dad like don't put this on me.

You and Bucky have been sitting in your car for about fifteen minutes. You're stationed in a parking lot of a small general store a few houses down and across from where Beth Johnson's residence is. It's a quaint brownstone, a little beat up on the outside, but homey nonetheless. The victim lived there with her parents and her four year old son Tobias, or Toby as she called him. If Hydra follows the same pattern, then like the last four victims, Alexander Pierce would come around offering financial restitution for the families. The money in exchange for their silence.

John and Lamar already had the initial interview with the victim's parents, so all there was left to do is wait. A camera laying patiently in your lap for the moment Pierce makes his appearance.

"You're doing it again," Bucky's voice breaks you from your thoughts. You turn to him, even when he attempts to cover his face with a baseball cap and hoodie, his eyes give away just how handsome he is beneath it all. It's unfair.

"What am I doing?"

"Staring holes into something like it'll give you answers if you look at it hard enough," his perceptiveness never fails to make you feel small. As if he could unravel all your secrets and vulnerabilities like it were nothing. You attempt to assure him with a smile that everything's okay, but it doesn't reach your eyes. He looks at you like he wants to help you, but he doesn't know how.

"It's just, this all feels like a waste of time. Sitting here for who knows how long to snap a couple of pictures when we could be doing something else instead. Maybe even find a proper lead for once, one that'll lead us to the actual killer," you hate feeling like a sitting duck. Like you have to wait for the evidence to come to you instead of going and getting it yourself.

"You don't agree with Fury sending you here," he says it as a statement, not a question.

"I don't. We already know what's going to happen. Getting a few pictures won't make Pierce or Rumlow talk. It won't even get the family to cooperate. So what's the point?" You fidget with the settings on the camera mindlessly.

"If the killer is a part of Hydra then it's important to get proof of every shady deal they've made to protect him."

"And if he isn't?"

He mulls it over, "Then it's even more important. That could mean he's been manipulating the evidence in his favor and making it seem like Hydra's behind it."

That's a possibility you hadn't really considered because who could possibly be stupid enough to cross Hydra like that?

You think back to the list of possible suspects excluding Bucky: Frank Castle, Logan Howlett, Wade Wilson, and Brock Rumlow. You recall the details you know of them, but none of them seem to be the kind to place the blame on someone else. Some of them take credit for their kills proudly while others are only on the list because they fit the military profile the Brooklyn Ripper's alleged to have. Plus, Bucky's already done extensive background checks into every single one of these men. If there was something that could've pointed you in their direction, Bucky would've found it already.

"If he is covering his tracks by putting the blame on Hydra, I wonder why they haven't caught him? He's a liability whether he's part of them or not."

Bucky takes your question into consideration, "It's hard to believe they wouldn't know who the guy is by now. If he wasn't one of them they'd have no problem getting rid of him. But if he is one of them, then they either know who it is and he's too high up in the ranks to cut him loose or they have no idea who the killer among them is," Bucky theorizes and you add, "It could be why they're giving the victim's family hush money disguised as charity. It keeps them quiet long enough for them to try and figure out who it is before the FBI does."

You feel like you're going in circles with the same set of clues, turning them over and over again as if eventually they'll give you a different result. You fall forward, gently resting your head on the steering wheel, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You just need a moment to collect your thoughts. The first few days on a new murder investigation can always be the hardest, so you just need to pick yourself up and move forward.

Bucky places his hand on your back, drawing soothing circles in the space between your shoulders. Your body gravitates towards his touch, leaning into it. "You have shown more effort and dedication on this case than anyone previously assigned to it did. I know you're not used to dealing with victims and families on a personally. You feel every loss on a human level, and that's your strength. It means you're not giving up til the end and you should be proud of yourself for that. I know I am."

Sometimes you remind Bucky of his younger self. The one who had to come to terms that evil exists in this world as the blood on his hands grew. The one who had to make a deal with the devil in exchange for his family's salvation.

He had to pull himself out of a very dark place years ago. He'd make sure you'd never fall into it like he did.

You lift your head from the steering wheel, turning it to lay the side of your face against it. You don't know what to say, but you manage to whisper out a small thank you. You didn't know how badly you needed to hear those words until you heard them. It's hard to not feel out of your element when you're not used to this. You rarely had one on one interactions with victims or families when you worked in counterterrorism. Working in national security was miles away from what you've experienced in this case in the last seven months.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb softly caressing it. "Always," he whispers the promise in an oath to you, and the sincerity in his eyes causes you to let out a soft gasp. It's like if you search his eyes hard enough for something you've been searching for all your life, you'll find it.

Alpine suddenly jumps onto the center console, startling you both. You both pull away as if you've been caught doing something wrong, while Alpine stares at something ahead meowing at it. When you follow her line of sight you're surprised to see a black Rolls-Royce pulling up to the victim's residence. You quickly reach for the camera and start taking pictures. "Remind me to bring her along to the next stakeout," you say in awe that Alpine caught that. A few clicks of the camera later and sure enough, Alexander Pierce steps out of the car along with a couple bodyguards.

"Good girl," Bucky praises Alpine as she jumps onto his lap waiting for a proper thank you. He chuckles under his breath, muttering something about how spoiled she is before giving her the attention she wants. He steals a glance at you while you take pictures of the license plate, finding beauty in no matter what you do.

Alpine meows in his lap, as if questioning her dad why he hasn't made a proper move yet. He pets her fur in thought, wishing he could give her an answer as to why.

The days go by in a blur of paperwork and evidence files until the weekend is but a shift way. You've spent the last couple of days studying the Hydra case, familiarizing yourself with it now that Fury has merged your case with it. As expected, after Pierce visited Beth's parents they stopped cooperating with the FBI, claiming they had no further information to share that could help the case.

Having a team to work with had its pros and cons. On one hand, it was nice to bounce ideas off of John or Lamar, and to have someone to go to when you were stuck on a piece of evidence. However, having to report and update them whenever you wanted to do something and needing a majority vote to go through with it—well, let's just say you had a good idea how the rest of the investigations were going to go and you didn't like it.

You were currently in the bureau's record room, returning some of the files you pulled out of evidence in place of taking others. John and Lamar were somewhere in New York investigating a lead in the Hydra case. You felt like you were between a rock and a hard place—not wanting to step on anyone's toes, but also not really seeing yourself fitting in with that duo.

Both of them did things by the book, followed all the rules with no exceptions. They never pushed the boundaries or took risks to get to the truth. It's why they were one of Fury's favorite pairs. He never had to do any extra paperwork or pull any favors to save their asses.

But you? You were secretly working with a vigilante. One wanted by the very institution you work for. If John or Lamar were to find out, you have no doubt in your mind they would turn you in.

You take out your access ID and place it up against the card reader to access the files. You're sorting through them, exchanging some of the ones you had when something on the screen catches your eye.

There's a name that stands out in the history list of who last accessed files for the Brooklyn Ripper and Hydra cases. There beside your name, John and Lamar's is Carol's. You frown at the sight. Why would she need to have accessed them? You don't remember the Punisher case having anything to do with either of those cases.

You make a mental note to ask her about it later.

Back at you desk, you sit in it for another hour looking through files until you can't take the lack of action anymore. There's one lead you have been thinking of pursuing, but you know if you brought it up to John, Lamar, or Fury—they'd all shoot the idea down.

It's a good thing none of them are in the building right now, right?

Beth Johnson used to work as a waitress in Hydra's nightclub The Red Skull. It's owned by the head of the organization, Johann Schmidt, and he uses it as a hub for a lot of Hydra's operations. A logical step to take with that information is to question the people who work there for anything they might know of the victim that could help uncover her killer. The problem? The couple of times John and Lamar have been able to make it past security to question people inside, have only ended with guns drawn the moment they figure out they work for the FBI.

But you, there's only a couple of people that could recognize you, you're not really on Hydra's radar. They don't even know you're part of the Hydra case now. Armed with all the knowledge you've acquired from these files and Bucky's stories, you could go undercover. Find one of the weak links, maybe a friend of Beth's and prod at them until they crack and tell you something you could use.

This is risky, but exactly the kind of action you were hoping to take. No one could find out you were going, not even Bucky. If he found out you were going into the lion's den he'd have a heart attack or insist on going with you, and you'd never agree to that. You're not letting Hydra take him from you as selfish as that sounds.

You were on your own for this one—what's new?

You couldn't go home and change into something more appropriate for a club because if Bucky saw you walking out in a skimpy outfit and heels he'd most certainly question where the hell you were going. You might have to pull a favor with your friend Ava Starr, the head of the undercover and sensitive operations unit at the FBI.

Before you can back out of the plan, you head to her office. She greets you when she sees you, but narrows her eyes at you when she sees your suspicious demeanor.

"Hey, remember when you almost fumbled the Skrulls operation until I stepped in and saved your ass?" You bring up a memory from last year from an undercover operation you did in the counterterrorism division alongside Ava and others. She had made the wrong call and almost put the entire team in jeopardy, but an improvised plan from you saved the day and her job.

"Yeah… Thanks for the reminder," the sarcasm drips from her lips as they pull into a thin line. You close her office door so only she can hear what you say next, "I'm here to cash in that favor."

"Do I want to know for what?"

"It's best you don't."

She gives you a hard look. As your friend, she wants to pry and find out exactly what she's helping you do, but on the other hand, she believes in you and knows if you're telling her she shouldn't know then she won't question it.

"Alright, come on then. Tell me what you need."

By the late afternoon you're inside The Red Skull. Ava had done an amazing job with the makeover, giving you a sparkly black mini dress to wear with skin colored tights underneath. The dress itself was pretty, but stubborn on clinging so tightly to your body that every curve of it is on display. She caked your face in makeup, something subtle yet fitting for a night at the club. You hadn't recognized yourself when you looked in the mirror, but that was a good thing. The more unrecognizable you were, the better.

The only things you weren't used to were the false lashes on your eyes and the size of the heels on your feet. You can't remember the last time you got all dolled up like this, much less the last time you wore shoes that weren't your work ones. You felt like a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time.

To lower the chances of getting caught, you left your FBI badge in your car, keeping the items in your purse simple except for the gun that rests inside for your safety. You weren't sure you were going to make it past security at first. However, you managed to sneak in by flirting with some college guy who was there with a large group of people. You walked with them in line, avoiding being carded by sneaking in as part of their group. You ended up having to follow them to some booth in the back by the dance floor, but you were able to excuse yourself after a few minutes to go to the bathroom.

As soon as you step away you examine your surroundings. Scanning through the sea of people to locate all the entrances and exits, where the main office is, and where all the employee rooms are. The boom of the bass from the speakers shakes the room, the lights and music bounce off the walls, making you feel the liveliness of the party on every inch of your skin. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and substances much worse permeate the air into a toxic cloud you have to be careful not to inhale in too deeply.

You had a handful of people in mind you wanted to approach before you came in. The club itself is too dark to make out a lot of the faces from afar, but you know for certain there's someone working the bar you might be able to get answers from. One of the bartenders, Pietro Maximoff, has a sister Wanda Maximoff who also works as a waitress in this club, just like Beth did. Wanda and the victim could have been friends, and you know her brother must be feeling extra protective after what happened to Beth.

It was all you had to go with to try and get some answers.

You saunter over to the bar, sitting on one of the seats across from Pietro when you locate him. His eyes land on you and he flashes you a charming smile that you return with ease, "What can I get for you, gorgeous?" You play up the charm with a flirty giggle, "Just a whiskey on the rocks, please." His eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise, "And here I thought a pretty girl like you would order one of those fruity drinks, something as sweet as you." He lays it on thick, probably hoping for a good tip. You look at him through your lashes, "What can I say? I'm full of surprises." He hums in approval, grabbing one of the bottles behind him to prepare your drink. Things seem to be going smoothly so far, even if your undercover skills and flirting tactics are a bit rusty.

"So what brings you here tonight? Waiting on someone?" He asks you while handing you your drink. You pretend to take a sip of it, shaking your head, "I'm not waiting on anyone. I'm looking for something." Your vagueness intrigues him. "Something or someone?" There's temptation dripping from his lips, the blue of his eyes stormy in a way that tries to pull you into them until they're the only thing you can look at.

Too bad you're not into blondes.

"Something," you repeat, giving him a sly smirk while reaching into your purse, "Something maybe you can give me." You've piqued his curiosity with that, and he watches your every move as you brush past the cool metal of the gun in your purse to take out your phone. You have to hope this doesn't backfire or things could get ugly real fast.

You unlock your phone, opening up your gallery to a picture, and turning it over so he gets a clear view of it.

A picture of Beth with her son Toby, the one from the polaroid.

His expression falls, an iciness to it that crawls up your spine when he sneers, "You're a fucking cop?" You keep your cool, shrugging nonchalantly, "I prefer to give you plausible deniability on that."

He scoffs, leaning forward on the bar table separating you. He's so close the iciness in his stare contrasts the heat of the anger that radiates off him, "So you are. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't get you kicked out of here—or worse?"

"Because I'm here for her," you grab your phone to put the picture back in his view, "I came for answers, and I know you can give me some." He avoids looking at the picture, it's like he can't stomach the thought of her being gone.

He clicks his tongue, "Stop acting like you care about Beth. You don't care about her, you don't care about any of them. You just want to get your job over with, maybe even get promoted."

"Olivia, Alice, Karli, Sharon, Ruby, Ophelia, Aida, and Beth," you list out the names of every single victim, catching him off guard. "I remember all of them. Each one of those women aren't an assignment to me, or some statistic I'll write in a report at the end of the year. Those women were like me. They were mothers, daughters, sisters, friends—they were people. And I have to go to bed every night knowing I've failed them." Your voice breaks at the end, opening an album on your phone to show him the images you've kept of every single victim. All pictures of happier snapshots of their life, reminding you who you're working so tirelessly for.

He takes a step back, staring at your phone like the pictures would haunt him if he stares at them for too long. "I need to get justice for these women. I want to give their families answers as to why this happened. I want the bastard to pay and face the consequences of what he's done."

You land on Beth's picture again and he looks away like it's too painful to see. "I can't help you, I—" you cut him off, "Wanda's your sister right? She works here as a waitress just like Beth did. They were probably friends, weren't they? What if she's next?"

He looks almost offended you would say that, "Don't say that. I'd never let that happen."

"I know you wouldn't. But I'm sure if you ask any one of the family members of these women they'd tell you the same. People always think something could never happen to them until it does. Wanda has you looking out for her, but this killer is smart and covers his tracks well. Your employers don't seem to give a damn about protecting the women working for them, so Wanda could very well become his next target."

"No, she wouldn't. I'd never let her get involved in that."

"Get involved in what?" Your question makes him realize what he said and he curses under his breath. "Please, just give me something I can investigate further. Do it for them, not for me." You show him the picture of Beth one last time before shutting your phone off, the bar was starting to get a bit crowded and you didn't want the wrong people finding out what you're discussing.

He takes a deep breath, searching your eyes for your true intentions. There's a genuineness there that makes him feel like he can trust you. He subtly scans the bar, taking your drink and pouring it out before getting you another one to blend in. He leans in close, resting himself on his arm on the bar table like he were having an intimate conversation with you.

"Hydra runs two escort services. The one you probably already know about is run by a madam named Agatha Harkness. It's mainly used for making easy money off of cheating husbands and other degenerates," he says this with distaste on his tongue, "Then there's the other one. Hydra keeps this one under wraps, the only evidence of it existing is if the women have any. It's used to blackmail important figures, government officials, world leaders—you name it." You're grateful the necklace Ava gave you is recording constant audio because he's giving you lots of crucial information.

"The madam that runs it is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She has her own escort service, but she integrates it with the Hydra one. There's only a small group of women from Hydra that work for her. She usually approaches girls that are in need of money, preys on them, and gives them loans in exchange for sleeping and dating whoever Hydra wants to get dirt on and under their control next. A few months ago we were hard on money and Valentina approached Wanda about joining, but I refused to let her," you can hear how protective he is of his sister in the way he speaks about her, "I picked up extra shifts at the bar instead. The only reason I know about this service is because my sister told me."

"There should still be some sort of digital footprint of all of this though, no?" You ask yourself more than him. If there was one, Bucky would've found it already. Pietro shrugs, "All I know is that it's super secret and no one openly talks about it. I picked a fight with my boss about it when Wanda was approached and he told me to drop it for both our sakes." You try to absorb all the information he's given you. It's a bit to take in at once, especially when there's multiple questions you want to ask you know he doesn't have the answer to.

He pulls away to get back to work when you go silent, "You're one of the good ones, I can tell. Cops usually look the other way when things happen to people like us."

Before you can respond, he glances at something behind you and curses under his breath, "You need to go—they know you're here." You pretend to take a swig of your drink, turning your head to see from the corner of your eye two big burly men whispering to each other while looking at you.

You reach into your purse to grab a couple of bills, with your business card tucked between them. You hand them to him, "Thank you for your help. I promise I won't stop until I get the guy. You and your sister stay safe, okay?" He takes the money and notices your card, slipping it into his pocket along with the bills. "We will. Now go, get out of here. There's an employees only exit down the hall from the bar. Take it."

You thank him for the tip, getting out of your seat as smoothly as possible to avoid further suspicion. You make it seem like you're heading towards the bathrooms, but using the line outside of them to slip between the people and cover yourself from being noticed taking the exit Pietro had suggested. You don't know if you're being followed, but you're not looking back to find out.

You're able to make it down the hall and to the exit, stepping out into the autumn rainy night. You find yourself in the alley at the back of the nightclub. You would have to walk about a block in the rain to your car. Luckily, it's only a light pour, so your view isn't obstructed.

You're about to head in the direction of where you parked when out of nowhere, someone grabs your arm. You swing your arm and hit them with your purse, the stranger calling out your name with a familiarity that causes you to still. You look over and hiding below a blue baseball cap is a pair of cerulean eyes you know all too well.

It's Bucky.

"Bucky? How are you here? How did you find me?" You're relieved to see him, even if a part of you doesn't believe he's right in front of you. "Did you seriously think you were going to fend off a possible attack with a little black purse?" He looks at you like he can't believe your first defensive move was a purse hit. Especially after everything he taught you.

"You caught me off guard. You're lucky I went with the purse and not my gun," you retort, watching the way Bucky's body is tense like he's prepared for anything. He lets go of your arm, shrugging off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders. "You're lucky the bouncers didn't search your purse before letting you in."

Seems like you were both favored by luck tonight.

"Let's get out of here, my car's a few blocks away," he says, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you in the opposite direction of where your car is parked.

"My car's closer, let's just take mine," you tell him, trying to keep up with his pace. He notices and slows down a step, "There's a lot we need to talk about, but there's still a possibility we might be followed, so just trust me and follow my lead, okay?" You nod, continuing your walk down the narrow street, one hand in his and the other holding his jacket close to your body. It smells like his cologne, a woodsy scent with a hint of leather.

You make it down the street just fine, but when you round the corner you can tell something's wrong by the way Bucky tightens his hold on your hand. He lets go of your hand in favor of wrapping your arm around his for a closer hold.

"Don't look behind us, but we're being followed. Just stick close, and try to keep up as best as you can," he whispers the instruction before picking up the pace. You balance your weight on your heels to keep up. You don't look back, but you can hear the slight thump of footsteps a few feet behind you.

Your heels click against the asphalt in time with the rhythm of your heartbeat. You lean into Bucky's side to steady yourself, the moisture on the ground from the rain making it harder for you to get stable footing. You don't question Bucky for every turn he makes, every street he crosses, or any shortcuts he takes. You're not exactly in the nicest part of the city, and you trust him to know his way around enough to get you back to safety.

The footsteps behind you never falter no matter how swift Bucky is at changing directions. The rain starts to pour down harder, lowering visibility and causing you to stumble. Bucky steadies you, taking off his baseball cap to place it on your head. You can see better now, and notice that you're headed toward a park.

The ground beneath you softens, and the trees make a decent shelter from the rain. Bucky turns his head to scan the area behind you and his shoulders relax. You're not being followed anymore.

Lightning strikes the sky before the world seems to shake from the thunder. Bucky leads you to a small wooden gazebo to catch your breath. Letting you go in first while he scans the park one last time. A breathy laugh escapes you, whether from the nerves or the adrenaline of being followed—you're not sure.

"You find this funny?" Bucky joins you under the shelter, water droplets falling from his hair after being smothered by rain. You frown, crossing your arms, "No, of course not. I get the severity of what just happened, the laugh just slipped out."

"What the hell were you even thinking back there? Do you understand what would've happened to you if I had arrived a second too late?" Bucky's voice shakes with a desperate anger, his eyes swimming with a despair that makes your heart squeeze in your chest. It's still trying to catch up from the run, and the look Bucky is giving you isn't helping.

"But nothing happened, Bucky. I'm okay," you assure him gently, like he's a frightened animal you're trying not to scare off. Bucky shakes his head, his eyes shining from the rain or with tears, you're not sure, but it's devastating either way.

"You're okay because I was there. If I hadn't been…" His voice trails off like it hurts to finish that sentence. He runs his hand through his hair with a frustrated huff, "God, the worst part is I know exactly what would've happened to you. And I would have had to live with that for the rest of my life."

You bridge the space between you, taking his hands into yours, "But nothing happened, Bucky. If something were to happen to me you can't put the blame on yourself like I'm your responsibility."

Your name leaves his lips with a longing that causes your heart to skip a beat, "You know that's not what this is about," he lets go of one of your hands to motion between you, "We can dance around this all you want until you're ready, but don't pretend like you don't know what you mean to me. I can't lose this. I can't lose you."

You feel an overwhelming surge of emotions you've held back for so long fight its way to the surface. You hate seeing how upset he is at the thought of losing you, but you get it. You'd be lost without him. And it would be the end of him if he lost the one person he opened up to after years of isolation and managed to make a part of him he thought was broken whole again—you.

You go to embrace him, needing to feel close to him and hoping to convey with your hold what you want to say, even if you're not ready to say it. He reciprocates your hug immediately, holding you just as tightly—like you'd disappear if he let go.

The rain patters against the roof of the gazebo creating a calming atmosphere around you. It's like you two are the only ones who exist in the world right now. You've never felt safer than here in his arms, so you savor it for as long as you can.

Until the thunder rattles the gazebo, reminding you of where you are.

"Is this a bad time to mention I got a good lead?"

He laughs in disbelief, "Of course you fucking did." You laugh with him, catching his eye and seeing a twinkle in them. "Is this a bad time to ask you who told you that outfit was a good idea without checking the weather?" You roll your eyes and playfully smack his back, "Shut it."

You're about to pull away, but his hold stays. "Give me a minute, doll. Just stay with me for another minute." The plea in his voice is gentle, like he'd let go if you really asked him to, but you won't. Clearly, you both need this pocket of peace to last a little longer. So you stand there in your shelter from the rain and hold each other like it's your only lifeline in this world.

Bucky and Alpine came to your place that night for an impromptu sleepover. You both showered in your own apartments before reconvening at yours. There was a lot you needed to discuss, which you did over chow mein and pot stickers from your favorite Chinese restaurant across from your apartment, Uncle Lou's. You told Bucky what happened from the moment you decided to go undercover, to why you did it, what Pietro revealed to you, and everything else leading up to when he met you outside the nightclub. He still wasn't happy about it, but what's done is done.

Bucky on the other hand explained he had heard your full government name in one of Hydra's communications, apparently one of the patrons recognized you although the name of the patron wasn't disclosed. That's how he knew you were there. He has your name flagged in the system for safety reasons, and it's a good thing he did because as soon as your name was mentioned an alarm went off on his phone. He was able to access the security cameras at The Red Skull, and when he confirmed you were in fact there, he rushed over as quickly as possible.

He knows how Hydra operates, so he had a tow truck arranged to get your car from the nightclub's parking lot and tow it back to the bureau out of an abundance of caution. There was no guarantee that you could drive your car safely back home without being followed. He parked his car at the park where the gazebo was, somewhere out of the way enough where he could shake off anyone that attempted to follow you.

Bucky had thought of everything.

He wasn't surprised to hear about the secret escort service, although it wasn't around when he was there. He didn't recognize Valentina's name, but he had a vague recollection of Agatha's. You play the audio recording from your necklace on your laptop, so he can get a better idea of everything that was said. To say he didn't appreciate having to hear you flirt with another man is an understatement.

The rest of the night was spent researching and bouncing off theories to each other. You ended up falling asleep on the couch, your feet resting on his lap. He dozed off right after, with Alpine curled up in the space between you.

The weekend is spent collecting as much evidence as you can, so that following Tuesday you can face Fury and hopefully keep his anger at bay as you tell him about your unofficial undercover mission. You hope the discovery will be enough to not be reprimanded too harshly.

But Fury truly lives up to his name.

Things don't start off as smoothly as you hoped when you tell him what you did, sitting in the chair on the other side of his desk, laptop in your lap at the ready with a presentation of evidence displayed on the screen. You've lost count how many times he's cursed in the last five minutes. Going off about if he's just a painting on the wall and does no one understand what the title of director means?

The worst part is how he looks at you like a disappointed father would, making you feel like a scolded child. He exhales heavily, sitting down in his chair, "You recognize what you did was stupid and reckless."

"Yes, sir, but I—"

"And that you could've very easily gotten killed and jeopardized not only your case, but the Hydra one as well."

"Yes, sir."

"You also recognize that while it was extremely reckless it resulted in obtaining the biggest lead we've had on the Brooklyn Ripper case since we've had it."

You can breathe again, "I do, sir."

He nods, approving that you understand, "Alright. While you did manage to get a good lead, this can never happen again. From here on out, everything you do with this case goes through me, got it?"

"Yes, sir." you reply, but he doesn't see the way you cross your fingers in your lap.

"Good. Now, show me what you found." It seems in the pursuit of taking Hydra down, Fury doesn't care what methods are used.

You start from the beginning. How you came to the conclusion of checking out the nightclub, and how you infiltrated it—omitting the part where Ava helped you look the part. You tell him what Pietro told you, letting him hear some of the audio clips for himself. You don't mention being followed afterwards, instead sticking to a story that you left as soon as Pietro gave you the warning and took a taxi home while your car was towed here out of precaution. Fury praises you for the quick thinking and you have to stop yourself from giving Bucky the credit he deserves.

You then go in on the finer details. You dive deeper into Valentina and her off the record escort service she runs with Hydra. You mention how Valentina has been arrested twice for promoting prostitution, but was released with a warning both times. Word on the street—what Bucky discovered—is she's got plenty of blackmail on enough cops in the NYPD to keep her out of jail. She has no official ties with Hydra, but she does get paid to take a few girls from them, teach them the works, and offer them to higher paying clientele. If your speculation is true, then every woman killed connected to Hydra was part of this underground escort service. Whether Valentina knows it or not, the girl's Valentina is taking in from Hydra become the Brooklyn Ripper's preferred victims.

Fury takes in all the information you give him, "We need to bring Valentina in, but without giving away what we know. I'll get a detail on her to locate her whereabouts. As soon as she slips up, she'll be arrested. We'll have to have her brought to a trusted police station, and instead of one of the local detectives interrogating her, it'll be one of us. We can play it off like we're making sure she's safe from Hydra."

Fury's plan seems like the logical play. Getting a one on one chat with Valentina could prove to be crucial to uncovering the identity of the Brooklyn Ripper. She probably even knows who it is without knowing it's him, and having her in custody would help in getting warrants to access her personal property. You would be able to get a hand on all the numbers and channels she uses for her communications that Bucky could then investigate deeper. There's also a possibility she might still have messages or other evidence on her devices that could connect her to the victims.

"You said one of the patrons recognized you?" Fury breaks your thought process with a question.

You nod, "It must have been. At the time I was in the nightclub, Pierce and Rumlow were located to be in different parts of the city, so they couldn't have recognized me. I'm not working the Hydra case close enough for anyone else there to have recognized me. I didn't have my badge on me, so whoever saw me knew me from somewhere."

He taps on his desk like he's mulling something over, "You have to be more careful then. If this escort service is being used to blackmail high profile people, anyone you've been in contact with at the any of the city's charity galas or events throughout the years could be a client of Valentina's. We'll have to be more discreet from here on out."

There's an uneasiness that settles its way into your heart when you think of all the people you know and how any one of them could've been so cold to rat you out like that. Especially knowing what Hydra would have done to you.

After another brief exchange, Fury dismisses you as he has a virtual meeting to attend. You walk back to your desk, letting out a breath of relief. John is sitting in his when you approach, giving you an are you okay look, "Everything okay? That sounded intense for a minute there."

You sit down at your desk, a heat spreading on your face when you realize your coworkers most likely heard Fury reprimanding you. "Yeah, I kind of went over his authority, so the yelling was warranted…" John's expression is one of surprise, not thinking of you as someone who would break the rules.

If only he knew about your vigilante partner.

You quickly summarize the events to John. You'd tell him a more detailed version of it later when you both reconvene with Lamar, but for now a more condensed version is all you can give with the energy you have left after being yelled at. John's demeanor shifts immediately, "That was extremely dangerous, you could've gotten really hurt." He scolds you, his disappointment matching Fury's, but somehow coming from John it doesn't feel as serious.

"I went in knowing the risks, but I'm here now aren't I? It's all good," you try to brush it off, not wanting to hear another lecture. His eyes narrow, "No, it's not. The few times Lamar and I have gone up to The Red Skull while chasing a lead—we've never come out without having to get into a fight with security and have their guns drawn on us. It's a miracle you came out unscathed."

"Not a miracle, I just got lucky."

"Lucky or not, some of us really care about you," he follows his statement with the mention of your name, "And we—me, honestly I don't know what I would have done if you got hurt." The heavy weight of the sentiment beneath the surface of those words sits in your chest uncomfortably. Carol's words echo in your mind, but beyond that, there's a wave of nausea that hits you. You always considered John a good colleague and friend, and you'd be lying if you said you'd ever thought of him in any other way.

This is the man who showed you the ropes when you first got transferred here. He's the kind of guy that would get up mid conversation to hold the door open for someone on the other side of the room and the kind of partner that would take a bullet for you—he's done it twice for Lamar. He does have his quirks. Saying things that come off wrong, on bad days being impatiently temperamental, and walking around with the confidence of a man who thinks he's owed attention. Sometimes he's not the best guy, but he's always been a good friend.

You feel like you've been put between a rock and a hard place. Made even worse by what he says next.

"There's actually something I'd like to talk about with you—maybe over dinner or coffee?" There's a hope in his voice that's hard to miss, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole then and there. You've never been put in this position before. How do you stay truthful to how you feel, but not make things awkward or lose a friend?

"John I—I don't… Could we hold this conversation off until I'm done with this case?" You try to buy yourself some time. Hopefully enough to figure out the best way to turn him down.

"You're allowed to live your life outside of here."

"I know, but it wouldn't sit well with me."

John give you a tight smile, like he already knows this is going nowhere, "Okay, I get it. Don't worry about it, okay? Have a good rest of your day." He gets up from his desk and walks off, out the doors and out of sight.

There's a pit at the bottom of your stomach when you watch him walk away. You find yourself getting up from your desk as well. Looking across the room and feeling relief when you notice Carol is at hers. It's almost like she can sense your distress the way her eyes look up from her computer and lock with yours. You beckon her to follow you into the break room and she doesn't hesitate to get up and scurry along to meet you there. And when you tell her what happened with John, her I told you so is as smug as it is jovial.

"Jesus Christ, I cannot believe he finally asked you out and you turned him down like that," she says almost in awe, like she's sorry she missed the interaction.

"Carol, I thought it was clear I don't date divorced men."

"But John's also your friend."

"Yes, my divorced friend."

She tilts her head like she's recalling something, the curiosity in her eyes evident, "Did you say no because of that or because of this secret man you have everyone talking about?"

You do a double take. Surely, you misheard her. "Excuse me, what? I have a secret man that everyone's talking about? What do you mean by everyone?"

She snickers, enjoying how flustered you're getting, "Well, rumor has it you have a boyfriend—a secret lover." Her tone is playful, so you don't know if you can take her serious or not.

"Carol this isn't funny."

"Oh, it's not. I'm the closest friend you have and you didn't tell me that you're seeing someone? I should be offended."

You roll your eyes at her dramatics, "There was nothing to tell you because I don't have a secret boyfriend." You then add with a hint of panic in your voice, "Is this like a big rumor in the bureau?" She shakes her head, "No, I was just teasing you. Lamar told me you were texting someone special." You let out something between a groan and a sigh.

"God, you're the worst."

"Oh, you love me."

You chat with her for another few minutes, but the conversation mainly consists of her teasing you and taking jabs at John. When the laughter quiets, a memory comes back to you.

"By the way, have you tried accessing any of the Hydra or Brooklyn Ripper files recently?" You ask her, recalling her name in the access history. She thinks it over before shaking her head, "I don't think so. My card only works like half the time I try to access any of the Punisher files. Why?"

"It's nothing, it's just your name popped up under the history of those who last accessed the files," you mention and she scoffs sarcastically, "Great, so now my card is glitching out the system. If only Stark weren't such an ass about the budget." You hum in agreement, at ease now that that's cleared up.

"That was a good attempt at changing the subject, but you're not getting away from telling me all about this guy," she looks at you expectantly, like you better not even dream of hiding anything from her.

"There is no guy, he's just my neighbor." Your very handsome neighbor who you're in love with and who you're almost certain returns your feelings. Who's waiting on you patiently for something that can become the greatest thing to ever happen to you, but you're not ready to accept you deserve.

That all seems too complicated to explain, so you'll go with neighbor for now.

"Shut up, there is a guy and I want to hear all about it," Carol is determined to get all the details out of you, but your gossip session is cut short when Special Agent Maria Hill walks into the break room. Seeing as she's Fury's right hand woman you and Carol end your chatter there, heading out of the break room and back to work.

However, the look that Carol gives you lets you know this conversation is far from over.

When you go home that night, there's a tension in the air that's palpable enough to feel it in your fingertips. The kind of unrest that makes you want to reach for your gun and be prepared for anything that might happen next. The wind seems to whisper warnings of what's to come and it travels up your spine, making you shiver.

You find yourself picking up your pace, wanting to enter your apartment with the haste of someone who's being chased. In a moment of deja vu, Bucky opens the door to his apartment when he hears you about to enter yours. Alpine isn't in his arms this time, and there's a grim look on his face that makes your body grow cold.

"Come with me. I need to show you something," the urgency in his voice has you entering his apartment without question. Once you're inside he leads you to his living room, and suggests you take a seat before he talks. Alpine jumps on the coffee table, pacing it like even she can feel there's something wrong.

"There's no easy way of revealing this, so I'll just show you," He hands you a manila envelope, it's outwardly unassuming at a first glance. You take it from him, noticing the way there's nothing written on the outside of it. "Yori ended up getting our mail mixed up again. I found that envelope in my mail pile. There was no name written on it, so Yori probably assumed it was mine. When I went down to ask him who delivered it he couldn't remember, and coincidentally the security cameras were down when it got delivered," Bucky explains as you open the folder, reach inside, and find a multitude of pictures inside.

Pictures of you.

At the grocery store, walking into and out of work, at the coffee shop you love by the bureau, getting food from a delivery driver outside of your building, pictures of your window where you can be seen reading and cooking—all candid pictures of you dating back months ago. Even Bucky can be seen in some of them with you, but they're all mainly of just you.

Someone had been watching your every move for months.

And that someone would most likely be the Brooklyn Ripper.

The blood drains from your face, your stomach churning the more you stare at the photos. You've had moments where you felt like you were being watched, but you brushed it off thinking this case had you unjustifiably paranoid. At first glance, you thought the pictures were taken by someone working for Hydra, but after analyzing the changes in your hair, your clothes, and the environment around you—these pictures go back to over half a year ago. Almost to around the time you were assigned to this case.

"Did you ever notice you were being watched or followed?" Bucky sits next to you on couch, his stance protective, like if he could somehow protect you from this dark reality he'd do it in a heartbeat.

You shake your head, "No, but I should have. I'm trained for stuff like this, I shouldn't have missed all of this. I'm so off my game, I can't believe I let this happen." Your grip on the pictures tightens, and Bucky has to pry them out of your hands. "Don't blame yourself, doll. This guy is a professional fucking creep and he knows how to do this without being caught. I'm trained to notice stuff like this too and I didn't catch it either."

"This picture here," you grab the one that has you and Bucky walking down your home street, "the dress I'm wearing in it is the one I wore to your birthday dinner. That was seven months ago, around the time I was assigned the Brooklyn Ripper case. If he's been watching me this whole time, then why hasn't he done anything?"

Bucky grits his teeth, "Because this is some kind of sick twisted game to him. He kept an eye on you even though he was sure you'd never catch him—but that was before. If he had the guts to send you these pictures now and show his hand like this, that means you're getting close to finding him. This is his way of scaring you off." You like the idea of the killer getting nervous you're onto him, even if it meant having to face being stalked.

"You said the cameras were down when the envelope was delivered?" You repeat, and Bucky grunts in annoyance, "They were compromised. Someone managed to cut the wires at the exact moment the mail is usually delivered. It wasn't a hard fix so I fixed them up for Yori. I even went over and hijacked the cameras from Uncle Lou's restaurant across the street to keep on eye on the windows."

Your lips part, "Bucky, you did not."

He doesn't look one bit ashamed, "I did too. I don't take your safety lightly, doll. Which is why you're staying here tonight."

"I own a gun, Bucky. I'm sure he knows not to get too close," you say to lighten the tension, but in all honesty, you're not against staying here with him tonight.

"Don't make me beg, doll," he regrets those words when he sees your smile widen, giving you a look like it's not the right time to mess with him. Although, he'd prefer to see a smile on your face than anything else, so if you wanted to tease him right now, he won't complain. Even Alpine comes over and jumps on your lap to give you the prettiest eyes that ask you to stay.

Yeah, you weren't saying no to either of them tonight.

You were still shaken up from the pictures when Bucky accompanied you to your apartment to get a few things for the night. You had lost your appetite, so after showering at his place and changing into a comfy pajama set, you were ready to call it a night. Bucky had brewed you an herbal tea before bed to calm your nerves, one he said his mother made him when he was anxious. You discussed how the talk with Fury went over tea, and what the FBI was planning to do with Valentina. Bucky agreed it was a smart move, and mentioned he'd be able to get access into her private files as soon as the FBI obtained her devices.

The weight on your shoulders feels lighter after the tea and the talk with Bucky. A new sense of hope you haven't felt in a long time settles in your chest. Bucky notices you start to blink slower and your yawning gets more frequent, so he tells you to go to bed. You don't resist, sleep is calling your name like a lullaby.

You make your way to the living room, prepared to set up the couch when Bucky stops you. “You're sleeping in my room. I’m taking the couch.” Your eyebrows raise, eyes darting between him and yourself. Out of the two of you, you'd surely be more comfortable on the couch than him. “Bucky, the couch is perfectly fine for me.” 

He points to Alpine, "She’s sleeping with you tonight and she always gets the bed so,” he shrugs like that explains everything. As if on cue, Alpine makes her way over to you and paws at your feet until you pick her up.  

“She’s also—she’s good for nightmares,” Bucky utters quietly and you freeze in your spot. How did he know? You've never told a soul about them, not even Bucky who you trust the most. It was a sore subject for you that stung like an open wound. You rarely had nightmares before, but they became more frequent after seeing the first victim you worked on for the Brooklyn Ripper case back in May. What you've seen since then stays with you even in your sleep.

"I get them too, sometimes. I can tell," he whispers, reading your mind all too well and sharing another piece of himself he finds he doesn't fear giving to you. You appreciate him sharing this with you, this shared vulnerability that establishes a gentle solidarity between you on the subject. “Thank you, Bucky," you reply softly, holding Alpine a little closer to your chest, like hugging her could fix a part of you that you don't acknowledge as broken. You follow up with a small goodnight which he returns. Parting from each other reluctantly, with neither of you voicing the one word that could bring you back together.

You enter his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so Alpine can go in and out easily. You lay her on the bed gently, the moonlight coming in through the blinds casts a soft light in the room as you settle in the bed. His sheets smell of lavender detergent and something uniquely him. The scent wrapping around you like it were the blanket itself.

You close your eyes, in the darkness, the last thing you feel before falling asleep is Alpine cuddling into your side. You always seem to get a better nights sleep when Bucky is around, so hopefully tonight is no different.

Bucky was right about one thing, Alpine is good for nightmares. Minutes into falling asleep you fall into a deep slumber. One that seems will not be interrupted by any bad dreams tonight.

Alpine is, however, not good for things that go bump in the night.

It was around three in the morning when you first heard it. A loud crash in the room on the other side of the wall of Bucky's bedroom. The noise startles you awake. You sit up in bed, your heart hammering in your chest. You wonder if you hallucinated the sound, simply paranoid after the stalking revelation. Poor Alpine had jumped on the other side of the bed when you woke up so abruptly. You're about to reach out for her to comfort her when you hear something else.

A heavy continuous thump on the other side of the wall that might be footsteps, and then a rustling you can't tell what it is. The goosebumps that cover your skin happen at the realization that the room on the other side of this wall is your bedroom.

The Brooklyn Ripper is in your bedroom.

On any other day you might have believed what you heard to be a random break in. But after those pictures you received, there's no doubt in your mind who's in your apartment right now.

If you can hear him, then that means he can hear you. You're careful when getting out of bed, every step you take is as light as possible as you exit the bedroom. You open the door just enough where you can slip through. Your gun is in the duffel bag you left at the foot of Bucky's couch earlier in the night. You have to get to it, this is the closest you ever have been to catching the killer.

Through the warm glow from the lamp Bucky left on in the living room, you see him sprawled across the couch, snoring lightly in his sleep. He's shirtless, muscular chest on display with only his dog tags decorating it. The blanket messily strewn over himself barley covers the way his gray sweatpants are riding lower in his sleep.

Focus, there's a killer in your room.

As you step closer to the couch, the floor board creaks beneath you and his eyes shoot open. They take a second to adjust in the darkness before they land on you, squinting at you quizzically.

“I think the killer is in my room,” you whisper loud enough for Bucky to hear, his expression hardening. You reach for your bag, grabbing your gun and pulling it out while Bucky gets up from his couch. He's quick on his feet, grabbing his own gun from a safety box in the broom closet in his hallway. He prefers to act first, ask questions later.

You join him in the hallway, "I thought I was hearing things at first, but then there were more noises on the other side of wall," you whisper, grabbing Bucky's arm and leading him into his bedroom. You're both careful to not make the floor creak the closer you get to the wall. Alpine is gone from the room, and it's dead silent inside. Your ears strain to pick up any sound on the other side and after a few breaths of silence you hear it, the rustling is back.

Bucky wasn't kidding when he claimed the walls were thin.

You both leave his room with minimal sound. Back in the hallway you whisper, "We have to get in there, Bucky. This could be our chance to catch him." He firmly nods, "Alright, but only if we stick together. We don't know what we'll find when we get in there or what kind of weapons this guy has."

You agree, shuffling over to your duffel bag to grab your keys, taking off the one for your apartment off the ring, to avoid the extra noise. Careful with every step you take, you make it out into the hallway. You hope none of your neighbors are awake to step out and see you and Bucky with your guns drawn, you don't know how you would explain your way out of it without alarming anyone.

Bucky is right behind you when you put your ear up to your door. You listen in for a few seconds, but when you're met with silence you put the key in the lock and open the door. The lights are off just like you left them. The moonlight filtering in through the windows gives you enough light to make out your surroundings. Bucky closes the door behind you quietly, stepping forward first, his military training coming in handy making his steps featherlight.

You're one step behind him, covering his back. Your hands are outstretched with your gun at the ready, eyes darting around your home for any sign of danger. Your one bedroom apartment is small enough that there's not much space you have to clear before heading over to your bedroom.

You're both up against the door, staring at each other while you wait for a sign that the killer is still there. The silence stretches for what seems like forever, until you can't take it anymore and nod at Bucky to know you're ready to head inside. He counts to three on his fingers before you both barge in to the room.

"FBI! Show yourself!" You identify yourself, flipping the switch on your tactical light on your gun to see your surroundings better. Your window is wide open, the small plotted plants you had on your windowsill knocked over and broken on the floor. Your entire room is covered in bright orange flyers—there must be about a hundred of them, crinkling again the ground with every step taken.

Regrettably, you receive no response. Whoever broke in is now gone.

You curse under your breath while checking your closet, but the killer is not in there. You step towards your window, swearing you had it locked shut before you left for work in the morning. You don't see anyone out on the street, but he could be hiding somewhere in the shadows.

He could even be watching you right now.

You shut your window, locking it a few times before you're certain it stays. You close the curtains and turn around to look at the haphazardly thrown flyers covering every inch of your bed and floor. Bucky has one is his hand, scowling at it like he can't figure out what it means.

You pick one up at your feet. It looks exactly the same as the one on the pizza box from last week. The only difference is that this one has a bright red circle on the date, October 25th. You shine the light from your gun on the flyers, they all have that date circled.

Why would the killer go through all that effort to do this?

Bucky grabs a handful of the flyers catching your attention. He puts a finger to his lips as a warning to keep quiet, before tapping on his ear and you put two and two together. The killer had been in your room long enough to plant these flyers and maybe something else. He could've planted something in here to listen in or keep watch.

The chill that runs through you has nothing to do with icy floor beneath your bare feet.

After another quick check you leave your apartment and head next door to his. He turns on the big light to get a better look at the flyer while you put away your gun.

"First thing in the morning I'll check your entire apartment to make sure that creep didn't plant any bugs or cameras," he promises, assuring you the killer won't get to have anymore access to you. You nod along, but all you can think about is what would have happened if you hadn't stayed at Bucky's place tonight.

"Do you know why he would leave dozens of these in your room? What is it for?" He asks, holding up the flyer. You blink at it, "I don't. It's a flyer for the autumn carnival they host in Queens." That only causes more confusion to appear on Bucky's face, "Have you mentioned wanting to go to someone?" You shake your head, "No, not that I can think of. The only time I've ever seen that flyer was when I was talking to John and Lamar the night the last victim was killed."

"You had this conversation at work?"

"Yes."

Bucky glances at the coffee table where your phone lies. He strides over to it and powers it off. "This guy has been watching you for months. He might have tapped your phone and your devices at work. I'll check your phone in the morning too and see if its been compromised." You're feeling sicker by the minute.

"He's starting to escalate, sending the pictures and then breaking into my room. He must have figured out I wasn't there tonight and that's why he left all those flyers instead," you conclude based on everything so far. Bucky's hand balls into a fist when he thinks of what could've happened if he hadn't offered for you to stay here tonight. It's not a thought he wants to dwell on when you're standing here with him, safe.

"You're close to getting him," he motions to the flyer in your hands, "he circled the twenty fifth. I have a feeling he'll be there that day, and he wants you to be there too." You came to the same conclusion. The Brooklyn Ripper wouldn't exert all this effort for nothing. It was clear he was inviting you on some sick twisted kind of date, one to end things once and for all.

For you or him.

"If that's what he wants then that's what he'll get. I'm sick of this guy and I'm ready to put an end to this." Nothing would stop you from being there on Saturday.

"You'll want to send in back up to monitor the entire perimeter. Maybe even an undercover operation on a larger scale," Bucky suggests, but you shoot that idea down instantly, "No. The FBI can't find out about this."

"Why?"

You gnaw on the inside of your lip, "There's been something nagging at me from the moment I saw those photos. Especially the one from the day of your birthday dinner," you walk over to the TV stand, the photos from the envelope are neatly stacked in one pile on top of it. You look through them, finding the one you're looking for and then handing it to Bucky.

"This picture is from March. The only people who knew I was assigned to this case were part of the FBI. The public knew the FBI took over the case, but only the agents at the bureau knew me and Laura had been assigned to it." Bucky takes the picture from your hand and goes down the same line of thought you have, "Then the killer might be working for the FBI. That would explain why he's so well at covering up evidence, and why he always seems to be five steps ahead of everything."

"I'll have to do this off the record without FBI involvement. At this point, I have to assume anyone at the bureau could be a suspect—even Fury," thinking about one of your colleagues being the killer makes your heart sink all the way to the bottom of your stomach. The way you could have passed them through the halls or had small talk with them in the break room, all meanwhile they were planning their next kill. Any innocent inquiry of your day or about the case could have been their way of taunting you. It was a hard pill to swallow.

"Then, I'll be going with you. You'll need the backup," he states, crossing his arms like he's ready to hear you protest, but you give him none. Instead, you give him a condition, "Only if you promise me you'll run if at any point your identity could be compromised." Catching the Brooklyn Ripper was important, but not worth jeopardizing Bucky's entire life over.

He takes a step closer to you, if he reached out he could touch you, "Not if it's between choosing saving my ass or yours. I'm choosing you every time."

"James."

"No," he echos your name like you did his, "If I get caught then let me face the consequences of my own decisions. I'm choosing to help you. I'm choosing to be there. It's my choice." His stance on this is unwavering and your voice comes out quieter than you wanted to when you reply, "I'm asking you to promise because I care about your safety too. I won't let this monster take away something else from me or anyone else. He's taken enough."

His eyes soften, and he takes another step to shorten the space between you. Yours instinctively rest on his chest, while his right hand raises to cup your face, "I know, doll, but that's something I can't promise, I'm sorry." You sigh, your head falling to his chest, the heat of his skin warming your own.

"Sometimes you can be really stubborn and it's frustrating."

He chuckles, "I can be stubborn? Have you met yourself?" Your reply is a pinch to his hip causing him to laugh again, "Someone's grouchy when they're tired. Go back to bed, doll. We can continue this conversation tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight," you're about to dismiss yourself, finding yourself annoyed at him, but he stops you by gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you into him so you're close enough for him to plant a soft kiss on your head.

"Goodnight."

You're able to sleep just fine the rest of the night.

The next morning, Bucky checks every corner of your apartment, and fortunately finds the Brooklyn Ripper didn't plant anything anywhere. He cleans the mess the killer left behind, changing the lock on your bedroom window, and making a mental note to buy you new pots to replace the shattered ones. In the meantime, he salvaged what he could and gave the plants temporary homes in plastic cups.

Bucky had also scanned your phone and found it wasn't tapped, furthering the theory that the killer is one of your colleagues. You checked in on Laura while Bucky was busy in your apartment, feeling guilty you had forgotten about her this past week. As discreetly as you could, you tried to pry and figure out if she had received anything interesting in the mail too. You were relieved to find out it seemed the Brooklyn Ripper had only been after you this whole time.

Now you were busy preparing pancake batter for breakfast. Bucky came back by the time you were starting on your first pancake.

Bucky had to take a second when he saw you in his kitchen, morning sunlight highlighting your features to make you shine like an angel. You looked peaceful, happy for once like the weight of the world wasn't on your shoulders.

He'd do anything to keep you like that.

When you notice him, your face lights up making his heart stutter in his chest. You call him over and you fall into easy conversation as he steps in to make some scrambled eggs beside you. The case eventually gets brought up. and Bucky asks you if there's anyone at the FBI you suspect.

"I can't really think of anyone. But there is this one weird guy in the tech department, Quentin Beck," your nose scrunches in disgust when you think of the guy, "He's known to be sleazy, always trying to get women drunk at office events to get them to sleep with him, and now that you mention it, my friend Carol, her access ID stopped working half the time, and the system recorded her ID accessing some files she hadn't."

Bucky stirs the eggs in the pan, "The magnetic stripe on the card could've been messed with. Someone like him would know how to duplicate her card." The idea of the killer being one of your coworkers solidifies itself more and more, getting harder to stomach every time. Bucky can see the shift in your demeanor, so he decides to change the subject.

"You know what this reminds me of?" he says softly, reaching in to the cupboards to grab another pan to start on the bacon.

"Hm?"

"To the day we first met."

You look down at the bubbling pancake and laugh, "That's right. When Alpine snuck into my apartment through the window and scared the living hell out of me. She caused me to burn a perfectly good pancake.

He scoffs, "She did not. She's innocent."

As if knowing she's being talked about, Alpine meows in the distance like she agrees with Bucky. You shake your head at both of them, "She is not! She even caused the fire alarm to go off. You were so grumpy when I told you what she had done."

"That's because you woke me up almost knocking my door down the way you we're banging on it," he justifies his attitude back then, remembering with a smirk, how flustered you were that day when he opened his door in only his boxers. In his defense, he really had just woken up.

"Now you're just exaggerating."

"I'm pretty sure there's still a dent on the door from that day."

You both laugh at his teasing. The memory of that day now fresh in your minds like it happened yesterday. When the laughter dies down to a comfortable silence, you can't seem to look away from each other. A fondness in both your expressions that makes time stand still. He leans into your space and your heart skips a beat. Your eyes fall to his lips for a split second and he notices. The corner of his lips tug into something coy—something magnetic—and when his arm reaches around you, you think you know what's about to happen next.

He uses his wooden spoon to turn the half burnt pancake in the pan.

"Try not to burn these pancakes too, doll," he winks at you, grinning cheekily like he knows exactly what he's doing. You gawk at him as he takes a piece of cooked bacon and eats it, continuing as normal. Even when his expression gave away just how much he was enjoying this.

Bucky will kiss you eventually. This isn't the frist time he's held back from doing so, but he knows the first kiss between you has to come from you. You haven't been as forward as he has with affection, and he doesn't want to push you into anything you're not ready for. So, he'll patiently wait for your move, and when you make it—he'll stop holding back and show you the kind of passion they write about in books.

The rest of the morning into the following days are filled with small moments of normalcy stuffed between extensive hours of planning, prepping, and collecting all the evidence of the case into one new theory. The one involving one of your colleagues being the killer. You end up having to lie to Fury and call into work sick with the flu to give you extra time to prepare for Saturday.

Fury is upset about this as he wanted you to be in there with him to question Valentina, but he wishes you a quick recovery. When they manage to get her on Friday over a parking ticket violation, John and Lamar are the ones to question her. And to no ones surprise, she lawyers up as soon as she's in police custody.

Her counsel? Alexander Pierce.

Fury is not happy about that at all.

The envelop filed pictures, and apartment break in proved to be a better lead than Valentina could have provided anyway, so you aren't mourning the loss of that lead.

In addition, there's one thing that Bucky discovered before Saturday comes that will prove to be crucial for Saturday's showdown.

He reviewed the security footage from Uncle Lou's restaurant from the night of the break in. The suspect was covered in a black outfit from head to toe—gloves and all—so Bucky wasn't able to get a good look at him. However, what he did catch was the suspect getting injured on his way down. As he raced down the fire escape, the drop down ladder got stuck, causing him to have to jump down to get away. The distance itself wasn't high enough to cause a serious injury, but it was high enough that he had to be careful with his landing.

Fortunately for you, he wasn't. It's clear from the security footage he doesn't make the landing right, and slips on his way down putting the most pressure on his right knee and shoulder to break his fall. When he gets up to leave, he clutches his shoulder and there's a limp when he attempts to run. The injuries are severe enough that they won't be healed by Saturday.

This discovery might have just saved your lives.

You hope the next time you go to an autumn carnival is under better circumstances than today. The sun is well past the horizon, with the full moon taking it's place in the sky. There's colorful fairy lights strung to illuminate every path, although the multicolored lights from the rides are enough to light up the entire carnival with its festive glow. Children's laughter blends in with attendee's screams of thrill that invite you to come in and see what the fun is all about.

You and Bucky are dressed in your average fall attire to blend in. To everyone else you look like a couple on a date. However, on the inside of your leather jacket you had your gun and badge neatly tucked into a pocket. As for Bucky's leather jacket, who knows what's hiding in it. Even after all this time, you don't know the White Wolf's preferred method of weaponry.

Your first plan of action is to roam the grounds, scan the place, and get familiar with it. Just enough to locate and block out the different sections: food, games, and rides.

Starting at the entrance, you are greeted by rows of booths with carnival games and smaller rides that taper out to the bigger ones on the outskirts of the carnival. In the middle is a large red and white striped tent with magician and clown shows playing at every hour. And at the very far end is a large family area filled with picnic tables to sit at by a large wall of food trucks and stations with endless amount of choices for food to pick from. All in all, the festival was large, but nicely organized in a way that you and Bucky could make a mental map of it the first time walking around.

Sometimes you thought you caught a glimpse of someone you recognized from work, falsely placing the association on a random stranger if you didn't look close enough. To say you were on edge is an understatement. Meanwhile, Bucky seems to be more composed than you. Even stopping to buy some cotton candy from one of the vendors. He offers to buy you one, but you decline, so Bucky resolves to sharing.

He looks like a kid with the boyish grin he's wearing as he takes a bite of the pink sugary fluff. "You sure are enjoying yourself," you tease him with mirth. He hums pleasantly at the taste, not hiding his delight.

"I'm blending in."

"Right."

"You should try it," he tears away another bit of fluff before offering some to you. You can't remember the last time you had cotton candy, so decide to take a page out of Bucky's book and enjoy yourself for a bit. You pull at the sticky treat, getting a nice little ball of fluff to try. The sugar strands melt in your mouth as soon as it hits your tongue.

"Good right?"

"It's pure sugar, Bucky. Of course its good," you giggle, and Bucky's grin only widens with your response. You're on the second round of walking through the carnival grounds, sharing the fluffy treat when Bucky spots you looking at some of the prizes offered in the carnival games.

"You want one?" He points to the prizes.

"A prize? No, they're like impossible to get. All those games are rigged." You don't think it's worth the money while Bucky looks at you like you've challenged him, "Nothing's impossible when you've got the right skills. Tell me which one you want and I'll get it." You don't take him seriously until he stops walking and waits for you to choose one.

So you stop and look around, there's your generic animal plush prizes, the franchise licensed ones, the ones that cater to kids, and the autumnal themed ones. You skim through them, only one of them catching your eye.

"The bat," you point to it, a plush prize for one of those balloon dart games.

He looks to where you're pointing, "The bat? The one with the grumpy face? You sure?"

"Yeah, it's cute, looks like you," at your comparison, Bucky's face falls and you can't help but laugh. He looks even more like the bat now.

"See, you've got the same expression and everything."

Bucky grumbles something under his breath about how there's no way you just described him being as cute as a bat. He honestly doesn't know if he should be offended or flattered.

You both head over to the game stall. He hands you the almost fully eaten cotton candy treat while he tells the game operator he'd like to play and points to the bat as the prize he wants to win. The operator explains to win the bat, Bucky has to at least pop two balloons in a row. While you do have faith that Bucky is excellent with his aim, you have no faith that this game is set up fairly.

And yet, you should never underestimate a man on a mission. Bucky is handed two darts and throws them back to back, popping two balloons in a row leaving the operator stunned. He gives the bat to Bucky and Bucky hands it to you proudly.

You hold it like it's something precious, the polyester smooth to the touch. No one's ever won you anything before. "I can't believe how fast you won that. Even the operator was shocked," you comment, squishing the bats face over how cute it is. He shrugs like it was nothing, adoring the joy it's brought to you, "Would never want to disappoint you, sweetheart."

Your heart does a little flutter at the term of endearment. As a thank you, you plant a quick, but sweet kiss on his cheek. "Thanks, Buck." You don't miss the way his ears tinge pink, and he smiles at you like you're the only reason for his happiness, "Anytime, doll."

You take his hand, leading him down the rows of carnival games to keep looking around. Every step you take is a little lighter, almost forgetting why you were here in the first place.

By the time you make it back to the family area, Bucky excuses himself to take head to the bathroom quickly. You agree to wait for him by the funnel cake stand while you scan the area for something to eat. When Bucky is out of your sight, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

Someone's watching you.

You examine the droves of people around you, no one seems familiar to you, but you know you're not being paranoid, someone is definitely watching you. And they waited for you to be alone to make themselves known. It's not until your eyes dart back to the entrance of the family area that you spot him. Your first instinct is to smile at him, and you're about to wave him over, but something stops you.

He's not smiling back.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes rake over your body like he's trying to get one last good look at you.

And most chilling of all? When he turns to leave there's a limp to his step that confirms your worst fears.

It's John Walker. He's the Brooklyn Ripper.

In your state of shock, you lose him in the crowd.

Your feet move before you can reconsider your actions. It shouldn't make sense—John being a cold blood killer—it shouldn't, and yet it does. As you push through the crowd of people to catch up to him, all that races through your mind are the pieces of evidence connecting themselves to each other with red threads.

Carol's card, Hydra's connections, his dates that always seems to go bad, the many times he insisted helping you with the case, the frequent check ins to make sure you were doing okay really being excuses to see what you knew about the case, and the way he got upset when you found out about Valentina. Logically, it makes sense, but your heart is lagging behind on reconciling the reality that a friend of yours—someone you would have trusted with your life—was the killer you were searching for all along.

Your head whips around frantically as you try to locate John. Some of the people around you look at you strangely, you must look like such a sight right now.

Should you call Fury? Carol? Should you warn them? Calling in backup means surrounding this place with law enforcement and putting Bucky at risk. That might have to be on the back burner until there was no other choice. To accuse John of being the Brooklyn Ripper requires solid proof, and right now you have none. And it's not like you won much merit with Fury after disappointing him so many times.

Plus, you still don't have a lot of answers like his motive, why the first three victims were different, or what caused him to break. John was in the military before being recruited to the FBI, so he does fits some of the profile, but the rest? The rest are pieces of a puzzle you don't even know if they fit.

By the time you get out of the crowd you worry you've lost him, but the rambunctious shriek of clown laughter catches your attention. You manage to catch John heading inside a funhouse while the teenager who runs it yells at him. John has already made his way in by the time you make it to the clown head entrance.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you can't cut the line and you can't go in there right now." The teenager who is most likely not getting paid enough to deal with as many problems as he has tonight, stops you from going in. You reach into your jacket, taking out your badge and it flashing to him. He looks like a fish out of water.

You glance at the name on his tag, "Peter, is there anyone else in that funhouse besides the man that just walked in?" He shakes his head adamantly, "No ma'am. I'm not supposed to let anyone in while it's not fully operational. One of the generators went out, so no ones allowed inside until maintence is done fixing it." You're relieved to hear it'll only be John waiting for you inside.

"Okay, listen here, kid," he straightens up at your words, "The man that just went in there? He's a possible suspect, so I'll be going in to arrest him. How long does this funhouse take to get through?" Peter has an answer right away, "Twenty to thirty minutes depending on how fast you go."

You nod, making a mental note of that while reaching into one of your pockets and taking out your business card. "If I don't come out in twenty, you call this number," you point to the number below yours, the FBI tip line, "You give them my name and you tell them I need backup urgently. And absolutely under no circumstance do you let anyone go into this place, do you hear me?" He takes your card with a shaky hand, "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh and kid," you give him the grumpy bat Bucky won for you, "hold onto this for me. You guard this bat with everything you got or so help me I'll lock you up myself." Peter's eyes go wide in fear, "Yes ma'am—of course, ma'am." He hugs the bat so tightly to his body it's like he's trying to make it a part of him.

You face the funhouse, looking up at the enormous clown head, it's mouth an open wide entrance. Never having been inside a funhouse before, you have no idea what awaits you.

You step inside, pulling out your gun in perfect position as you walk forward. The clown's mouth leads to a neon spinning tunnel. The glow and the dark green swirls contrast with the blues and purples. They spin round and round, encircling you with the intention of making you dizzy as you walk across a metal platform. Peter mentioned there was only one generator out, so you had to hope which ever ones were fine powered enough things inside to help you get through the funhouse and catch John.

You have no idea how far in he is already, so you push onward. Switching on the tactical light on your gun to light your surroundings better. You're halfway through the metal platform when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know who it is, you know it's Bucky, but you don't have the time for a call. John could be watching you right now. So instead, you quickly take out your phone—ignoring the five texts Bucky sent you prior to calling you—and you send him your live location. He'll be able to find you in no time.

The tunnel isn't hard to get through, and it takes about a minute to complete. The end of it is the start of a mirror maze that seems to have been impacted by the power source. It shuffles through solids colors sporadically—some lasting longer than others. And unlike the tunnel, there's carnival music being played, but it's faint, like someone forgot to turn up the volume.

Your light glares distractingly against the mirrors, so you turn it off before heading in. The strip of lights on the ground are red, your figure reflecting on a myriad of prisms. In the distance there's something that's akin to a chorus of laughter, but you're not sure.

You keep your arms outstretched, using the barrel of your gun to tap on the space in front of you as you navigate the maze. You swipe your legs strategically to feel for what path to take. And it's in the midst of the lights changing from red to purple that you hear someone call out your name.

You whirl in the direction of the sound and three reflections of John stare back at you. You point your gun on them, but you can't tell which one is the real one. He disappears before you can find out.

"John!" You yell out, picking up your pace and accidentally bumping into a wall, "Tell me it's not true. Tell me you're not who I think you are!" You're demanding answers. Not from the killer, but from the man you thought was your friend.

The lights switch to blue.

"You know who I am. You've known me long enough to know." His voice sounds like it's somewhere to your left. You can't rely on your sight in here, so you'll have to rely on getting him to talk to follow his voice.

You bump into another wall, but you brush it off quickly. "I thought I did! A part of me still doesn't think it's true, but tell me John, how did you injure your foot?"

There's a loud metallic clink that echoes to your right—or was it your left?

"You're asking me, but you sound like you already know how," he sounds closer, the lights flashing to green, then yellow, then back to red in a matter of seconds. It's jarring.

"Do I?" Do you?

"You do," there's a sinister undertone to his words that you can't mistake for anything else. John is showing you his true colors and it's hitting you like a slap to the face.

You grow frustrated, whether it's at yourself for not seeing what was right in front of you or at him for betraying your trust, you can't tell. It's probably both.

"But why? How could you do that? Those women didn't deserve it!"

"They did! Those bitches got what they deserved and so will you!" The malice in his shout startles you as much as the crash following it does. It's easy to locate the source, one of the mirror panels was shattered with bits of glass all over the floor. In his anger, he must have punched it, there's a blood smear on the area of impact. That's good. The more he injures himself, the easier it'll be to take him down. You're not military trained like he is, so you'll take any advantage you can get.

The exit to the mirror maze is up ahead, the laughter getting louder the closer you get to it. Past the mirror maze is a room that looks straight out of a clown horror movie. There are big sacks of what looks like cotton candy, swinging back and forth forcibly like it's purpose were to knock you into the wall. They're sticky to the touch, and hung randomly from the ceiling like they were a maze of their own.

If that wasn't enough, there was a constant strobe light illuminating the room in harsh flashes while carnival music blasted in your ears with hounding waves of clown laughter. The room was designed to be disorienting and overstimulating, and you were feeling that and more right now.

You move throughout the room as best as you can, trying to doge every swinging obstacle, but still managing to get hit a few times. You can't tell if John is still in the room with you, so there's an extra edge of fear to every movement you see in the corner of your eyes.

Toward the end, the big puffs of cotton candy stubbornly stick to your body like they're trying to drag you back into the room. The music and laughter seem to be getting louder and the flashes of light more bold and frequent—it's throwing you every which way—you're losing your sense of direction.

When you step into the next room, you are welcomed by darkness. Your eyes are having a hard time adjusting after being battered by lights, the ghosts of them lingering behind your eyelids with every blink. The laughter and music are now faint and blocked out by the partition separating the rooms. It's so silent, the ringing in your ears is the loudest thing in here.

You switch the tactical light on your gun back on, the spotlight reveals a sight that has you grateful you didn't step further into the room.

The entire floor is a ball pit.

From up above you can't tell how deep it goes, but it's at least twenty to forty feet long—about your average pool size—or at least that's what your scattered mind comes up with. It's like a giant rainbow sea, one big enough to hide a man like John inside, and you have a gut feeling that while you were navigating the previous room, he hid somewhere in here—ready to catch you off guard.

You crouch down, slowly making your way inside the ball pit—feet first—knowing you had no choice but to go through it. Whatever twisted game John was playing with you, he was clearly enjoying. He couldn't outrun you and he has too many injuries to take you down as easily as he's used to with his previous victims. He needed to give himself the element of surprise to get the upper hand on you.

The light on your gun reflects off the obnoxious yellow colored walls surrounding the ball pit. You submerge yourself all the way in, the plastic balls surprisingly icy to the touch and coming up all the way to just below your chest.

As if the light wasn't enough for him to know your exact location, you couldn't take a step in the pit without making noise. There was no way you could navigate your way through this quietly. So you needed to do something to make him reveal his location, to make him slip and take away the advantage he has right now.

You swipe at the colorful balls at the surface, they bounce off each other like waves and land somewhere a couple feet ahead of you. You scan the pit with your light, eyes focusing hard on the slightest movement, but you get nothing.

You're going to have to do something riskier like provoke him. John was never good at taking criticism, and if you go at him hard then maybe that would be enough to rattle him and reveal himself.

You take a step forward, firmly gripping your gun, "You know, I didn't believe it at first, but the more I think about it the more it makes sense. You don't have many friends at the bureau, and even the ones you do don't like you. Carol always thought you were pathetic loser for never getting past the first date with someone. She was right."

Another step in the pit, another moment of silence.

"Is that why you killed them? Because they didn't give you enough attention?" you spit out the question, another harsh swipe of the plastic toys.

Nothing.

"You couldn't keep a date, so you had to make it everyone's problem? Not man enough to keep a woman by your side, are you?" you taunt him, but it's clearly not enough. You have to hit him somewhere it really hurts.

A few more steps in, you're getting nearer to the halfway point, "And to think you have a son," you scoff, "What is he going to think, John? What will he say when he's old enough to know about all of this and realizes his dad wasn't the hero he claimed to be—just some dead beat fucking loser?"

You think you hear a heavy exhale, but it was too quick and quiet, you honestly could have imagined it. Or maybe it was your own breathing that seems to get heavier by the minute.

Another scan with your flashlight, another step, "With such a poor excuse of a father and man that you are—no wonder Olivia divorced you."

That right there hit a nerve. Everything after you said that happened fast, like if you had blinked in that moment you would have missed it.

There was a slight rustle, a shift in the ball pit to the right of you. You whip your gun in that direction, the light barley catching his eyes from where he was hidden underneath. That slight glint in them visible from where you stood, was the last thing you saw before you felt your feet being swiped from under you.

You're being pulled down into the pit, hands scrambling to get a steady grip on something to pull you up from drowning. In the midst of being pulled you drop your gun, its location visible to you only by the light on it. You don't have time to panic, you push your way through the pit, swiping furiously to get to your gun. Then you feel John's hand grab your ankle and pull you harshly to drag you towards him. You kick back, but he's able to get you close enough to hook an arm around your waist. You kick and elbow him blindly, your lack of visibility affecting you in this moment.

You know his M.O., he'll be aiming for your neck.

You can't let him get that final grip or it's all over.

If there's one thing you're not about to do, is go down easily. You thrash harshly in his hold, ignoring any strain it causes on your body, only focusing on how it detriments him. You recall the locations of his injuries, and try your best to aim your attacks there, but you miss more than you'd like in the dark.

"You think you know everything don't you?" he grunts, scrambling to get a good grip with his injured hand, "A goody two shoes pretentious know it all, who's really just a good for nothing agent that couldn't tell her killer was sitting right next to her every day," his cold ridicule unfurls an insecurity in you like taking off the bandage on an unhealed wound. "I didn't even have to try that hard to gain your trust. Practically offering it to me on a silver platter just because I was fucking nice to you. You want pathetic? Honey, I'm looking at it," he snarls into your ear, shaking you, and it's enough to get you to lash out at him, your anger fueled. You grab a few balls from the pit, twisting in his hold to shove them in his face. They're plastic, so they won't do much damage, but it's enough to disorient him for a moment.

You use that moment to land a proper punch to his face. Unfortunately, it wasn't with your dominant hand, so it's not as powerful and you'll definitely be feeling it later, but it does the job. He barks out a curse, head thrown back and grip loosening slightly. You don't let him catch his breath, almost instantly after, taking as much force as you can muster to side kick him in his injured knee.

The pain knocks the wind out of him and he cries out, no longer being able to properly hold you. You push him forcibly, scrambling to locate your gun and lunging at it when you do. But he only takes a fraction of what you thought to recover, nails scraping at your shoe while you try to kick him off, throwing waves of the balls around you at him like it were water. He uses his good foot and shoulder to propel himself forward practically pouncing on you. You swipe at his face, but he gets a good grip on your hair, good enough to pull you up with him.

You cry out at the pain and in a matter of seconds, his right arm wraps around your neck, his elbow under your chin. His other hand cradles the back of your head, your entire life in his hands. Your hands shoot up to grab him arm and tug at his jacket, but he gives your neck a light squeeze as a warning for you to behave. You go still.

"You have been a pain in my ass since you started to go off script with this case," he grits in your ear, causing you to shiver. "You weren't supposed to do that, darling. You were always a good girl, followed the rules, did everything by the book before you got transferred—what changed?"

You're shaking, both out of ire and fear and he can feel it, his left hand petting your hair in his sick attempt to calm you , "It was never supposed to go down like this. As long as you were kept in the dark you were safe. When Fury connected the cases I thought I could finally pin this on one of those Hydra bastards once and for all now that I would know your every move."

He pulls in his elbow, tightening the grip on your neck for a second to cut off your blood flow. He lets go, laughing sardonically—he's toying with you—relishing the power he holds.

"You know, that Hydra case was supposed to be my big chance at a promotion. The kind that would get my wife to stop bitching about our finances. I worked my ass off for my wife and kid. I stayed back for longer shifts, putting in more hours in the field than any other agent. I did all the shit no one else wanted to, and for what? No matter what I did, it was never good enough." The hollowness in his voice speaks of years of this hatred building up in his heart.

"John, this isn't—" he doesn't let you finish, the hand that was cradling the back of your head now being slapped over your mouth. "You got your chance to talk honey, it's my turn."

He shakes his head, "You're all the same. Never appreciating me, never letting me get a word in," he goes off like a mad man, like he's lost it—letting out what's always been within. "Not my wife, handing me divorce papers on my fucking birthday. Not Valentina's pretentious girls who always charge extra for mediocre shit. Not Fury who calls me in at any goddamn hour because I'm so reliable, but can't even give me a pay raise. And not you, sabotaging my plan to connect the cases so that Hydra went down for it all and I'd finally get the promotion I'm owed. But that's okay, I'll use your death to bury the truth. When I tell Fury one of Hydra's lackeys killed you, and I witnessed it all bravely trying to save you, I'll get the recognition I deserve, " He says that last part with a heated hatred for you. For ruining the one and only chance he had to fulfill his purpose. And yet, being the one thing that can save it.

He's seething, you can practically feel the heat of his anger roll off of him in droves into you. His grip around your neck tightens and you let out a strangled gasp. You think this is it, he's finally going to do it. But he either backs out or something else happens, because he doesn't get to hold you long before you're falling forward into the pit.

The balls break your fall somewhat, and you're stumbling to get a grip on what's going on. You register John crying out, a bit of groans, and the sound the plastic clashing from flying everywhere from an obvious struggle. You don't know what's going, but the light coming from your gun gives you something to focus on. You crawl your way to it, feeling relieved to finally have it back in your hands. With shaky footing, you stand up, gun pointed to the struggle, and you could start crying at the sight of your savior.

It's Bucky. The bottom half of his face is covered by a black tactical mask, but you know those eyes anywhere. Neither of them are getting many hits in, but they're also not going completely unscathed either. Bucky seems to be wrangling John in like he's some wild animal losing control, while John scrambles to get rid of whoever is in his way. He might be injured, but he's still putting up a fight.

Their struggle is a blur and you can't get a clear hit to John without getting Bucky caught in it too. Your mind races on what your next move should be when suddenly, something shiny reflects in John's left hand. It's a knife, most likely the one he's used on every single victim and your heart sinks at the sight of it. You know he intends to use it on Bucky, so you have to act fast before it's too late. Thinking on your feet, you shoot a round at the wall that causes them both to stop at the sound. You take that opening to shoot John in his injured shoulder. He wails out a curse before falling backward into the pit. You ease knowing he won't be able to get out of here on his own.

The gunshots still ring in your ears, but you don't care, you're already trudging over to Bucky when John is out of sight. He does the same, rushing over to you like his life depends on it. You practically throw yourself on him in an embrace, and Bucky holds you so tightly you doubt he'll ever let go again.

"I told you not to do this again, doll. You had me thinking the worst," his voice is muffled by the mask, but you can hear the anguish in it. You start tearing up, your entire being finally catching up to what just went down. "I know, I'm sorry. He just appeared out of nowhere and I felt like if I didn't act right away I'd lose him."

The lights in the room turn back on, and you have to blink a few times to adjust to the difference. You both inspect each other at the same time in the light, desperate to find out if the other is okay. Bucky pretty much looks unscathed, but his eyes harden when he notices the redness and swelling on your hand from when you punched John.

"So that piece of shit, he's been the Brooklyn Ripper this whole time?" He says it like he's sorry he missed it. Like if he knew he would've gotten rid of John a long time ago for you.

He knew he never liked the guy for a reason.

"Yeah, he was, and I…I mean it's—it's all over," your energy depletes as the adrenaline starts to wear off. A hint of the pain that's coming your way from exerting yourself in the fight starts to show itself. You fall into his embrace again like it's the only thing you need right now to keep you from falling apart. He can feel the way you sag against him, and it makes him wish he would've gotten here sooner.

Your reunion is sadly cut short when the music is shut off from every room in the funhouse, letting you hear the sound of distant shouting and sirens. You pull away from Bucky, scurrying to push him out of the ball pit. He finds it amusing that you can barely make him budge, even more so when you glare at him.

"Do not fight me on this," you warn him, thinking back to the one thing he wouldn't promise, "This place is about to be filled with federal agents, and I'll be dammed if I lose you to this, James Buchanan Barnes," you whisper his full name so only he can hear it. It should intimidate him, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes his heart jump in his chest like it's trying to escape and run home to you.

"You won't, sweetheart. I'm with you till the end," he declares softly, eyes shimmering with the kind of promise only pure devotion knows the language of. It leaves you speechless, giving him the kind of look he would only dream of before. The thumping of boots quickly approaching gets louder, and he hesitantly makes a swift exit. His parting words sticking with you when Fury, along with a team of agents, make their way inside the room, guns drawn.

You know you must look a sight, disheveled and torn in the middle of a children's ball pit.

"What in the hell is going on?"

From the moment Fury asks this question you act on autopilot. Switching to a more detached version of yourself, the one you were used to dawning on before working on this case. A professional version of yourself that helps get you through the job.

Maria and Fury help you out of the ball pit, back into the room filled with puffs of cotton candy, expecting answers and yet not being prepared for the ones you give them.

You tell them about the stalking, the break in at your apartment, and how the suspect injured himself in the process. How the Brooklyn Ripper challenged you to be here. You tell them how John Walker exposed himself as the killer, and during a fierce struggle, revealed to you a lot of damning things. You start to connect the dots for them. The divorce, the connections between cases, how the evidence lined up, Carol's card, the stalking—reliving it all was making your head throb. There was still a lot to make sense of, but those are questions John would have to answer for.

John Walker, a man who chose his vices and then punished them for not filling the void inside him. Drowning in his own insecurities and who was now being carried out on a portable stretcher by a team of paramedics. He's lethargic, mumbling incoherences about a monster in a mask.

The Brooklyn Ripper doesn't seem so scary in this light.

"When I asked you to never do anything like this again, I meant it. This is the second time you've disobeyed me," Fury dawns on that disappointed father demeanor again, but this time you're too exhausted to care. "I know, but once there was a suspicion it could be anyone at the FBI, I had to do this alone."

He sighs, crossing his arms, "We'll have to get your story straight later for the report and the higher ups. You did a good job tonight, but if anyone asks, this was my idea." You hum displeased, but you know why he's saying that. He's saving you from getting fired. An insubordinate agent isn't one the bureau would want to keep around, and even Fury has someone he has to report to.

"Yeah, I get it."

Fury gives you a couple orders he's not letting you disobey tonight. He instructs you to go get checked by one of the paramedics, he'll send a member of the crime scene unit to get photographs of all your injuries for evidence, and then you're heading straight home once you're cleared. John's injuries will have him stay overnight at the hospital, and he might not be conscious for an interview until tomorrow. So for now, Fury will stay behind with the crime scene unit and collect as much evidence and witness statements as they can. You have no issue following these orders.

You walk out of the funhouse, every step feeling heavier than the last. You catch Peter's eye and he grins proudly, showing you the bat in his arms all safe and sound. You had almost forgotten about it.

"I kept it safe, just like I said I would." You grab the bat from his hands, feeling a strong urge to hold it close. "Thanks, kid. You keep my card, okay? If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call." He thanks you in wonder that you'd offer him that.

You don't know how you make it over to one of the ambulances, but eventually you're sitting on the edge of one with an EMT scoping out your injuries and giving you a routine check based on everything you told him happened. Just like Fury said, a crime scene unit member comes over to collect evidence of tonight's events. By the time they're all done taking pictures, swabbing, and prodding at you—you're at your limit.

You're eventually cleared to go home. You look at the chaos across the field, flashing colored lights from the law enforcement vehicles dance across the faces of the evacuating guests of the carnival, the people recording on their phones for social media, and the local news station reporters. All a symphony of chaos you want to run away from.

And then in the field approaching you is your solace and refuge all in one.

"I want to go home," you whisper, and Bucky reaches his hand out for you to take. "Come on then, let's go home," he says softly while you take his hand, the gentleness in which he holds you is such a contrast to the stories the scars on his hand tell. You run your thumb over them absentmindedly, causing Bucky to glance at you and notice something.

"I'm glad to see the bat made it out okay," he comments to lighten the mood. You look down at it, "The kid managing the line kept it safe for me. I knew things would get rough in there with John, so I had to make sure he was safe. I mean, John even gave you a hard time," you point out and Bucky scoffs like you insulted him, "Sweetheart, make no mistake, that was me going easy on him. I could've killed him for laying a hand on you." You frown, not understanding why Bucky would hold back, putting himself on the line if he could have ended things quicker.

His car is in sight when he notices your confusion, "I went easy on him because if I hadn't there would be a lot of injuries you wouldn't have been able to explain and you would've gotten in trouble. John is only alive for your sake." The sincereness in his tone should frighten you, but it doesn't. Not when you think back to the way John had intended to fatally wound Bucky with the knife. If John had been successful, would you have been able to stop yourself from pulling the trigger?

You'll never know for sure, but your heart knows what you would've done.

Bucky doesn't expect you to say anything, but the way you lean into his side before you reach his car is enough to assure him he didn't scare you off. Things had been easier between you before this case. He was the one who was hard to get close to at first, who had too many shadows of his past haunting him. And yet, you never gave up on him even when he wasn't ready or willing to open up to you. So when the tables turned, he always tried to be the light in the dark you had been for him, and patiently waiting for the moment you would let yourself live again.

He hopes you can find yourselves back to that place now that it's all over.

Bucky opens the passenger door for you, helping you inside and then heading over to the driver's seat. He starts the car in no time, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot while the other reaches over to keep your hand in his.

You don't let go.

Bucky's apartment is starting to feel more like home to you than your own. You're staying there tonight, of course. Neither of you had to mention it to know it was happening.

Bucky leads you to his bedroom. You sit on his bed putting the bat beside you on the nightstand. He heads over to his dresser, taking out a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt for you to change into. He puts them next to you on the bed before grabbing a pair of black sweatpants from his dresser and stepping out of the room to give you privacy.

You barely make it past shrugging off your jacket when your starts to protest. It's the only thing you manage to take off when attempting to lift your shirt over your head, burns your skin with an intense ache. Every movement you make suddenly feels like you need double the strength and effort to do, as if you had been hit by a truck.

When Bucky comes back into the room he's half surprised to see you still haven't changed clothes, until he sees the way you wince when turning to face him, and a somber expression overtakes him. He walks over to you, gently brushing your hair out of your face, "Want me to help?"

"Yes."

Bucky gently, and very carefully, helps you out of your clothes, the act intimate in a way only soulmates would know. He softly brushes past parts of your body that are tender and hold signs of how hard you fought before he got there. He swallows hard, looking at the signs like they've stung him.

"Don't do that. Don't blame yourself." It's written all over his face.

"I can't help it. I'll always blame myself for stuff like this." You sit with the weight of that as he finishes helping you get into his clothes. His dog tags dangle from his bare chest when he tucks you into bed.

You grab his wrist before he can leave, "Stay with me."

"Always."

Bucky turns off the lights, joining you on the bed and pulling you into him. You lay your head on his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a safety net. You feel like you can finally breathe—like you're finally allowed to. And then it all hits you suddenly at once, everything you've been holding back from tonight crashing full force into you.

Bucky can feel the shift in you, the way you start to tremble in his arms before you let out the first sniffle. His hand brushes up to wipe a tear away, whispering your name like an oath in the dark. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. You're safe. I got you, doll. I got you. You can let it out." The soft spoken assurance of his words release the floodgates. Your sniffles turning into sobs as you cry into his chest. He holds you close, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and whispering sweet nothings into your ear that come out as an I love you and I'm here in more ways than one.

Time seems to drag on while all your emotions drain out of you. You don't know how long it takes for you to calm down, but when you finally lift your head from his chest, you feel a familiar longing ache in your chest. You lean into him silently asking for something you've both wanted for a long time. He looks into your eyes as if searching for an answer, and all he finds is a plea that falls between an I love you and I need you.

In the end, you don't know who kisses who first. It's pure and ardent all in one—like it could consume you both if you let it—getting lost in a haze that's all you and him. A kiss that promises the kind of future you've been looking for all you life, but is your salvation for now. Something to tether you to this world and remind you there's still good in it. Nothing outside matter right now except what finally falling into place between you now.

You pull away to catch your breath, snuggling into his chest to listen to the beat of his heart—a beautiful lullaby. He feels you melt into his arms, lowering his head to plant a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Rest now, you deserve it." he whispers of something far more then just tonight, and it doesn't take long after that for you to fall asleep.

There is no rest for the wicked or those who live to stop it, but tonight, you may rest.

Tomorrow will be a new day.

a/n: I always appreciate any kind of interaction, but I would really love to know your thoughts on this one! 🫶🏼 Did you guess who are killer was? 👀

Thank you all again for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

lovelies who asked to be tagged: @star-yawnznn @sebastians-love

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

[barnes-babydoll]

Pinned Against Each Other

Pairing | Winter Soldier x Hydra Weapon!Reader Summary | Hydra hosts a game each year—asset against asset—for the entertainment of operatives and investors. This year, investors want more blood, a higher production value, and more drama. You and the Winter Soldier have to fight to the death to prove yourselves. With addled minds and an unmistakable pull towards one another, the game might not be as easy as you think. (Hunger Games AU) Warnings/Tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, dual pov, cannon-typical violence, blood, gore, injuries, hurt/comfort, Hydra torture, trigger words, enemies to lovers (if you squint), slow-burn, cursing, so much angst (sorry, not sorry), panic attack, choking, flashbacks, death of an animal, soft!Bucky, smut, kissing, fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, breast play, p in v sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, dacryphilia, emotional sex, pet names (darlin', baby, sweet thing, pretty girl), no use of y/n Word Count | 17.8k A/N | Happy Stan-O-Ween! This is my piece for the Stan-tastic Association collab. I'm excited, but also hella nervous to post this. This is the longest fic I've posted, and I'm hoping y'all like it, but if you don't, I understand (please like it, i constantly seek validation). I might write a part two (if you beg hard enough). Just a forewarning, grab some tissues for this one:) Also, sorry if the Russian in this isn't translated correctly. I want to thank @wint3rbarnes for suggesting the name of the game (i love you)! Hope y'all enjoy:)

(i made a playlist for this fic, if you'd like to listen while you read)

Read on AO3:)

Screams, so loud the lights flickered. Sharp pain in the sides of your head. The smell of burning flesh filling your nostrils. Then, black.

Притяжение [Attraction]

Мрачность [Gloom]

Ночь [Night]

You woke up with a start, your brain feeling like it had just been put through a blender. Had you fallen unconscious? There was so much pain. Why was your head pounding relentlessly?

Those words being spoken finally registered, but it seemed your mind caught up before you fully did. Had you heard these words before? What did they mean? And why did you feel cold to the touch?

You felt a bone-deep icy sensation, spreading through your body. Or had it always been there? Your skin felt too tight. Your flesh stretched too thin across your chest as it rose and fell with shallow breaths.

The fluorescent bulbs seemed to let out a low buzzing sound, making your head feel like it was splitting open. Someone’s grimy fingers were poking and prodding at the ridges of your brain, rewiring your short-circuited mind. Your face felt numb like a thousand bees were stinging your forehead and cheek.

Спичка [Matchstick]

Двенадцать [Twelve]

Поверхность [Surface]

Your eyes shot open as if on instinct. The blinding bulbs overhead made you squint, hissing at the bright lights clouding your vision. You blinked a few times, adjusting to your bleached surroundings. The color was almost snuffed out; everything seemed too dull in this unfamiliar space. Like all the joy was sucked out of the room, taking the vibrancy with it. 

Now that you were getting a clear view from where you sat, something inside you was screaming that you did recognize this place. 

Семь [Seven] 

A man in uniform came in from your periphery. A little red book rested in his palm, like a Bible, and he a priest, reading to the masses. You didn’t fully comprehend why the gears in your head seemed to click into place at each word uttered from the stern-looking man. It felt like latches on a cage, trapping your brain in a hold like it wasn’t even yours to begin with.

Тележка [Trolley]

Бассейн [Basin]

Two more words. You twitched, your body seemingly rejecting them. You felt a fire ignite within you, boiling your insides like a furnace despite the chill coating your skin.

Сигнал [Signal]

Just like that, the flame was extinguished. Every muscle in your body tensed, your spine going rigid. Any sign of a voice in your head telling you to resist vanished in a blink, diminishing to a weak whisper. Your head snapped in the direction of the man with the words dripping from his sinister tongue—your handler.

“Тень?” [Shadow?]

”Я готов отвечать.” [Ready to comply.] Your own voice felt foreign to you. The words felt too heavy on your tongue. Thick accent with no emotion in your tone. But none of your thoughts mattered anymore. You’ve given yourself completely over to the one who controls you.

You stared at him, eyes transfixed on the man in uniform. You—a model of a perfect little soldier awaiting orders.

A slow, menacing smile crawled up his face like a creeping spider. “Она готова.” [She’s ready.]

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Days passed, and it somehow felt like weeks, the way Hydra was working you to the bone. You had to be quick and precise, and the only way to achieve that was sleepless nights spent training for the big day.

They referred to it as the Hydra Initiative—an event that united operatives and investors alike. Hydra aimed to expand their reach, and to achieve that, they required funding. What better way to attract more money than by appealing to the general public?  

Americans were their targets. Stupid and wealthy, just how they liked their investors. They planned it around a holiday best suited for violence, gore, and an eerie atmosphere. Halloween came to mind. Though it wasn’t widely celebrated in Russia, it was a great way to advertise it to rich Americans. 

So, they did their due diligence by promoting it discreetly among underground establishments and subtly drawing the attention of the wealthiest people. After that, all they had to do was put their two best assets in an arena and sit back and enjoy the show. Easy enough to do.

Except this year was different than the previous ones. Of course, they weren’t going to put their flawless weapons against each other and ask them to draw blood. They were too important to waste on a foolish game. So, the two assets were told to act. Act the part. Make it look realistic. 

However, the investors got smart. They asked for more: a higher production and a reigning champion. And in turn, Hydra requested additional funds. After some back and forth, they got what they wanted.

So, there you were, putting on a dark tactical vest and cargo pants to appease your audience. You don’t remember years past when you were forced into this game. You never did. They made sure to wipe you once they woke you up from your cryo chamber. So, the only thing on your mind was to win this year.

Whoever was on the other side of this fight was getting the best version of you. You worked best in the dark, where no one could see you coming—hence the name you were given, Shadow. You were determined to find a unique strategy to outmaneuver your opponent, even if you were unfamiliar with the terrain.

Though you were compliant, you were being hauled out of your cell like a wild animal about to snap. The operatives guided you through Hydra’s facility, opening a set of doors for you to step through. A giant spotlight shone on you in the cramped space. A wide glass window showed individuals conversing.

The doors shut behind you with a loud click. The people beyond the glass turned, studying you. You were lowered to a simple object to be gazed upon. Some approached the glass. The crowd seemed to ooze value, as if the money was practically dripping off them in expensive, studded watches and floor-length gowns.

These were the people who would place bets on you. Tell you your worth, if you were even worth their time.

Your handler came into view, pointing at you as he spoke. The glass swallowed the sounds; you could only make out their expressions. Some wrinkled their nose in disgust, others nodded along, actively listening.

Their eyes felt too heavy on you, like they were looking in all the wrong places, mentally noting all the things that didn’t fit their standards. You felt like a dull painting in a room full of elegant masterpieces. It was overwhelming, but you managed to compose yourself enough to stand still and keep your eyes forward as theirs continued to bore into your very being.

When the crowd dispersed, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your gaze flicked around the space past the glass. Screens lined the walls, displaying various forms of scenery: a forest, a grassy plain, and a body of water with waves rippling onto the sand. They were going to monitor your every move; two rats in a maze being observed by onlookers for their own amusement.

Your attention was pulled in the direction of another window across the room. Dark eyes, they could almost be perceived as black, which matched the mask donning his mouth. And, well, everything else, except the stark contrast of his left arm. Silver-plated with a scarlet star. A stranger in a glass house, just like you. Your opponent.

When you locked eyes with him again, your breath hitched. You could see the hint of icy blue swirling with the black. You’ve seen those eyes before. Hadn’t you?

“Eyes deeper than the ocean,” a voice echoed in your skull. Her tone was sweet like syrupy honey. Was your mind playing tricks on you, or had you uttered those words before in a voice that wasn’t the rough, monotone one you’ve familiarized yourself with?

You felt a tug in the center of your chest like a string pulling taut between you and the soldier. He seemed to detect the same pull because those once sharp eyes went wide with…recognition?

Then, the patrons were gathering around him, the soldier consumed by the crowd. The gears in your mind locked once more, no longer concerning yourself with something that didn’t make sense. How could you recollect someone you’ve never met?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The room was dark. It smelled faintly of rust and dried blood. The soldier was waiting, always waiting. He waited for instruction. For punishment. For a safe haven. He didn’t know if he’d ever get that last one; it seemed like too much of a pipe dream while in this hellhole.

His brain whirred like a computer running a diagnostic. He imagined your face again, too pretty to be the same thing as him. Although your appearance fit the bill, with the dark clothing and the statue-like stance, your eyes didn’t quite match. They were soft, like wispy clouds.

And that pull. It was undeniable. But why? He’d never met you, and now he was being ordered to kill you. He would carry out this mission without hesitation. He had never failed a mission before, and refused to fail this one, no matter how intense the sensation in his chest was.

The doors slid open with a hiss. The sun immediately blinded him, causing him to blink a few times before his eyes adjusted to it. The world around him was gloomy, despite the sun. It almost felt like it was setting the tone for what was about to come.

A dense forest surrounded him. Everywhere he looked, there was lush greenery: towering trees, thick bushes, and scattered fallen branches. The air was coated in a heavy fog. To an untrained eye, they might not be able to see through it. But he had sharp eyes like a cheetah, and he was hunting for prey.

He stepped out, leaves crunching beneath his heavy boots. He was already sniffing you out like a dog on a scent trail. His gaze drifted over his surroundings for any sign of his opponent. His mind was already reeling with calculations. With the bit of time that he saw you, he was trying to drill into those gentle eyes and find the information he needed. Where you might go first? What was your choice of weapon? Would you take high or low ground?

The gears were turning, but he decided to go with his gut. He trudged through the forest, low-hanging branches brushing against his tactical gear. Sticks cracked and splintered off as his boots moved. He was scanning the treeline for any other sign of life, specifically you. However, his handlers had instructed him to be equipped for anything, so if there were anything else in his way, it’d be gone too.

As he ventured deeper into the woods, his body became increasingly sticky with sweat, a thin sheen coating his neck and forehead. After what felt like an hour of trudging through the underbrush, he finally spotted a cliffside. He swiftly prepared to reach the top and set up his sniper nest, waiting for you to cross his path. With each step, his strides grew wider as he approached his destination. He knew he had to move quickly and cleverly, wanting to outpace you before you discovered his location.

Once he reached the summit, he pulled the strap of his gun from its position, which was loosely draped across his shoulder—always close beside him. He crouched low, eyes darting across the scenery like you might pop out at any time. His stomach hit the rugged ridge of the rock as he lay down, propping the gun against his body. The blunt end of the sniper rifle dug into his collarbone as he gazed through the scope with practiced precision. He wouldn’t fuck this up; you weren’t worth the punishment if he just so happened to fail this.

Minutes turned to hours, but the soldier was secure in his location, eyes never drifting from the crosshair. The reticle swept back and forth over the forest, but he hadn’t caught sight of you.

He almost considered moving from his spot on the hill until he noticed a figure dressed in black. Your tactical gear stood out like a sore thumb against the green backdrop. You were sprinting, weaving around the thick trunks of the trees. Your eyes darted around, glancing over your shoulder frequently. He caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off the steel as you crept deeper into the woods. You held a knife, its stark black handle and sharp blade pressed close to your stomach as you ran.

So, that was your weapon of choice—something brutal, something that requires confidence to wield the small weapon. You would need to get up close and personal if you were to use it on him. And you realized that all too well; otherwise, you wouldn’t be carrying it like a hunter ready to pounce at any sudden movements.

He had the shot; he’d had the shot lined up ever since he spotted your form. But he made no move to pull the trigger. You were right there, fresh for the taking. The red circle lined up perfectly on your skull. All he had to do was shoot, and you’d be on the forest floor, blood pouring out and painting the leaves a shade of brighter red.

He couldn’t. His brain was telling him not to, screaming actually. It was like a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The soldier had never had an issue putting down his target, so why was he having a problem with you? Even with the distance, he saw that softness in your eyes from before. Your fist was clutched around the blade like a lifeline. You were ready. You’d kill him without hesitation, so why wouldn’t his fucking pointer finger budge?

You stopped your solo race, leaning against a tree, chest heaving from exertion. You seemed as tired as he felt. Worn out from the long days of training. The wakeful nights left on standby. Or when he did get the opportunity to sleep, he couldn’t. It felt like any time he closed his eyes, something was trying to claw to the surface. A thought? An idea? A…memory?

He gritted his teeth, grinding his molars against each other. Hate roiled in his stomach. Pure disdain was reserved only for you, because you were the first person he had any delay with. He’d end up bloodied and bruised for not listening to his handlers. For not killing you, the first glimpse he had.

The soldier’s icy blue eyes traced the dips and contours of your figure through the scope. Though battle-worn, your skin seemed delicate like petals of a flower. He wanted to feel it under his calloused knuckles—soft against rough. He wanted to be the one to make your chest rise and fall like that while you sighed in his ear-

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. What the hell was his mind doing? He was supposed to kill you with his eyes, not fuck you with them.

Your gaze shot upward, locking with him. You practically spotted him immediately, no doubt catching the lens reflecting off the sunlight. Again. Shit. Your eyes went wide, instantly ducking for cover on instinct. But he was quicker.

He finally pulled the trigger. Bang.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Searing pain shot through you, literally. The bastard fucking shot you. There was blood—so much blood—seeping through the cracks between your fingers as you clutched your right shoulder. You grunted in agony. The deep crimson flowed down your knuckles, giant droplets of blood hitting the already red leaves. You’ve been shot before, many times, but it never got any less painful.

Despite this, you were running, darting past tree branches like your life depended on it. Well, because it did. You didn’t know if he followed you. You weren’t about to lose all that distance you gained by glancing over your wounded shoulder. So, you bounded full speed ahead until you stumbled across a body of water. You dropped to your knees at the edge of it, where it rippled, water lapping at the sand.

You honestly didn’t care if he had been chasing you this whole time; you could no longer endure running in pain. Carefully, you unzipped your vest, taking care not to injure yourself further. You slid your arm through the neckline of your long-sleeved shirt, exposing your wounded shoulder to the cold air. A sharp hiss escaped your lips as the pain surged. Glancing down, you saw the bullet lodged just by your collarbone.

Taking a steadying breath, you dug your fingers into the gunshot wound. You bit your lip so hard that you likely drew blood, but you couldn’t risk him hearing you scream. Your fingers slipped from the bullet multiple times before you finally found your leverage.

With a sudden jerk, you tore the bullet from its resting place between your bones. A groan escaped you as your head fell between your shoulders, your chin hitting your chest. The bullet came loose, and your fingers were coated with your own blood.

You dipped your hand into the water, cupping it to gather a generous amount. Bringing it to your wound, you soaked it, washing the blood from the puncture. The sting was intense, but you managed to endure.

With your super soldier strength, you ripped the bottom part of your shirt, practically turning it into a crop top. To put pressure on the injury, you wrapped it around your shoulder and under your armpit, tying it in a knot with your teeth and your hand. You finally released a breath, settling into the sand below.

You eventually scanned the area for any indication that the soldier was near, but you came up empty. He could be hiding anywhere; you obviously missed his presence before.

You were exhausted. You’d dashed out as soon as the door opened to the bright world beyond the dark room where you were stashed. You had stopped for a second. How could you be so stupid as to take a break right where his sniper nest was set up? You were off your game and had no idea why.

You realized this wasn’t the best place to stay. Even though it was where you had been shot, you understood that the woods were your best option for concealment. With a huff, you stood, brushing the miniature rocks from your cargo pants. You weaved your way back into the forest, a hand resting steadily on your shoulder, searching for a place to lie low while you regained some of your strength.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The soldat had lost sight of you immediately, too caught up in what he had done. You’d scurried off like an injured fawn. He flew down the cliffside, catching speed from the downward momentum. He tracked your sporadic blood trail and hoped he’d find you sprawled out in the grass, bleeding out, and on the brink of death. But he was going in circles, checking and rechecking places he already had.

When he eventually found where you had been—the world around him beginning to darken—you were long gone. Only the bullet in a puddle of blood and your tactical vest thrown haphazardly indicated you’d been here.

He was going to find you, finish what he started. So, he turned on his heel and headed straight back into the forest.

Grabbing the black mask on his face, which could be better described as a muzzle, he threw it to the ground. Of course, he would get scolded for that simple action, but he needed to breathe, and it was too restricting to get any real air in his lungs.

He stalked forward, at an unhurried pace this time. He needed to clear his head, think cleverly, but his mind was clouded. It felt like your nails had dug into the ridges of his brain and tugged. Guilt and affliction lacerated his rib cage, an untamed animal rattling his bones. He wasn’t trained to have feelings. Hydra had destroyed them along with his humanity. But those were the only words that could describe this feeling that clawed at his chest.

As he ventured forth, he noticed a small green cloud of smoke from his periphery. Then, it doubled, tripled in size, whirling around him like steam from a sauna. He breathed it in before he thought better of it. The toxic cloud filled his nostrils, a musty smell that pricked his nose hairs, heading straight for his brain.

His hand flew to cover his nose, but it was too late. He instantly felt lightheaded; his head was spinning, and he stumbled forward. His metal arm shot out to catch himself, stabilizing him against the bark of a tree.

The soldier blinked; he couldn’t figure out what this mind-altering drug was supposed to be doing to him besides make his head pound.

A few minutes passed, and he figured the worst of it was done with, so he pressed on. Prowling onward, he noticed that the effects started to subside.

Almost like a strike of lightning, he clutched his head in pain. Sharp stabbing to his skull, his eyes squeezed shut, and he was on his knees in an instant. He clenched his jaw in a tight-lipped scream.

Even over the thumping in his head, he heard a noise from a distance. And then closer. His head jerked up, surveying the surrounding area.

Then, he spotted him. A boy. He couldn’t be more than ten. The boy sat with his knees to his chest by a cluster of shrubbery. When he glanced up, locking eyes with the soldier, it was steel blue eyes meeting steel blue eyes. One and the same, but so different. A familiar face from an unfamiliar timeline.

“‘M scared,” the child sniffled, tears forming in his innocent eyes, “Where’s Becca? We gotta protect our lil sister.”

The soldat cocked his head, eyes narrowing. Who the hell is Becca, and how is this possible? Was he losing his mind?

The bushes to his left rustled, and another figure appeared. This one was much older than the boy. Maybe in his late twenties. Another version of himself, he doesn’t remember. But compared to the child, this one looked like he’d been through hell.

His short hair was disheveled, and deep sores were on his face; sweat and dirt coated his skin. His eyes went wide, glancing down at his body. “They put somethin’ in us. I can feel it,” his younger self mumbled, voice trembling.

The soldier gripped the sides of his head once again, squeezing it. He had to shake himself out of this drug or whatever was fucking with his brain.

“'S gonna be alright,” a hand rested on his shoulder, “We just gotta finish out the war, then we’ll be home free.”

The soldier jerked back, crawling backwards in the grass. When he gazed upward, it was a new form. Yet, another version of himself. Even more unrecognizable.

This one seemed younger than the last one, but not by much. He had on a military uniform and a green hat on his head. His hair was quaffed under the cap. He looked clean-shaven, and his eyes were kind—a stark contrast to himself.

“What war?” The soldier asked, voice rising into anger. “What the fuck is going on?”

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to wish away these eerie versions of himself. Why can’t he remember looking like any of them?

“James,” a sweeter, more pleasant voice came, but this time it was a woman’s. His head shot up, glimpsing up to match the voice to a face.

It was you, but different. Less rigid, less on edge. You smiled sweetly, hand reaching out to cup his jaw. He flinched backward, but you nodded as if to say, I’ll be gentle, I promise.

“Who’s James?” He tilted his head, meeting your gaze.

You let out a low snort, “You, silly. Don’t you remember?” You cupped his jaw, your cool hand contrasting against his clammy skin. Your thumb gently swept back and forth over the flushed pink of his cheek.

It was soothing in a way, though he realized he should probably pull away; after all, you were the enemy—or at least that’s what his handlers had told him. But if it was all just an illusion, what did it matter when your touch felt so good against his skin?

He shook his head, but leaned into the softness of your touch. Was this a mirage, or a memory? “It’s alright. I’m here. We’re gonna get out of here, okay? Just a little longer,” you assured him.

“How long have we been here? I don’t remember,” he admitted, his brain feeling too fried to give it any thought.

“Don’t worry about it,” you murmured. You moved your hand, running your fingers through his sweaty hair as you stared into his eyes. “Deeper than the ocean.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. I always say that to you, remember?” You rolled your eyes playfully. “Oh, please, tell me you remember that at least.”

“I don’t, sorry,” he apologized, nuzzling into the hand you had in his hair.

“It’s okay, James. Just stay here with me, yeah?” Your opposite hand came up to push at the middle of his chest, encouraging him to lie back. He obeyed, leaves crunching under the weight of his head. “There we go,” you praised.

You laid down beside him, cheek squished against the ground. “Close your eyes, James. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

The soldier did what you asked of him, his vision fading to black as his breathing gradually steadied. Your hand continued to run through his hair with a gentle precision. It was the kindest feeling he had ever experienced, and he craved more. He didn’t want it to ever end.

Just like that, you lulled him to sleep, breath going soft.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Your head was an aching mess. Pounding, throbbing, and it sounded like screaming in your skull. You’d been leaning against a tree, forehead pressed against the bark to calm your rushing mind. Not only were you dealing with excruciating shoulder pain, but now your head felt like it might explode.

You’d breathed in some kind of putrid smoke. It felt like it was single-handedly altering your brain chemistry. You tried to shake yourself out of this loopy feeling, but it wouldn’t relent.

“Momma?” A little girl’s voice came. You scanned the area, spotting the little one immediately.

“Where’s my momma? She said she’d be here. She said she’d always be here,” her voice wobbled, tears coming down her round, chubby cheeks.

You stumbled forward, despite the ringing in your head. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The little one turned, and you saw it instantly. It was you—yourself, but younger, maybe around six. You could see the fear in your own eyes, and it resonated deep within you. Even though you weren’t supposed to feel anything, it wasn’t allowed, not with Hydra.

Yet, you were familiar with that feeling. It haunted your dreams. It stalked you in the daylight. It was all around you, an all-consuming snake wrapping around your lungs and taking your breath away.

The girl ran to you, arms spread and bumping into your stomach like a force. You huffed at the intensity of the strength behind her embrace. You hesitantly wrapped your arms around her as she hid her face in your midsection. Tears soaked your shirt, or what you had left of it.

“It’s alright. I’m gonna get you out of here,” you promised, patting her back gently. It felt so strange, holding yourself. Someone you couldn’t even begin to remember, but you recognized your own face regardless.

“Don’t lie to her,” another, rougher voice came from behind you. When you turned, you saw another version of yourself. She looked like destruction in human form, as if she were on her last leg.

Her hair was slightly shorter, messier with tattered clothing. There wasn’t a place you looked that didn’t have bruises on her. She was utterly beaten to shit.

“We’re never getting out of here. We’ll die here,” she added, voice stern like nothing was going to change her mind.

You ignored her, covering the ears of the girl in your arms. “What happened to you?” you inquired, examining her figure.

She glared at you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you were the only one out of the loop. “What do you think?”

You didn’t respond, still staring blankly at the woman who mirrored you. She rolled her eyes, a hint of malice flickering behind them. “Hydra, of course. Don’t you remember? It was the worst day of our lives. Unless we don’t make it out of here, because James doesn’t remember us either.”

“James?” You quirked a brow, wracking your brain for where you might’ve heard that.

“The soldier who’s trying to kill us. Keep up,” she muttered angrily.

“I don’t understand. Why don’t I remember?” Your voice dipped into something sorrowful, as if all this new information was overwhelming, and you couldn’t bear the not knowing anymore.

“Like I said, Hydra. They wipe you and stuff you in an ice cube until they need you again. And the only reason they need you now is to entertain.” She raised her head, glaring at the clouds like they personally offended her. She let out a vicious scream, “Are you entertained?”

You shivered; you knew you were here to entertain, but everything else that she spoke of was bouncing around in your skull like a hefty bowling ball. Too big for the tight space of your brain cage.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clenching your jaw so tight you thought you might break a tooth. When you opened them again, the two versions of yourself were gone, leaving only the cracked, barely-human version of you.

You turned, your back hitting the tree harder than you intended. You slid down its trunk, the bark chipping off and falling around you like chunks of old paint as you settled into a sitting position. You pulled your knees to your chest and buried your head in your arms.

“Darlin’,” a man rasped. Your head swiveled to connect the dots—a voice and a face.

It was him. The soldier, but he was so incompatible with the one from earlier. He appeared to be wearing similar clothing to the version that shot you, but everything else was inconsistent. His eyes weren’t violent; they were almost amiable. His usual stern face—all sharp lines and harsh expression—was subdued in comparison.

“Been waitin’ for you,” he murmured, sitting down beside you. He tilted his head in concern. “Y’alright? You seem spooked.”

Your eyebrows scrunched together. What was happening? Was this a part of the game, or was it real? You couldn’t tell, but you answered anyway, “Do you know what’s going on? There were people who looked like me, but weren’t.”

He smiled at you—you’d never seen that. It was stunning, like a piece of a lively sunset. He nodded, then glanced around until his eyes landed back on you. “I know you’re scared, but everythin’s gonna be just fine. We’re gonna get outta here soon enough.”

“How do you know that?” you exclaimed, worry making your voice rise. You knew this wasn’t real; it couldn’t be. But he was looking at you with those earnest eyes like he was ready to listen to your every word, so you had to speak your concerns aloud.

“Trust me,” he leveled his gaze at you, metal hand coming up to move a rogue hair from your eyes and tuck it behind your ear. “You remember what we told each other?”

You tried to get the gears to turn in your head, but they wouldn’t budge. You shook your head, and he sighed in response. His head fell back, resting against the tree behind him. “Nothin’ to worry about when we’re together, darlin’,” he replied.

Tears pricked your eyes. You hadn’t shown emotion like this in who knows how long, but here you were on the grass, almost to tears over those simple words that practically held no meaning. But, at the same time, they meant so much.

You couldn’t begin to think of a timeline where you knew this man, but it was that pull again, like from before, when you stood behind glass and watched him from afar. It made your chest ache with something raw, unfilitered, unlike what Hydra made you into—a statue of emotions. The man, or “James’”, head moved to look at you once again, and his expression flickered with alarm, noticing your distress.

“Hey,” he said, and without warning, he took your shoulders and wrapped you in a tight hug. He rubbed soothing circles into your back, fingers moving up and down your spine. “Don’t cry, I’ve got you.”

Your body trembled, shoulders shaking from the weight of your despair. Almost like it was always supposed to, your form relaxed into his, burying your face in his neck, and breathing in his scent like it might soothe you. Your breathing began to even out once more, body going heavy in his arms.

“Shh,” he muttered, “Get some rest. You’ve been through a lot today.”

Almost on command, your eyes fluttered closed and you fell into a restful sleep.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The soldier startled awake, sweat coating his body along with random twigs and stray threads of grass. Was he dreaming, or were you actually here? Well, you weren’t anymore. You were gone with the rise of the sun. How long had he been out for?

His brain felt fried. Was this the kind of game you were playing? Intoxicating him with some sort of smoke and throwing him off his game? The other versions of himself fucking with his mind, and then you—all soft touch and sweet voice.

He was pissed; his chest heaved with heavy breaths, and his jaw ticked. You weren’t getting away that easily. He sat up, pulling himself up to stand.

Journeying through the woods once again, he stalked forward with a vengeance, with a hunger for blood. He was a wild animal that had his cage rattled one too many times.

Again, the forest angered him, throwing branches in his path and mud too slippery to find a sound footing. As if he were just an eager hunting dog, he swore he picked up your scent. An open space in the woods between cliffsides, dipping into a compact canyon where he stood, eyes searching.

He smelled blood, and he didn’t know if it was how heightened his senses were or if you truly were bleeding out. It wasn’t until copper stung his nose that he realized something was off. His scuffed boots slid across the terrain like it was raining and he hadn’t even noticed it yet. But no water droplets were falling from the sky, so why was it so hard to walk in this part of the woods? Each step elicited a squelch from under his black boots.

He realized way too late what was happening until the heel of his shoe was surrounded by a puddle of blood, and it wasn’t just where his feet were planted, but everywhere his eyes wandered.

His brain caught up entirely, and then his feet were moving beneath him, sprinting, but he barely made it anywhere. His boots disappeared into the thick liquid, and any step he took was too slow in his endeavor to get to higher ground.

The red floated up to his calves, making his tactical pants stick to his flesh. His mind was a snowstorm of thoughts; his brain was scattered, trying to find the best course of action.

Was he still in a dream? A nightmare?

His feet kicked and pushed forward in a weak attempt to get away from the unrelenting waves of crimson. He felt like he was dying; this was his own personal hell coming to devour him.

He didn’t know how to extricate himself from this. The space was filling quickly. He blinked, and it was up to his thighs, threatening to swallow him whole.

He wanted to scream for help. Ask his handlers to have mercy on him for once, but it was no use. They wouldn’t bother helping. This was most likely their doing; you didn’t have the tools to do this.

He propelled forward, trudging his way through it now. The liquid sloshed around his hips, red rippling around him like a sick joke.

Why did he feel like he’d been here before, drowning in someone else’s blood? Red slick coating his fingers, weaving into the creases of his knuckles like a brand.

His brain flashed: dead bodies, a gun in his hand, people pleading for their lives. He had killed before; he knew that much, but what was his body count by now? Because with the way his mind was racing, it seemed like dozens.

He was nearly swimming now, arms stretched to push him farther through the liquid. Then, he heard a grunt—a sound of frustration. He swam quickly, peeking around the tall rock formation.

He detected you like an ultrasonic radar. You struggled to stay upright. The blood splattered and splashed onto your clean face, marking you with the mess.

Your arms flailed, trying to find your footing, but you were short—shorter than him at least. Your form bobbed as you attempted to steady yourself against the cliff. The soldier was moving slowly so as not to alert you, but, of course, you had the same abilities as he did. You heard him, and your head whipped in his direction.

You weren’t struggling against the blood anymore; you were embracing it. You used it to your advantage, flicking your legs up and down to generate momentum. You lifted your arms, pushing off with them, striving to get away from the Winter Soldier.

He followed right behind you; he wasn’t willing to let you go this time, not after the little drug stunt you pulled. He waded towards you, catching speed. You were glancing behind you, which was stupid because every time you did, he got closer.

In his attempt to catch you, the gun draped around his shoulder came loose. He felt the shift immediately, the weight on his left becoming lighter. It plunged beneath the liquid, and he instantly slowed. He turned, hands reaching beneath the blood, but he felt nothing. And forget about seeing anything through it, because everything was red in his vision.

He gave up when he glanced forward, seeing you get further away. He could easily kill you with his bare hands without breaking a sweat. He dove forward, spraying blood onto his tension-stained face. He kicked and swung his arms up and over, until he was only feet behind you.

A wave came, crashing against the surrounding rock, painting it ruby red. More were rising, threatening to pull you both under. He wasn’t fazed, swimming faster as your movements began to stutter.

He reached out when he had eventually closed the distance. His metal hand felt for you under scarlet water. Your foot kicked outward, hitting him as you ventured forth. You glanced over your shoulder, spotting him and his closeness.

On you like a moth to a flame, he grabbed your ankle with ease. He yanked you towards his chest, pulling your head under in the process. When you surfaced, you coughed and sputtered, trying to get your breath once more.

You jerked in his hold on your ankle, your heel connecting with the middle of his chest. When that didn’t work, you flipped on your back. Your free boot came up, hitting his chin with a force. His head snapped backward with a crack of his jaw.

His eyes flashed as his head came back to glare at you. He was through with the games; you were dead. Both hands were on you like a vice, hauling you closer. Flesh and metal moved like he was tugging a rope to his chest. Fingers wrapped around your calves, then hips, until they were firmly planted on your waist.

You thrashed; hands shoving at his shoulders and legs frantically driving against any body part you could reach. The front of your boot knocked against his inner thigh as your other leg moved to knee him in the gut. All the while, you both continued to flounder down the current of viscous blood.

The soldier’s hands gripped and tugged your waving arms to your sides, but still, you fought him.

“The more you fight, the more satisfyin' it’ll be when I kill you,” he seethed. “You think ’s funny to drug me and then flee?”

You resumed your struggle, but faltered for a split second. “I didn’t drug you,” you insisted, voice strained from your panic. “Hydra did. They drugged me, too.”

He let out a dark chuckle, getting closer to your face. “Cut the shit. I know you did it because you were there,” he murmured, eyes shining with revenge. “You think you can win this with a sweet voice and a pair of delicate hands. This’ll only ever end in me takin’ the breath from your lungs.”

Your one-sided brawl ceased, and your eyes went wide, but not with fear, with realization. “You saw me?” Your tone was soft, almost imperceptible.

His eyebrows pulled tight, confused as to why you weren’t fighting anymore. “Yeah,” he confirmed, scornfully. “You were right in my face. How could I miss you?”

You shook your head, “No, I-” you cut yourself off, locking your gaze on him with something he couldn’t quite place.

“I saw you, but not this you,” you finally spat out. “And versions of myself…I didn’t recognize. Did you see the same?”

This time, the soldier’s eyes widened in surprise. He no longer felt like you were lying to him. The truth in your gaze was radiant, undeniable.

Still, his grip never relented, so you added, “I don’t want to kill you. Hydra’s the enemy, not you. But I won’t hesitate to put you down.”

Tilting his head in a cocky manner, a sharp laugh escaped his throat. “I think you’re forgettin' who’s got who, darlin’,” the nickname rolling off his tongue like he said a million times.

Though he meant for it to sound venomous, it came out tender. He shook himself out of his initial shock from the way that pet name felt in his mouth, and pressed on, “I could’ve killed you already.”

You squirmed in his clutches again, boots searching for ground that was nowhere near the heels of your feet. “Then, why haven’t you?” Your voice dipped into a challenge.

He scrambled for a response, but came up empty. Honestly, why hadn’t he? With the sniper aimed at your skull and, now, holding you forcibly without making any move to actually harm you.

While in his distracted state, you came forward, head-butting him hard. Groaning, his hands feel away on instinct, reaching up to grab at his nose where the blood flowed. He wasn't sure if it was the pool around him, splashing onto his face, or from his likely broken nose.

With your open opportunity, you planted your boot right into his stomach with a power that left him gasping for air. You scurried off, treading the sea of blood with a newfound energy. He recovered rapidly, plunging forward to grab you once again.

You swam towards a lower rock formation, aiming to get out of the thick blood river you were drifting down. The soldat closed the gap as soon as your palm outstretched to grab the ridge. Your fingers wrapped around it, hauling yourself out of the scarlet liquid, but he was snatching your leg again.

You wiggled out of his grasp, flinging your leg up to kick the side of his skull—piercing pain shot through him. Thrown off balance, he flew into the rock, the other side of his head hitting the jagged edge with a loud thud. Without much fight, he fell unconscious.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

With the freedom you had, you climbed up on the cliff with little effort. When you glanced down, you spotted his limp form, floating in the blood like a fish bobber. He was sinking, his large frame being dragged under like tiny sets of red hands were pulling him to his death.

You watched with bated breath, as if you weren't sure if you wanted him to wake up and resurface or drown completely. You inhaled a shaky breath when the pool of crimson rose to his lips, staining them with rouge. When his head dipped under, his figure disappearing under the liquid, your heart began to crack. The ache in your chest felt too heavy, dragging you to the ground, dropping to your knees.

You knew him. You didn't know how or why, but somewhere in your chest, you knew that statement rang true. He was woven into your veins, like a tattoo you couldn't quite see, but all the same, he was there. Somewhere in your scrambled brain, you had made memories with this man.

Without further deliberation, you leaped from the cliff's edge. You dove under, eyes going dark as the world around you seemed to go black. Then, you were blindly feeling for something—anything. Your chest was constricting fast, too fast as your arms outstretched for his figure. It was like the blood had already woven its way into your chest—an elephant sitting on your ribs and piercing your lungs with an intensity that took your breath away.

You swam back up, gasping for breath as you coughed out some of the blood that found its way between your tightly pressed lips. You took a couple of deep, steadying breaths before diving back under. Your arms whipped this way and that until, finally, your fingers brushed something firm.

You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, pulling him towards you. You managed to hook your arms under his armpits and push up, legs kicking aggressively as you felt the air slipping from your lungs again. You fought your way to the top, his body heavy in your arms, despite your super soldier strength.

You took a sharp intake of air as you breached the sea of ruby, sputtering as the wind hit your clogged throat. You tugged him towards the massive rock, fighting against the current as you wrapped your arms snuggly around his chest. You lifted him, adrenaline propelling you to get him safely on dry land.

You eventually managed to push him up and onto the cliff, his limbs dangling off the side. You followed after, hauling yourself up. You felt weighed down by the sticky mess coating your clothes and body. Blood was already crusted on your cheeks. Your lashes were tinted, making your vision scarlet, as if you had rose-colored glasses on.

You took the soldier by the wrists, dragging him away from the edge. You dropped to your knees, wiping the blood from his face with a gentleness even you didn't recognize. You leaned forward, tilting his head upward to listen to his breathing. It was faint—a barely there exhale.

You immediately pressed your hands into his chest, one hand resting over the other, and began chest compressions. You didn't use all your strength; you'd end up breaking his ribs if you did.

You eased off, checking his breathing once more. It remained the same, so you grabbed his nose with your thumb and forefinger, and lowered your mouth to his. You breathed air into his lungs, your cheeks puffing out as you did so.

As your lips brushed, you felt it—a shift. But not in his body, yours. Almost like the world righted itself—two bodies aligning themselves with one another once again. You broke away after the second puff of air sent to his lungs.

Your body was a jittery mess, your hands shaking as you placed them against his chest to continue your attempt at CPR. Your vision flared like a flashlight being shone directly into your eyes—splotchy and static, floating around in your pupils. Your head pounded as everything started to click into place.

You were no longer in the arena, but somewhere oddly familiar. Trees danced in your eyeline, swaying to and fro. You felt a presence from behind you and whipped around.

It was the soldier, James. He stared into your eyes, the corner of his lip quirked. This version of him reminded you of the one from the forest—the one that held you as you cried.

He stepped forward, and you realized he was no longer looking at you, but through you. You turned, spotting a woman with arms crossed over her chest, and her shoulders were slightly slumped forward.

He stood next to her, letting out a heavy sigh as he slid his hands into his pockets. She didn't acknowledge him, just continued to stare blankly at the branches waving in the wind.

He nudged his shoulder into hers, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as she faced him with shock written all over her expression.

"Fuck, James," she scolded, "do you want to give me a heart attack?"

You knew that voice; it was yours. The lively one that bounced around in your skull from before.

James snorted, grin widening as he got a glimpse of your appearance. "Sorry, darlin'. Thought you heard me comin'. You have enhanced hearin' for a reason. Where'd all that trainin' go?"

She, or you, rolled your eyes, focusing back on the scenery. His smile faded, turning to a frown. "Hey, what's goin' on?" He asked, concern dripping in his tone.

You shook your head, dropping your hands to your sides to ball them into fists. "What if they find out? I know this," you gestured between the two of you, "won't last anyway, but I just can't stop thinking about what they'll do if they do find out. Wipe us and separate us for good, or worse?"

You scoffed, but it sounded broken like you were trying to hold it together. "I can't go on with that hovering over my head. They take and take, and soon enough, there won't be anything left to take. We'll be empty versions of ourselves," you rambled on, your frustration getting the better of you.

James took your wrist, pulling you into his chest as his other hand reached up to cup your cheek. "You can't think like that," he muttered. He shushed you in a calming manner, coaxing those tears not to slip down your face or onto his thumb that was sweeping over the swell of your cheek.

You wouldn't look him in the eyes, so he added, "We're gonna find a way outta here, you hear me? Just gotta keep actin' the part. Keep obeyin' whatever order they give you, carry out whatever mission they put in front of you, and we'll be outta here soon."

Your sad, tired eyes locked with his. "You don't know that," your voice was small, shattered.

He shook his head, "I don't, but I'll tell you what I do know. Nothin' to worry about when we're together."

You seemed to relax at those words, like a balm to an internal wound. You nodded, leaning into his touch as if to savor it.

"Sorry," you apologized weakly. "We're finally away from watchful eyes, and the first thing I talk about is shit that doesn't matter right now."

"Ain't nothin' to be sorry about." He drew you closer before asking, "Can I kiss you?"

You giggled, a light and airy sound you'd never heard before; It was jarring, but you continued to observe yourself and the soldier.

"Do you even have to ask?" You responded, a grin forming on your lips.

"Always wanna give you a choice, darlin'," he said softly. "Don't get a lotta those these days."

You hummed in agreement, but he appeared to still be waiting for an answer. "Yes. Kiss me, James," you confirmed, grabbing the back of his neck.

He inched closer, capturing your lips in a sweet, tender kiss. You sighed against his mouth, melting into him. He kissed you as if he were memorizing the shape of your lips, his lips lingering in gentle brushes.

When the two of you parted, his forehead rested against yours. "I…I," he stuttered, eyes squeezed shut.

"I know," you whispered, "I do, too."

A loud, choked cough, and you were pulled right back to the present. You didn't realize how long you had been pushing on the center of his chest, but he retched, blood dribbling out the side of his mouth.

You stumbled backwards as you watched him cough up the crimson clogged in his throat. His head rolled to the side. He was still unconscious, but breathing.

You wanted to stick around, make sure he was okay, or wash the dried blood from his hands; he didn't deserve the weight of that anymore. But this wasn't the man from the vision you just had, and there wasn't a way to show him the clarity your mind brought you. So, without another word, you left.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Palms scrubbed at the caked-on blood, washing your body thoroughly. The sea of red was long gone by now, drained by Hydra. It markes the end of the first trial of the Hydra Initiative. No wonder they said to be prepared for anything, you just hadn't expected that.

You had found a waterfall off the cliffside, jumping off the ridge to meet the pool that formed at the end of it. You rid yourself of your stiff clothing and shoulder wrapping; you didn't care how many cameras were on you. You couldn't stay in them for one more second.

That logic didn't make sense to you either. Hydra had never cared about your cleanliness, and in turn, neither did you. Yet here you stood, washing the blood from your clothes and skin as if it were second nature. With every moment you spent in this arena, you felt yourself shedding the layers of training they had drilled into your mind. The illusions, the visions, and the pull you felt towards the soldier all weakened you in terms of your own humanity.

You swam to the stream of water. You took a sigh of relief when it was distinctly different than swimming in the viscous liquid from before. Your body glided through the pond, waves rippling behind you as you dipped your head under the waterfall. The water cascaded down your hair and over your shoulders. You hissed as the liquid washed over your injury, but instantly relaxed into the feeling. It still appeared to be red and irritated, but it was healing.

You let yourself enjoy the simplicity of cleaning your body. No missions, no orders, no soldier trying to kill you, or vice versa. You couldn't remember the last time you had a moment to breathe.

Once you were finished with your makeshift shower, you returned to your clothes. You had laid them out in the sun to dry quicker. They were still damp, but you slid into them anyway.

As you dressed, you heard a noise from somewhere beyond the wooded area. Leaves rustled, then the forest filled with an eerie stillness. It made you pause, scoping out your surroundings. You didn't know how the soldier could've found you so easily. Maybe you trailed blood on your way down here?

But your suspicions were cut short once you heard a low growl. You scrambled, putting on the rest of your clothes, slipping your ripped-up shirt over your head, and shoving your boots on.

You crouched, ambling forward. You tried to conceal yourself by hiding in the bushes that were low to the ground. You didn't hear any more noises until it was too late. A wolf with sharpened, keen eyes stared into your soul as if he were already feasting upon you. Another trial, you thought.

You could take a normal wolf, probably outrun them, but this wasn't a regular one; this was a towering beast. Probably one mutated by Hydra or some other sick person. You imagined it most likely stood at eye level to you, though you were still in your slouched position. The wolf prowled towards you, one paw slowly stepping in front of the other. It bared its teeth at you, eyes glowing gold.

You backed off slowly as if to say, I'm not your enemy, but he continued to move. Every step backwards from you was a step forward for it. Your back hit something hard, the wolf now pinning you with his gaze. You didn't think; you sprinted. Fleeing back the way you came, you climbed up the rock, hand catching on the edge as you hauled yourself upward. You instantly heard the beast respond, growls emanating from its mouth as it caught up to you.

It snapped at your dangling feet, drool spilling from its mouth as it tried to bite you. You pushed up onto the cliff, boots kicking downward in an attempt to get him off your trail. Once you got onto your feet, you ran. You heard the beast hop onto the edge, small rocks hitting the water below as it clambered up the side to continue its chase. It seemed like it was already gaining on you; its speed matching yours.

The woods were the first thing that came to your mind as you retraced your steps. You acknowledged that it was dangerous, but you needed a place where you could easily cover yourself. Although you understood that the soldier might still find you, you couldn’t afford to think about the consequences at that moment. All you could do was hope he would let up on you because you had saved him.

You darted through the trees, weaving your way past rocks and greenery until you spotted a cave a ways off, hidden by a cluster of trees. You picked up your pace, but it was no use. The wolf lept forward, its claws digging into the flesh of your back, where the shirt wasn't covering. You yelped in pain as it tackled you to the grass. You unsheathed the knife at your hip, rapidly flipping yourself over to cut at the beast.

You sliced across its open maw as it loomed over you. A long, jagged gash appeared on its jaw from the blade of your small weapon. It howled, head jerking backwards to get away from your slashing knife. Then, he surged forward as you tried to aim somewhere more vital. But you didn't have time to take another stab at him as his snout closed in on your face.

Your forearm shot out, effectively stopping it from ripping your face clear off. He fought with you, strength against strength, but you held firm. Your forearm was locked to hold it in place as you tried to free your weapon with your other hand. As soon as you had it in your grasp, fingers wrapped around the blade, the beast lunged forward, causing you to drop the knife.

The sound of steel clattering to the ground echoed through the forest like a reminder of how deeply fucked you were. Your free hand grabbed at its snapping jaw, pushing up and away from your face. Drool came down in trails and directly onto your face. The wolf came loose once more, and you knew you were dead already. You closed your eyes, accepting your fate.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

It didn't take long for the soldier to gain the upper hand in the fight against his own beast. Its carcass sprawled out on the dirt, echoes of its last breath still replaying in his mind. That wolf was like him in a lot of ways, and he had murdered it without a second thought. But, then again, wouldn't he want the same mercy?

It was a Hydra weapon just like him. Snapping jaws and piercing eyes were the prominent features of Hydra's creations. However, he couldn't say the same about you.

You saved him from drowning, from the blood threatening to choke him to death. Perhaps you hesitated, but the outcome was the same. The only reason he knew you saved him was because his eyes had fluttered open as you walked away, dripping blood as you left.

After washing the blood coating his skin and clothes, he heard leaves crunching not too far from his location. He knew right away it was the start of another trial, and he was prepared for anything. It only took a little tussle with the feral animal before it was dead on the ground.

Standing in the middle of the forest, he heard a noise from afar. He immediately recognized it as a howl—a beast exactly like the one he fought. No doubt, you were fighting your own. He contemplated staying put, letting it take your life instead of himself. That'd be one less death on his conscience. But he knew the punishment would be greater if he didn't do anything.

So, he stalked towards the woods, following the sound of your brawl. He eventually stumbled across the pair of you—you in the grass, struggling as the beast above you nipped at the air, trying to bite you.

He sprinted, closing the distance as he pulled the dagger from his hip. The soldat raised the knife above his head and slammed it down into the back of the monster. The wolf wailed and stumbled to the right, falling to its side. You hadn't recognized what had been done until the beast whined. You focused your attention on the dying wolf and then up at the one who killed it.

There was a flicker of appreciation in your eyes, and like a flame, it was instantly extinguished. You caught the hint of vengeance in his gaze, making you scramble to your feet, finding your weapon in the process. You held the knife out in front of you, boots firmly planted to the ground as if you were ready to fight.

"You're mine to take," he growled.

You narrowed your gaze at him, teeth clenched tight. "I could've let you drown, soldier. Don't make me regret that," you hissed.

He snorted, his jaw ticking. "Should've lemme die. That's on you for bein' weak," he snapped, stepping closer. His knife was held tightly in his right hand, knuckles going pale.

"You're really going to kill me after all that Hydra put us through?" you asked, hurt written all over your face. "We knew each other, whether you believe me or not."

He shook his head, brow furrowed. "The only reason I know you, the only reason I'm drawn to you, is because I was given an order and I will follow through."

He lunged, slashing out with his blade. You bent backwards, dodging the blow. You began to circle him, and he followed your lead, stepping in perfect time with you.

"You have shit aim, you know that?" you muttered, nodding in the direction of your injured shoulder. You were baiting him, trying to throw him off balance; it was a smart move.

"I never miss," he mumbled, so soft you barely caught it if it weren't for your magnified hearing.

It seemed like that statement hit you right in the gut. Like you were contemplating whether he meant to miss because he was in it for the chase, and shooting you in the skull was too easy, or if he didn't want you dead. He would never admit that it was the latter.

"You feel it too, don't you? That pull. In the center of your chest, like a string," you accused.

"I dunno what you're talkin' about," he lied, reaching out to take another stab at you. The blade whoshed through the space as if it were slicing the air. You ducked out of the way once more, entirely focused on his every action.

"You do," you corrected. "You just don't want to admit that you feel it, too."

The soldier's heart stuttered in his chest as if on cue. It was a throbbing ache like a calling towards you. Breath hitching, he was momentarily distracted by your statement.

You dove, knife gliding through the air and carving directly into his shoulder. It cut straight through tactical gear and black fabric, right into flesh. A gnarly gash unfurled on his shoulder, blood spilling over and dampening his clothing.

The soldier groaned, staggering backwards. Blood pooled, spreading quickly. Red darkened his palm as he tried to stop it.

You stared him down, a glimmer of suffering in your pupils like it physically pained you to hurt him. Your throat worked before you spoke, "Now we're even."

That couldn't be farther from the truth; he obviously caused more damage to your shoulder, and his would heal in a day or two. You'd shown him mercy when he showed you destruction. You were supposed to give him your all, but instead, you were holding back.

He resented you for that, for being able to disobey orders so easily. He had super soldier strength, and he wasn't even strong enough to do that.

He charged, stuffing the knife back in his holster. He struck your wrist, leaving your weapon to clatter to the dirt.

His hands outstretched to wrap around your neck, slamming you against the nearest rock. You gasped as your skull hit it, but the sound got caught in your throat as he squeezed, stealing the breath from your lungs.

The metal plates of his hand dug into your smooth skin, creating little red marks. You clawed at the hands around your neck, trying to pry his fingers off.

You lifted your leg, attempting to knee him in the gut, but he kicked it out of his path. His boot stomped down onto yours, pinning it to the ground.

You yelped, eyes wide with fear. He'd been on the other side of that stare one too many times. Blue, green, brown, hazel, all the irises of the victims he'd had in this exact hold flashed in his mind's eye.

"J-James," you squeaked, voice barely audible.

Now, he was envisioning something entirely different. You, on a creaky bed with your hair splayed across flat pillows. His hand was still across your throat like it was now, but it wasn't to choke; instead, it was to hold you in place. It was a light pressure that had your eyes glazing over in pleasure.

"James," you were moaning in the vision as his hips jerked forward to meet yours.

He mentally slapped himself, honing back in on the present you. "What the fuck did you just say?" The soldier snarled, leaning into your space. He eased off your throat to hear you more clearly.

"James," you repeated in a raspy tone. "It's your name."

As if he were a machine, the soldier's brain short-circuited. Wires severed and rewired as his head thumped with too many memories. He released his grip on your neck, grabbing his head in pain as he hollered.

The eerie calm of the forest turned into the sound of a barrage of bullets whizzing past his ears. He was on the ground, clutching his chest as maroon flowed from the wound where a bullet had nestled into layers of flesh.

"Soldier." He glanced up, and you were screaming at him, an AR-15 propped against your shoulder as you fired bullets across the space.

You took a peek at his condition before focusing back on the fight. "Soldier, get up," you ordered in a commanding tone.

He didn't move, grip loosening on his chest as his vision began to blur and his head lulled to the side.

"Fuck," you blurted out, dropping to your knees. You swung his arm over the back of your neck, your free arm enveloping his back. "Help me out here."

His hooded eyes flitted to you as he tried to get himself off the muddied ground to comply with your words. You let him lean his weight on you as you assisted him to safety. You volleyed bullets behind you as you guided him, muttering, "Stay with me. I'm gonna get you to the safe house."

When the memory flickered, he was in a cramped, dark room. Only a single buzzing light bulb cast a subtle glow over the battered furniture.

He sat on a rickety bed, sheets askew, with a hole in the mattress. Stuffing spilled out from the opening, like even it didn't want anything to do with this place.

He could see the entirety of the shack from where he was perched on the edge of the bed. The tiny table that stood on wobbly legs, the squeaky, iron wood-burning stove in the corner, and the drooping loveseat against the wall.

You were cleaning and wrapping his bare chest with such care he could've mistaken you for a nurse. You patted his shoulder as you finally fixed your gaze on his. "How does that feel, soldier?" You asked, almost methodically, as if still in the presence of your handlers.

"James," he corrected. He didn't know why he said it; maybe it was from the amount of blood he lost. Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, so he continued. "I think 's my name."

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and his hands loosely folded in front of him. "I found a file in Hydra's log. The man in it looked kinda like me," he added.

You nodded slowly as if you were agreeing with an insane person. "Okay," you drew out the syllables. "How does that feel…James?"

He couldn't help the way that made his chest tighten, like it felt right hearing it on your tongue. He stretched, straightening his back and rolling his shoulders to test the bandage. "S'alright."

You gave him a tight-lipped smile, putting all the medical supplies back in their proper bag. You turned, but before you could leave, he grabbed your wrist. You glanced down, staring at the flesh fingers wrapped around you.

"What are you doing?" You inquired, quirking a brow.

He sighed, "I dunno. Guess I need somethin' to hold."

He didn't loosen his grip, just held you there. The soldier seemed like a lost puppy in need of any kind of attention, good or bad.

"Did you hit your head on your way down?" You barked, wiggling from his grasp.

He freed you, as if you physically burned him. His flesh hand shook as it fell to his side. He balled it into a fist to stop the trembling. His chest heaved, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to steady himself.

"Soldier, stop," you snapped, but it was a weaker demand than your earlier ones. You ceased in your attempts to control him. Instead, you shook your head and bent low, trying to get eye level with him.

"Hey," you cooed, softer this time. "Look at me."

He opened his eyes, aiming them at you. He looked worn out and overworked, like he hadn't slept in days—not so dissimilar to you.

You hummed, a smirk growing on your face. He hadn't seen that before, but you were unfolding for him. "Hmm…I hadn't noticed that," you whispered as if it were a secret between the two of you.

"Huh?" He said, though a bit unstable, with the way he was still quivering.

"Your eyes. They're a deep blue," you observed, cocking your head. "Deeper than any ocean I've seen."

The soldier seemed to calm down from that. The tension in his shoulders slackened, and his fist unfurled. With a still trembling hand, he reached for your face, cupping your cheek.

You stiffened, smile fading as you felt the weight of that simple touch. He glanced down at your lips, his lust getting the better of him.

"James," you breathed. "We shouldn't." Despite your words, your gaze drifted down to his parted lips.

"Why not. There's no one here," he countered. "Just us, darlin'."

You opened your mouth to argue, but you couldn't come up with a good response. So, to coax you further, his metal hand pulled you in by your waist. You conceded, inching closer before your lips hovered near each other. You stood there breathing in one another's air until—finally—his mouth closed around yours.

It was delicate at first, the nerves getting the better of both of you. It was like relearning the rules of intimacy. Like a subject in school you had neglected, and needed to be taught all over again.

You shifted, one leg kneeling on the edge of the bed, then moved your opposite knee to straddle him. That's when he turned more confident; he gripped you tighter, refusing to let you slip away. He'd lost so much—even if he couldn't remember what exactly—he wasn't about to lose you, too.

His kisses turned firmer, dragging your hips down, so you were settled fully on his lap. Your fingers wandered gingerly up his bare sides. As touch-starved as he was, he shivered from your soft touches. Your hands found their way to his jaw, deepening the kiss.

Your hips twitched, and he groaned into your mouth at the sensation. His digits dug into the material of your pants, fighting to hold you steady. He broke the kiss, panting with heavy exhales. "Think 's been a while since I've done this," his voice wavered.

You'd never heard him so unsure; he was always solid, knowing precisely what to do when he was told to do so. He seemed soft in this lighting: his features weren't as sharp, his eyes were more gentle, and his hands—though his grip was secure—he was careful not to hurt you.

You huffed air through your nose in amusement. "It's been-" you cut yourself off in thought as your hand carded through his damp hair. "Well, I don't know how long it's been."

He sighed, his hands gliding up and down your form in comfort. You shifted your hips, lightly grazing over his bulge. "We can take our time. I'm not going anywhere," you promised.

He inhaled sharply at your teasing movements. He was smirking, though it felt too rigid, as if it were a foreign expression to him. But, either way, you seemed to enjoy the way it looked on him because you were grinning right back.

Before you could even blink, he had flipped you on your back. You hit the mattress with the sound of springs squeaking under you. He crawled over you, injury long forgotten as he pressed you into the bed. "Oh, I'll be takin' my time, darlin'," he rasped.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You rubbed at your neck, taking your time to catch your breath as oxygen filled your lungs once again. The soldier was still clutching his head, bent over in agony. You stepped towards him hesitantly, your tone soft as you spoke, "James?" You put a hand on his shoulder, leaning into his ear.

He spun, eyes full of rage and ruin. He seized your neck for a second time, pushing you back to your original position against the rock. This time, he wasn't using that leverage to drain the life from you, but he was letting you know he could do just that.

"Don't fuckin' call me that," he warned. He no longer appeared to be as intimidating as he was before. Rather, his eyes gleamed with panic as if he saw a ghost.

"Okay, okay. You obviously just saw something that scared you, or maybe confused you. Do you want to talk about it?" you offered, raising your arms in surrender to tell him he was in control of the situation.

"No," he barked, clutching tight on your throat. "'M endin' this. Now."

You were done with this game; the back and forth alone was killing you. One second, he was a broken man with a mind as addled as yours; the next, he was a murderous, wild brute who would harm anything in his path. You couldn't blame him, but that didn't make it any less maddening.

Your arms dropped to your sides, but not in surrender, instead to discreetly withdraw the blade that was holstered to his hip. You feigned a frightened state as your fingers fumbled for purchase on the weapon. Your palm wrapped around the dark handle, eventually. You unseathed it, instantly plunging it into his side.

He grunted, staggering slightly as he glanced down at the knife lodged in his side. It was a shallow stab wound; you barely got the blade halfway in before he yanked away from you. The Kevlar was immediately met with copious amounts of blood, soaking the material.

He didn't pause; he ripped the knife from its place, scarlet spraying from the laceration upon removal. That blade, dripping blood, was headed straight for you. Eyes flared with fury as he raised the weapon above his head.

Your leg abruptly flung upward. You roundhouse kicked his wrist, sending the blade flying and landing within the mouth of the cave. You didn't even spare a glance in his direction, just sprinted towards the only available weapon in sight.

He was on your tail in an instant, striving to push you out of the path. Your elbow shot out, jabbing him in the ribs to throw him off balance. He was barely fazed, still hot on your heels.

You pounced, landing hard on your stomach as you snatched the knife. The soldier was right behind, but too late. You turned, ambushing him and throwing him to the stone flooring. The cave echoed with your scuffle as you moved to straddle his stomach and lift the blade into the air.

You drove the weapon downward, but he caught your wrists. Still, you pushed, using every last inch of your strength that you'd been holding back. The razor-sharp edge got closer and closer, even in your struggle. You pressed until the tip of the knife hovered directly above his eye.

Terror etched itself into his features, yet he seemed to relax as if he was prepared to die. In the face of death, all he could do was close his eyes like he was praying you'd make it as painless as possible. It made your heart ache, and you felt your throat closing up.

You relinquished the blade, tossing it to the opposite wall of the cave. The clink resonated throughout the tight space. His eyes blinked open as you rose to stand above him.

"I told you, I don't want to kill you," you restated. "If it's what you must do, I surrender. Put me out of my misery, James." Tears welled up in your vision, your surroundings turning to a blurry blob of color.

He scrambled, pushing up to stand adjacent to you. Your lip wobbled as you stared at him—a man you felt such intense feelings for. Though you could hardly recollect anything from your time spent together, the pang in your chest was hard to ignore.

He marched towards you; every stomp of his boots against rock felt like a beat to a chilling melody—a sickening bass in salute to your departure. He bridged the gap, hands reaching out to cup your jaw. All that rage disappeared, replaced by…longing?

His breath came out in hefty pants, air fanning across your warm skin. His expression softened for a moment before he was on you. His lips captured yours in a heated, desperate kiss. Like he'd been thirsty and you were water, like he'd been hungry and you were sustenance, like he was drowning and you were air to breathe.

You gasped, and he devoured the noise, mouth moving against yours eagerly. He walked you backwards, spine hitting the cool stone. You groaned, the claw marks in your back still fresh. Then, you were moaning for an entirely different reason as he slotted his knee between your thighs, pinning you in place.

His mouth felt both familiar and brand new—a striking contrast. Yet, it ignited a series of fireworks in your mind. Every brush of his lips sent a spark that kindled anew. His lips pressed forcefully into yours before he pulled away, scanning your face. You breathed in tandem; every deep breath in for you was a puff of air out for him.

"I know you," he finally said, caressing your face like you were something fragile.

He took your wrist and lifted your hand to the top of his head. "But not here," he mumbled, transferring your hand from his hair to right over his heart. "I know you here." The organ pounded against his chest, and maybe your head was still spinning from the kiss, but it felt like it was beating in time with yours.

You grasped his flesh hand that was on your jaw and placed it over your heart. "I know you there, too," you whispered.

He let out a rough exhale, gazing down at you with upturned eyebrows. His eyes flicked down to your wounded shoulder. His right hand tenderly traced over the already forming scar as if seeing it for the first time through crystal clear vision.

"Fuck," he grumbled. "'M sorry. 'M so sorry." He lowered his face, planting a kiss to the injury.

Your heart cracked at the sight of him so broken over something that seemed so insignificant at a time like this. You took his face in your hands, elevating it to look into those steel blues.

"Not your fault," you assured him, thumb brushing over the flush of his cheek. "You did what you were ordered to do."

"You didn't," he replied. "'M a coward. Should've fought it. Should've fought for you, instead of with you, darlin'."

Hearing that pet name in this context made a shudder roll through you. You grinned, despite the pain emanating from your chest.

"I don't know, I got you pretty good in the side," you teased to hopefully lighten the mood, seeking out the smile you saw in your visions from before.

The soldier snorted, a smirk peeking from the corner of his lips. "That hurt like bitch," he taunted back, brushing a loose hair behind your ear.

You leaned into his touch, relishing in the feeling of his calloused fingers against your velvet skin.

"I don't wanna hurt you anymore," he added, more seriously. "Lemme make the pain go away. Wanna make you feel good."

"You have nothing to make up for," you reiterated. Yet, his eyes continued to linger, waiting for a direct answer. So, you nodded. "Okay, James. Make me feel good."

It didn't take much convincing because he immediately leaned down to your faintly bruised neck, and trailed kisses from the center of your throat to the crook of your neck. You hummed, resting your head back against the rock to give him more access.

His flesh hand drifted down your body, stopping at the button of your tactical pants. He fidgeted with it until it came loose. He followed it by pulling the zipper down, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear.

Your breath hitched as two fingers found your pussy, sliding them through your folds. "So wet f' me," he growled into your skin.

His fingers moved back up to rub sensual circles into your aching clit. Your hips jerked, back arching against stone. "James," you gasped.

"That's right. Sounds so sweet from your lips. How could I ever forget my name when you're sayin' it like that," he cooed in your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

The revelation made your gut churn—he forgot something as precious as his name—but he soothed the twinge with another swirl of his digits around your bud. You grabbed at him; your arm encompassing his shoulders to pull him closer while your other hand snaked through his long locks.

Fist closing around his hair, you gave him a gentle tug. He moaned, the touch only spurring him on. He bit down on your earlobe, giving it a soft yank, before soothing it with a kiss.

His fingers continued to move, picking up the pace. You whined and held on tighter to his figure as he stuck out his tongue to taste you, lathering you in his saliva in the process.

"Gotta taste you. If you're skin tastes this good, I can only imagine how sweet that pussy tastes," he murmured, inclining back to gauge your reaction. You nodded frantically, eager to feel him everywhere.

He pulled his hand out of the confines of your panties, bringing them to his lips. He licked the digits, then pushed them past his lips to suck them clean. You bit your lip, watching his eyes darken with desire at just that small sample.

Without warning, he grasped both sides of your cargos along with your underwear, sliding them down the length of your legs. Stabilizing yourself against his shoulder, he helped you out of the pants, making sure to slip you out of your boots first. He bent down to free one leg out of your pants, followed by the other, and tossed the two articles of clothing somewhere in the cave.

Dropping down to his knees, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder. James licked his lips at the delicious sight of you on full display.

"Such a pretty pussy," he complimented, looking up through his eyelashes at you. He turned his head to press a kiss to your inner thigh. He inched closer, each kiss leading closer to where you needed him most. He inhaled your scent, practically growling as he breathed you in.

His tongue darted out, flattening it as it skimmed through your center, gathering your juices. He hummed in delight, eyes rolling back. "Best damn thing I've tasted."

You shivered, knees already giving out at the light pressure. He gave little kitten licks to your clit before diving back in. The length of his tongue lapped at you, causing you to fist his hair and lean your shoulder blades back into the wall.

His lips closed around your sensitive bud, alternating between sucking hard and swirling the tip of his tongue around it.

"Mmm…feels good," you praised.

He chuckled against your cunt, sending vibrations through you. "I've just started, darlin'. Gonna make you feel so much better."

With that, he raised his hand to your entrance, fingers circling your hole to tease. The pads of his fingers made air catch in the back of your throat, but it quickly turned to a whimper as he pushed the pair inside, stretching you open for him. He was knuckle deep, but he kept going as his tongue worked on you.

"Ooh, so tight," he muttered. "Gotta work you open, don't I? If you ever want me to fit, 'm gonna have to."

His digits slid out and pumped back in. Slowly working in and out until it was easier for him to thrust them inside.

Your walls clenched, your body not used to good touch like this—touch you wanted. Somehow, you knew it always felt this good with him, like even if your brain didn't fully remember, your body did.

His fingers picked up speed, along with his tongue. It was overwhelming the way his tongue danced and his fingers curled into your plush walls. Your hips wiggled, jerking this way and that as the tension in your stomach built.

His metal hand closed around your ass, squeezing the cheek and ceasing your movements. "Stay still f' me. Lemme get you there," he spoke around his tongue.

You squeaked, trying to keep your hips still as he worked in time with his unrelenting fingers. He curled his fingers, caressing your walls. His teeth grazed your clit before he flicked his tongue over it. His wrist jerked rapidly upon feeling you squeeze his fingers. You whined, grinding your hips down on his tongue; you couldn't help it.

The coil that was tightening in your stomach burst as you came on his hand with a strangled cry. He worked you through it, fingers driving in and out of your weeping pussy. His tongue lapped around where his fingers were being compressed to get every last drop of your wetness.

You collapsed into the rock, body slumping from the orgasm he just gave you. He slipped his digits free from your still throbbing cunt. After, he removed your leg from its position on his shoulder, stabilizing you as he pulled you down to where he knelt.

You complied, and he helped you lie down on the floor of the cave. A chill ran through you as the cold stone touched your bare skin. He shifted you, grabbing the undersides of your knees and dragging you closer. He hovered over you, hands splayed on either side of your head.

He smoothed your hair back with a smirk plastered on his face. "So pretty. My pretty girl."

Your hooded eyes honed in on him, arm outstretched to cup his cheek. "Yours, huh?" you inquired, and his smile only widened. "I think I like the sound of that."

"Good, because 'm not lettin' you go this time," he vowed, his voice so firm that you almost had to believe him. His hands glided up your sides, mapping out your body. Every curve and dip was being stored away in a part of his mind like a file.

James' hands grabbed the tattered edges of your shirt and tugged. You lifted your arms for him, and the material came loose, exposing yourself wholly. He was gawking at you, his eyes clouding over with hunger.

"Damn," was all he could get out before his head dipped. His mouth met the valley between your tits, trailing kisses down your sternum, then making his way back up. His lips traveled up the swell of your breast, lips catching your nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out. You mewled, spine bowing as his tongue spiraled around the bud.

"Fuck, James," you crooned. He let go with a soft pop, migrating to the opposite breast while his warm hand met the one he was just giving all his attention to. He cupped your tit, feeling the weight of it in his hand until he was massaging the pliable skin. He mouthed at your other one, lightly biting your nipple in the process.

"Please," you begged, squirming beneath him. The heat in your stomach was swirling again, practically pleading for relief. He raised his head, and his face was all smug. You couldn't help but grin at that cocky look on his face.

"Need me that bad, huh?"

"Yes," you admitted. "Please."

James inclined back, yanking at the buttons on his chest until they came undone. He unzipped the leather, shrugging out of it. He lingered over you, scared chest on full display. Your delicate fingers ran over the scarring on the place where the metal met flesh. Jagged, deep cuts and red raised marks littered his skin.

You leaned up on your elbow to get a closer look—eyes scanning over the pain he's lived with since Hydra turned him into a weapon. You put your mouth over the scars, kissing every place your lips could reach.

You pulled back, gazing up at him with warmth swimming in your eyes. "You're perfect."

It was simple, but the words held so much truth. Despite everything he'd been through, he was still James, and he was still perfect.

He shook his head, but didn't argue with you. Rather, he stole a kiss, pushing you backwards with his lips, so you were laid out before him once again. They moved languidly against yours as his tongue swept across your bottom lip, requesting access. You parted your lips for him, and his tongue delved into your mouth. It prodded into the opening; every crevice was his to explore.

The soldier's hips moved, dragging his clothed dick over your soaked pussy. You sighed into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist. His hands fiddled with his tactical pants and slipped them down his thighs until his cock sprang free. He gripped the base, pumping it a few times, precum leaking from the slit.

He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your wet heat. You gasped against his lips, and he broke the kiss to focus on your expression.

"Ready for me, darlin'?" he breathed, hot air fanning across your kiss-swollen lips. You dipped your head in acknowledgement, and he didn't waste any more time.

The head of his cock, pressed into your tight cunt. You moaned, head tipping back against the stone, his dick stretching you out more than his finger ever could.

"Ah ah," he tutted, grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger to force your gaze back down. "Lemme watch you as it goes in, sweet thing."

You obeyed, eyes trained on his as he pushed in further. Inch by aching inch, he gave it all to you. He let out a strained groan, the veins in his neck sticking out as he held back. His hips jerked, the last inch shoved into you too quickly as you whimpered. You were pelvis to pelvis as he bottomed out inside you.

Your head reeled from the fullness of your pussy. Your walls secured around him like a vice, like you were holding on and never wanted to let him go.

After you adjusted to his length and girth, he eventually gave you what you needed most. He pulled out to the tip and slammed back into you. You quivered at the intensity, mouth wide open in a silent scream. James did it again, thrusting into you hard, causing you to dig the heels of your feet into his ass.

He grunted, his hips moving sloppily as he fucked you. Your eyes rolled back, only the whites visible. His tip bumped your cervix, and you wailed. "James. J-James," you stuttered.

"Tell me, baby," he coaxed.

You clutched the sides of his face, tears pricking your eyes. "We can-" you couldn't get the rest of the sentence out, another loud moan cutting off your train of thought.

He slowed, his hips faltering as he tried to catch what you were trying to say. He brushed the hair from your face, locking eyes with you.

"What is it?" he said, concern laced in his tone.

You took a moment to return to reality. "We can take our time," you panted, a playful smile gracing your face. "I'm not going anywhere."

His chest constricted; that was the same thing you said in the vision he had. He grinned, but it promptly faded once he realized what you were saying. "Shit, did I hurt you?"

"No," you blurted, waving him off. "I just want this to last. Just slow down a little, okay?"

He nodded against your hands that were still framing his face. He rolled his hips, testing. You let out a sweet moan, and he decided right then and there that he needed to hear more of that. So, he slowly drew his hips into you, grinding when he met your pelvis.

Your eyelashes fluttered, keening as his thrusts deepened. "How does that feel?" he asked, keeping a steady pace.

"Good. Really fucking good," you commended.

He eased in and out of you unhurriedly, gazing down at you like you just hung the stars. You ran your fingers through his hair, a glint in your eyes. "What is it, James?" You cocked your head, hair rumpled from the gesture.

He opened his mouth, but he could only groan in pleasure. The soldat's head was a jumbled-up mess, but one thing was plain, but it felt too difficult to put into words. Yet, three little words flashed in his mind like an open sign.

"I-I," he stumbled over the simple word like it had fifteen vowels instead of just the one. It didn't help that he was using all of his focus to hold back from railing you into the ground. A deep rumble came from his chest, frustrated with himself for being so tongue-tied.

Your knuckles brushed over his cheekbone, tears threatening to spill over onto your cheeks.

"I know. I do, too." You didn't know whether you were repeating the words from the vision like a script, or if you'd said it so many times that it was muscle memory.

James turned his face, pressing a kiss to your palm before snapping his hips into yours. He hadn't sped up much, but all the same, you let out a throaty moan.

"Just like that-fuck-" the words spewed from your lips like a sprinkler.

"Yeah? Lemme hear you, pretty girl."

You didn't hesitate; you let him hear every sound, the erotic noises being ripped from your throat with every twitch of his hips. You were falling apart under him, the tension sharply rising.

He changed the position, unwrapping one of your legs by the underside of your knee. He pushed it up, folding it up into your stomach. You squeezed your eyes shut at the new sensation, the tears leaking from the corners. The head of his cock was bumping your sweet spot repeatedly while you continued to wail.

"James, can't-" you whimpered.

"You gonna come, darlin'?" He lowered his head, closing the distance. "Come for me. Need to feel that pretty pussy come all over my cock."

It didn't take much convincing, your cunt clenching tight around his length while your eyes glazed over with pleasure. The foundation cracked, floor crumbling under your feet as you came with a sob of his name. Your pussy fluttered around him, orgasm washing over you in giant waves.

His dick was still ramming roughly into you, mesmerized by how perfect you looked while your release took over your body. You were gasping for air as you tilted your head back in your blissed-out state.

"Shh," he soothed. "Breathe, baby. There ya go. I got you." Every honeyed word dripped onto your ears, working you through your climax.

Your walls squeezed, making his dick twitch. He clutched the underside of your knee in a desperate attempt to make this last, but you felt too good.

James slammed in deep, spilling into you with a low grunt. He unloaded, hot spurts of cum filling your pulsating pussy.

He shivered above you, metal arm planted firmly on the rock flooring, so he wouldn't collapse on top of you. Your body trembled, still floating on a cloud of ecstasy as you finally relaxed.

Your eyelids felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your form. He pulled out with a hiss, milky release flowing from you and coating your inner thighs with the mess. Your head lulled, eyes blinking slowly.

He tugged his pants back up, cautious enough not to disturb his sensitive cock. Though he could've gone for a round two—keep you full of him and begging for recovery time. But you were already drunk off the pleasure he gave you; maybe that could wait for another time.

He slid his hand beneath you, scooping you up into his arms. He shifted to lie down, guiding you to rest on top of him. Your naked body curled into his, face nuzzling into his bare chest, and legs draped over his midsection. You hummed, and maybe it was because you were content in his arms, but you hadn't said anything.

"You okay, darlin'?" he questioned, hand wandering into your hair as he smoothed back some of the strays. "You in pain?"

You shook your head against his peck. James still didn't delay in giving your shoulder a lingering kiss in a silent apology.

"What's goin' on?" he pressed, determined to get the truth out.

You were shaking in his arms now, and it wasn't from the chill, nor the aftershocks of your climax. "What if they find us?" Your voice wobbled, anxiety getting the better of you.

He'd had the same fears even if he didn't voice them aloud. Regardless of his worries, he needed to put yours to rest. "When they do, we fight, huh? We use the very thing they instilled in our bodies to fight back."

Your figure continued to tremble, so he added, "'M gonna keep you safe, I promise. I won't let anythin' hurt you."

He buried his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent. "Nothin' to worry about when we're together, darlin'," he muttered.

You inhaled a deep breath, calming yourself as you relaxed into him, your stiff form going limp against his. Your breathing started to even out, air coming out in gentle puffs across his chest. You were melting into his arms, without any concern for what tomorrow might bring.

He lay there staring at the ceiling as his flesh fingers drew idle patterns into your soft skin. He wasn't going to rest tonight. He was set on watching over you while the Earth resumed its rotation. Like that of the Earth, his world revolved around the sun—you.

James planted a kiss on your hairline, finally getting the courage to whisper, "I love you."

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The soldier yawned; he must've fallen asleep in his attempt to observe your sleeping form. He felt around, patting his chest, eyes remained closed as he searched for you. When he came up empty, he blinked his eyes awake.

His stomach dropped; he felt sick, his gut churning.

You were limp in a Hydra soldier's arms, neck craned back as he didn't care enough to support your head. Your chest rose and fell with tiny breaths as if you were still sleeping, but he knew better than that.

"Oh, good. You're awake," a deep voice came from his left, but James' eyes were still locked on you. He jolted, sprinting full speed to tackle the one who had you, consequences be damned.

"Sieze the mut," that same voice ordered.

In an instant, soldiers swarmed him left and right, but he kicked and clawed at them like a wild animal, like that mutated wolf from the forest. His metal fist connected with one man, while another got a faceful of his boot. He had five down in a matter of seconds, but they kept coming.

He had one by the throat, ready to snap his neck, but his arms were being yanked like a game of tug o' war. One operative came up from behind him, a sharp pain poking into the soldat's neck. He instantly realized it was a needle when his limbs became too heavy to carry on his own.

Still, he swung his fists in a weak endeavor to get you, even in his drugged state. A kick was sent to the back of his knees, causing him to drop to the ground. A second later, the soldiers had him in a hold. He squirmed and jerked his body, but their hold remained steady.

"You put on quite the show." When the soldier eventually turned his head to note who was talking, he recognized this to be Alexander Pierce. The man's demeanor was solid, but James caught the hint of stress glistening in his intense gaze.

"'M gonna kill you," the soldier hissed. "Don't you fuckin' touch her."

"Cute," Pierce said sarcastically. "Sweet, really."

The strawberry blonde man stepped closer, rocks crunching under his shoes. "Y'know, I thought the Hydra Initiative was done for after the little stunt you two pulled," he began.

"But turns out sex sells, and the investors loved it, even though we couldn't see much. I wasn't clever enough to put cameras in the cave." He tapped a finger on his head, a terrifying grin on his lips.

"Boy, you two went at it like a pair of rabid bunnies," he chuckled darkly. "Oh, and the wives, they ate that shit up. Rambled on and on about how romantic it was that you found love in a place like this."

"Too bad, I'll have to wipe you and start all over again," he shrugged like it was inconsequential.

James clenched his jaw so tight that he felt a headache forming behind his forehead. He writhed in the operative's clutches, trying to break out, but the drug was weakening him exponentially.

"Okay, let's move," Pierce's gaze flicked to the other Hydra members. "Get back to base, and put them back under."

A symphony of "yes, sir's" filled the cave as they agreed to their orders. They dispersed, and that was a sign for operatives to grab James and haul him upwards. They walked him out like a dog on a constricting leash, and he was choking on it.

You came into view once again. You were being carried away like a rag doll, your legs swaying with every step of the soldier moving you. The man walked you to one of the trucks parked outside the cave. You were being tossed into the bed of the vehicle, your body hitting the metal with a loud thud.

His heart shattered, his breath catching as he watched you—an unclothed mannequin being sent away to storage. He struggled to get back to you, arms flailing and legs driving forward.

He just needed to hold you one more time. He needed to tell you he was sorry for not keeping his promise by protecting you. He failed you. The only mission he ever cared to succeed at, and he fucked up. He should have run away with you last night, found a place out of this hellhole, but it was too late now.

The two of you were being wiped again—a nightmare coming true. He felt like he was dying, but this seemed like a fate worse than death. He was losing you all over again.

His legs trembled on the unstable ground, and his vision blurred. The drug was fully taking effect, and there was nothing he could do about it.

With the little strength he had left, he whispered into the windy air. He prayed you could somehow hear him over the whistle of the breeze. "No matter how many times they make us forget, I will always find my way back to you. I will love you in every lifetime, my pretty girl."

Then, his legs gave out, and he fell to the dirt. James' eyes were still locked on you—the woman whom his heart belonged to—as he faded into his unconscious state.

💌: @miraclediviner @stanmarvelous @wherewinterblooms @metal-armed-muse @buckytakethewheel @overwintering-soldier @wint3rbarnes @phoenix-in-writing @sheriff-bodecker @angclone @wickedfun9 @phantom-wolf-girl @galactict3a @buckyslove1917 @wildflowersandvibranium @spo0ky-exe @heldbybarnes @sebastians-love @star-yawnznn (love y'all)

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Main Masterlist

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Bucktober Masterlist ⋆⭒˚.⋆

[buckytakethewheel]

Stan-tastic Association presents

Stan-o-ween

Welcome to the first collaboration of Stan—tastic associations — Stan-o-ween

Stan-o-ween features different stories, from gut-wrenching angst to sweet fluff. From scary dark to toe-curling smut.

Thanks to the amazing @angclone for the amazing header. Divider made by Syd.

DISCLAIMER! MINORS DNI!

4rd October — The bad doctor | @sunday-bug

Steve Kemp / smut

6th October — You’re lost and I’m insane | @mcrdvcks

Bucky Barnes / dark-ish, smut

9th October — My girlfriend is a witch | @brnssldr

Bucky Barnes / angst, fluff

11th October — Unhallowed be thy name | @buckytakethewheel

Chase Collins / dark-ish, smut

13th October — Blood will have blood | @holylulusworld

Bucky Barnes / dark

14th October — Caramel kisses | @stanmarvelous

40’s Bucky Barnes / fluff

16th October — Lost and cornfused | @soelstress

Jefferson / angst, fluff

18th October — Bucky’s haunted horrors | @buckybarnes82

Bucky Barnes / angst, fluff

19th October — Pinned against each other | @barnes-babydoll

Bucky Barnes / smut

21st October — I put a spell on you | @angclone

Bucky Barnes / smut

22nd October — Hungry work | @nonotwithoutu

Bucky Barnes / smut

23rd October — Caught in your crosshairs | @gemmawritess

Bucky Barnes / fluff

24th October — Ghostly past and spirited present | @wint3rbarnes

Bucky Barnes / smut, fluff

26th October — No rest for the wicked | @elixirfromthestars

Bucky Barnes / fluff, angst, murder mystery

27th October — Dancing in the dark | @gremlin-girly

Bucky Barnes / fluff

29th October — Falling for you | @navybrat817

Bucky Barnes / fluff, possible smut

31st October — Thy bones to break | @miraclediviner

Bucky Barnes / angst, smut

[stanmarvelous]

Caramel Kisses

Characters: 40’s!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Word Count: <2.2K (!!)

Summary: Bucky takes you to the fall festival at Coney Island.

Content Warning: Pure fluff! Established relationship (young love!), kissing, use of pet names (doll, my girl, sweetheart)

A/N: I’m so excited to present my piece for Stan-O-Ween with the Stantastic Association! Banner and divider by me. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own.

Masterlist || AO3

A rainbow of leaves crunch underfoot as you and Bucky walk through the busy streets of Brooklyn. Pedestrians brush by on the sidewalk as street lamps begin to flicker on, the cool air nipping gently at any exposed skin it can reach.

You probably should’ve worn stockings today, the fabric of your dress not quite enough to battle October’s evening temperatures—but it’s too late for that now.

And Bucky’s entirely to blame.

“Hey, doll,” he had said. A charmingly crooked grin adorned his face the moment you opened your door. “You, me, Coney Island. What d’you think?”

You glanced at the small clock on the wall of your apartment, the time barely after 6pm. The sun is already beginning to set. “So late?” you questioned, head tilted to the side.

He just nodded and didn’t give you another moment to think before his hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you out the door. You had barely managed to grab your coat off the rack before you found yourself rushing down the stairs of the apartment building, trying not to trip over your own feet attempting to keep up with him.

Now, vehicles pass by on the street in a rush, and despite him walking between you and the road like the gentleman his ma raised him to be, his body is unable to shield you completely from the added breeze to the already cool air.

“Buck, are you sure this is a good idea? It’s probably colder at the Island,” you say, one hand firmly tucked in the crook of his arm, the other shoved in the small pocket of your coat.

He glances over at you, a boyish grin spreading on his face as his blue eyes meet yours, sparkingly in the evening light. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll keep you warm.” He places a large hand over the top of yours and guides you towards the stairs to the subway. “Besides, I’m sure at least one of the stands has some hot apple cider.”

By the time you step off the subway and onto the street, the air is borderline cold. A small breeze blows off the bay and through your hair—and your clothes, for that matter.

You can almost swear Bucky smirks as you cling tighter to him for the warmth seeping through his own coat.

The lights of Coney Island shine brightly in front of you as you approach, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite the temperature. The sounds of rides, screaming children, and the not-so-distant sound of waves crashing onto the beach fill the air.

Bucky is practically giddy—his love of rides, carnival games, and food easily accessible and all in one place.

Booths line the street, each one decorated for the season. Some have paper pumpkins plastered on the signs, some have fake spiderwebs. Others have leafy garlands draped along the counters, or simple signs that read 'Happy Halloween!' As you pass, you notice each one has at least one Halloween-themed prize to win.

“Smell that?” Bucky suddenly says as the arched entrance comes into view. His eyes close momentarily as his chin tilts into the air, inhaling the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and the salty sea air.

You take a quick sniff and your stomach growls obscenely loud, like you hadn’t already eaten before he showed up on your doorstep. Bucky laughs, opening his eyes to look at you.

“Alright, let’s get my girl a little something, huh?”

The two of you make your way inside the main area of Luna Park, families bustling about and trying to wrangle their kids, and couples on similar date nights to your own.

Bucky first buys two hot dogs—“Gotta make sure we don’t get sick from just sugar”—before making you ride the Cyclone twice.

But that’s not nearly enough for the Sergeant, who eats like he’s still a growing teenager, so he then buys some kettle corn and proceeds to lose about half the bag in his mission to catch each piece in his mouth.

“Buck,” you say with a laugh, tugging on his arm just in time for him to toss another in the air. “You’re wasting it!” He opens his mouth wide, and sure enough, it bounces right off his forehead and falls to the ground for a pigeon to snatch up.

He chuckles in response, nudging you with his shoulder. “Fine, your turn.”

He tosses one in the air before you can protest and it hits you on the nose before joining the other pieces on the concrete. He laughs loudly, head falling back as he grabs his stomach.

“Bucky!” you swat his arm playfully, grabbing the bag from his hands. “This is mine now. No more for you.”

He gasps in mock offense, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “Really, doll? But I’m still hungry.”

You shrug and back away, careful to hold the bag out of his immediate reach. “You can’t be that hungry, Sergeant, or you’d eat it.”

He narrows his eyes playfully and follows your movement, taking a step towards you. “I was eating it.”

You move back again, and he follows without hesitation, the curve of a small smirk beginning to form on his face. “You’re really going to keep it from me?”

“Only to make sure the pigeons don’t get all of it.” You turn and begin walking towards the Wonder Wheel, not bothering to check that he’s following.

He scoffs, lunging forward to quickly close the distance, his strong arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his chest. You squeal as he does so, earning the stares of several people around you. Warmth radiates from him, his broad chest pressed against your back, and you realize just how cold you’ve gotten here on the boardwalk.

“Sweetheart, the birds need to eat, too,” he teases with a wide grin.

He leans down, his cold nose nuzzling into the warm crook of your neck. The temperature difference is startling and you squeak softly, squirming in his grip. His smile drops. “Are you cold?”

You nod, a shiver following quickly, and he frowns. “I’m so sorry, I told you I’d keep you warm. C’mon, let’s go get you a drink.”

Keeping you closely tucked into his side, he guides you to yet another vendor, this one stocked with all sorts of fall goodies—apple cider, pumpkin cookies, Rice Krispie treats shaped like ghosts, and caramel apples with varying toppings.

Bucky orders two hot cups of cider, the steam evaporating quickly into the night air as your cold fingers wrap around the warm paper cup. Then, despite your refusal, he buys a caramel apple.

“Y’know what we should do?” he says, taking a sip of his own cider, gaze flicking around the many attractions and booths as he twirls the caramel apple by the stick absentmindedly. The crowd is beginning to thin, the late time and ocean breeze starting to scare people off. “We should go ride the Red Mill.”

You shake your head, knowing what’s coming. “You would suggest that,” you tease, face burning again.

He scoffs playfully, eyes rolling before landing on you again. “Is it so bad that I want to sit close to my favorite girl in a dark boat, drinking cider and just generally enjoying your company?” He winks and jerks his head for you to follow as he makes his way across the park towards the ride’s entrance.

You bite your lip, heels clicking on the ground as you hurry to keep up with his long strides, careful not to spill your drink.

The line is short, but by the time the small boat pulls up in front of the two of you, your cider is gone; thirst and desire for warmth completely taking over. Bucky tosses both your garbage before climbing in behind you, draping one arm over the back of your seat and pulling you close.

“You spoil me, you know that?” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder in hopes to steal some of his body heat.

He grins like a kid in a candy shop that’s been told he has an unlimited budget and to get anything he wants. He sits up a little straighter and puffs out his chest. “Damn right I do. You deserve everything.”

Your heart leaps, a different kind of warmth spreading rapidly in your chest. You feel your face flush again and the muscles in your cheeks beginning to ache from smiling so much.

He rests his cheek on your head for a moment as the ride jerks to life, the small boat heading for the dark tunnel ahead.

It's not long before he’s eyeing the caramel apple still in his hand, and he speaks again. “You’re gonna help me with this, right?”

You nod as you look up at him, watching him take the first bite. His lips press into the sticky treat, humming in appreciation. A small piece of caramel sticks to his lip, which he licks right off as he offers the stick to you, your fingers brushing his as you take it.

The caramel surprisingly soft when you take a bite, and as you start to hand the stick back to Bucky, you notice the smirk plastered on his face.

“You, uh,” he starts, pointing to his own lip. “You’ve got a bit of caramel.”

You raise your eyebrows and attempt to lick the sticky goop off your lip, but you must not have gotten it all because his smirk widens.

“It’s still there, isn’t it?” you ask quietly, your free hand flying up to cover your mouth. Of course he had to buy the stickiest dessert at the park. And of course he had to drag then you onto his second favorite ride at Coney Island, far from any napkins.

“Here, I’ve got you.”

He gently moves your hand out of the way, his thumb coming up to carefully swipe at the caramel and lingering a moment longer than necessary.

Your breath hitches, heart skipping a beat. It’s been months by now, but no matter how long you’ve been with him, James Barnes still takes your breath away. Tonight was no exception.

“You’re staring, sweetheart.” He smirks, voice low and wrapping you in a different kind of warmth. He pulls his thumb away, sticking it in his mouth to clean off the caramel.

“I can’t help it, James,” you whisper, face burning.

He chuckles softly, thumb slipping back out of his mouth as his blue eyes locked on yours. Something in his facial expression shifts—subtle, but there.

Neither of you have been paying any attention to the ride, the scenes drifting by as though they aren’t even there.

Slowly, he reaches back up to cup your face, palm rough against your soft skin. “Sweetheart, I hope you know how much you mean to me,” he whispers, pausing for a moment, eyes searching yours in the dim light of the ride. “I would do anything for you. Including eating caramel off your face.”

You nearly snort a laugh at that and lean into his warm touch. “I can take another bite of the apple if that’s what you want.”

He chuckles again, gaze flicking to your parted lips. “That won’t be necessary.”

Just as the ride’s current scene ends and transitions into darkness, Bucky leans forward, his soft lips brushing against yours—slow and completely unbothered.

The darkness envelops you, heightening your remaining senses. The smooth glide of his lips on your own has something tugging in your gut, and he tastes of caramel, cinnamon, and apples. The clicking of the ride’s track, water gently flowing around the boat, and a soft hum of contentment are the only sounds you can hear. You're not even sure if the sound came from you or him, too lost in the moment to care.

One large hand slides to the back of your head, the other finding its way to your waist to pull you closer in your seat and deepening the kiss. Your arms find their way around his neck, caramel apple stick still firmly in your hand.

He pulls back after a few moments and rests his forehead on yours, lips parted and kiss-swollen.

The boat glides along, finally exiting the building and back outside to the cold night air. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he helps you up and out of the ride, one that usually appears when he’s feeling mischievous—which is often.

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, eyes darting around your surroundings. He smirks. “James, I swear—”

You don’t have a chance to finish before he’s scooping you up into his arms and tossing you over his shoulder. Your happy squeals capturing the attention of everyone still on this end of the boardwalk as he takes his sweet time heading back to the subway.

Tag list (WIP): @star-yawnznn @sebastians-love @wint3rbarnes @sunday-bug @gremlin-girly @barnes-babydoll @sebs-babygirl @wherewinterblooms @wintersoldiersgfie @buckytakethewheel @overwintering-soldier @miraclediviner

Finally getting my act together with the taglist, sorry if I’ve been missing you!

[wint3rbarnes]

GHOSTLY PAST AND SPIRITED PRESENT

pairing ۶ৎ tfatws!bucky x avenger!reader.

summary ۶ৎ in which, bucky barnes has mastered the skill of evading your sunny disposition that glows brighter than a jack-o'-lantern during halloween. yet, when spectres are conjured from his past, he discovers you're the closest thing to reality he has, and every fibre of his being is never letting you go.

warnings ۶ৎ 18+ content/mdni, grumpy ( bucky ) x sunshine ( reader ), fluff, some last-minute planned angst ( i had to, i’m sorry ), italics are in flashbacks, ptsd ( hydra ), dissociation, mentions of blood, violence and death, vulnerable!bucky, switch!bucky, body worship, oral ( m!receiving ), p in v ( unprotected ), pet names ( buttercup, baby ), pov switching, no use of y/n.

𝓐/n ۶ৎ i’m so proud to be apart of stan-o-ween amongst incredible writers and i hope i’ve done them proud with this! i’m too tired to edit rn so i apologise if there’s any mistakes. thank you for taking the time to read this♡

word count ۶ৎ 5.8k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/saradika-graphics

Bucky didn't wish to be awoken from his thoughts by the front door being incessantly knocked on to the tune of a pop song he's rolled his eyes at before. He was perfectly fine perched on his lone chair, the splintered wood roughly digging into his jeans, and staring at his coffee growing bleak from his lack of drinking.

You, however, didn't deem that as 'fine' once entering his apartment as soon as he granted you access, albeit reluctantly. He dismissed your complaint about him ignoring your messages with a grunt, despite the coat that's clad on his heart, guilt sewn into the fabric. He merely stood by, lingering in his own apartment and supressing his amusement while you rummaged through his cupboards in attempts to cook him breakfast.

Apparantly, the packets of porridge he’s ingesting is mediocre, not merely enough to satisfy hunger. Like he hadn't survived a war on rations, like he wasn't pumped with nutritous liquid through tubes in HYDRA. He wasn't surprised by the worry you radiated over him in beams of sunlight. Yet, he deems himself unworthy of being exposed to your light, and the feeling of being cared for is a hard remembrance—one he isn't sure he deserves… one he'll taint with his blood-stained past.

Yet, you still ushered him out of his poor excuse of a home and managed to persuade him into driving you to a nearby convenience store with a mere bat of your lashes and that smile. That darned smile that encourages his heart to stutter like it’s experiencing life all over again in a new bliss.

You’re dangerous, and Bucky has intended to stay away from danger for as long as his freedom stretches on for.

Luckily, a barrier of grumpiness and indifference poises tall between you two as you embark together down an aisle. His boots scruff against the polished ground in heavy steps, like the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders. Whereas, clad in vibrant shoes, you walk with an elegance that ballerina’s should study.

He envies you as much as he admires you.

“You didn’t have to show up to my apartment at eight in the morning.” Bucky’s gruff voice sounds over the gentle hum radiating from freezers and the faint murmurs of early-risers shopping.

He turns his head in your direction, gazing at you and noticing your hands loosely wrapped around the shopping basket. The urge to carry it for you is stronger than his Vibranium arm. Your hands deserve rest after messaging him most days, wondering how he’s slept and if he needs a dream catcher you artistically created, or asking if he’s up for socialising then an understanding follow up text if he needs more time. Yet, he refrains, clenching his jaw like it’s a steel trap.

His thumb would hover over the letters on his phone constantly, yearning to engage with you. To rekindle with his old self and that giddy skip in his heart when confessing poetic words to girl’s he’d fawn over. Would you fawn over him? Would your cheeks heat up with a different kind of warmth? Hell, he could practically feel the warmth you radiate through his screen already. But, the coldness he was exposed to for decades would freeze over your tepidness in seconds.

Thus, he’d leave you on read while wallowing in a pile of loneliness he created himself.

“You were ignoring me.” You respond, studying the due date of a product of pancake mix you picked up and setting it in the carrier.

You don’t sound upset, or mad. Instead, there’s an understanding wrapped around your words, like a scarf protecting his neck from bitter air, and he hates the way it forms a thick lump in his throat, almost like his heart is stuck there, ready to tumble out of his mouth and confess his covert appreciation for you.

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” Comes his mumbled response, ears tinged crimson from his blatant lie.

‘I didn’t mean to ignore you,’ is what he should’ve said.

The pointed stare accompanied by the curve of your lips you grant him makes him look away. He can’t get distracted by you. Not now, not ever.

“You were ghosting me then.” You murmur, and he furrows the brows at the praise.

What the hell is ‘ghosting’?

“Besides,” you continue with a mere shrug, “Its your first holiday as a free man and I didn’t want you to spend it alone.”

First holiday as a free man.

Didn’t want him to spend it alone.

The consideration you hold for him must be high if you remembered that minor detail.

As you both halt by a section filled with decorative items for spooky season, the fluorescent lighting forms a halo around your head. You’re an angel in disguise, and the devil horns you’re playfully trying on don’t suit you at all. If anything, that headpiece should be worshiping you for bestowing it with your pureness.

Swallowing thickly, he grasps the headband and tosses it back onto the shelf, pieces of your hair mussed by the action. His lips twitch at you huffing like a petulant child and smoothing it back into place with your free hand.

“I’ve spent holidays alone before, buttercup.” He says, not desiring to be vulnerable in front of you. Especially not in a store.

Your head tilts inquisitively at his choice of nickname, and he internally curses himself for letting it slip that he associates the flower of cheerfulness and innocence with you.

“Only because I didn’t know where you were,” you point out before beaming. “If I did, I would’ve been knocking on your door trick or treating.”

He leans closer, arm propped against the shelf. It’s fitting that he’s most comfortable in the section of ceramic ghosts and dangling skeletons—both of which he’s been in the past.

“And I’d be slamming the door in your face.”

“Not if you saw the costume I’m thinking of.” A teasing glint sparkles in your eyes.

A sudden warmth rushes through his body and settles in his stomach, bubbling away like a witch has brewed a potion of forbidden thoughts into a cauldron. He’s witnessed the costumes people wear nowadays: skimpy nurse outfits, tight dresses, and cleavage spilling out of corsets. Of course, he’s always been respectful and never allowed his eyes to linger. Anyone can wear what they desire, but imagining you dressing that way has his heart jumping to the graveyard and making its bed.

Because, gosh, you’re beautiful now, but wearing something that’ll make sweat bead at his hairline, due to refraining himself from ravishing you, will kill him.

Fuck sake, Barnes. Stop acting like a lustful teenager!

“You’re blushing.” You giggle, a sound that pulls him out of his thoughts and softens the heat into something normal. The right temperature to bask in and call home.

Bucky rolls his eyes and leads the conversation elsewhere so he doesn’t have to keep embarrassing himself. It’s been a while, he internally tells himself. “In my day, we wore paper bags with cut out triangles for eyes on our heads.”

“I sometimes forget you’re an old man.” You murmur while collecting Halloween decorations into the basket which he’s not focusing on, his attention solely on you.

“Sometimes?” He asks.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Your grey hairs aren’t as noticeable in certain lights.”

Instinctively, he rubs his beard, feeling the prickle under his skin. Almost as if the specks of grey will disappear if he rubs hard enough.

“Not that grey hairs are a bad thing.” You wink and walk past him with a gentle sway of your hips.

Bucky stands there momentarily, processing what’s happening. Has the human form of sunshine just flirted with him? And he’s just standing here like he’s frozen in time?

Cursing under his breath, he swivels around and catches up with you as you’re at the till, setting your items on the faltering conveyor belt. He scans the items, pancake mix, numerous Halloween decor, a cutlery set ( as he only owns one of everything )… but something’s missing.

“If you’re making me pancakes, you need blueberries.” He comments absentmindedly.

“See, you do want me to make you breakfast.” You give him a shit-eating grin he yearns to wipe off.

He watches you walk away, and something sharp stabs at his chest, poking and prodding, until it opens up something he thought was stitched shut. He feels like a surgery is taking place upon him, but he’s not under in a haze of sleep. Instead, he’s present and feeling every inch of the pain he’s hit with.

A river of crimson trickles from a head and reaches the ground. A head which is turned unnaturally, away from the sun, away from life, forced to face the soldier, a cold being who’s had the strings of death wrapped around his metal fist for decades.

And boots, heavy with weapons weighing him down, turn away from the destruction he’s created.

A muffled voice floats into Bucky’s subconscious, but it doesn’t reach him fully until it grows louder, drowning out the dripping blood staining the ground in a sorrowful fate and the foreboding sound of his metal arm whirring in sick accomplishment.

“Sir? Sir, are you paying with cash or credit?”

An ache lingers around his hammering heart that is gradually calming as he reacts to the worker staring at him expectantly. Bucky clears his throat and collects his wallet from his pocket, pressing his card against the machine with an awkward smile for his momentary pause in life.

The further you walked away, merely to retrieve food, sprouted an unimaginable fear into his mind, the life built around him fading in small flickers, until the sight of you returning as he puts his wallet away settles everything.

A frown paints your face, and relief courses throughout his bones at the ghostly sight of his past gone, replaced by the warm, live image of you.

“I didn’t expect you to pay. I was going to.” You softly say, shoulders lowered.

Honestly, Bucky paid on instinct. He didn’t look at how much this cost him, but he knew he wouldn’t let you pay for these items—especially since all of them are for him. The money sitting in his bank account, collecting dust, needs to be put to good use somehow. Spending it on you? The best thing he’s ever done with his compensation from the war and the shit apology the government offered that arrived in forms of numbers.

Clearing his throat, he takes the blueberry pack from your hand as you leave cash for it on the till and stores it inside the bag which was packed by the worker. “I know, but what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you? Besides, seeing that pout on your face is worth it.” He retorts, nodding a thanks to the worker in rhythm of your mumbled gratitude.

“Wow, what a gentleman. Revelling in my misery.” You sarcastically say, despite the glimmer of appreciation dancing in your eyes.

He carries the sturdy bag, a nicer sense of achievement rising within by the sight of your rays of sunlight being partially blocked by his grey cloud.

Maybe now you’ll back off and keep your light to yourself.

You didn’t back off.

You comprehended Bucky didn’t desire company at first. The grumbles and hard stares were hints, but social cues were never your strongest forte, and the worry invading your senses over him took control and lead you to his place.

His sad, desolate apartment where you both returned two hour ago.

No decorations to celebrate Halloween are displayed. No pumpkins outside his door, nor any spooky-scented candles. Not even a bowl in the shape of a spider’s lair! He most likely believes the scariest thing inside his home is himself, not the tack bought from the store. You, however, have different beliefs.

The scariest thing is the emptiness settled into the crevices. The walls almost peeling and the floors chilly with the lack of people stepping on it.

You didn’t care if you were being bossy, or taking over, or invading his ‘peace’ as he calls it. It's not fixing a damaged object, but helping discover the pieces with acts of kindness. The healing is something only he can do.

Thus, after making him breakfast, to which he begrudgingly ate—despite not wasting a single crumb—you got to work on bringing colour to his otherworldly grey life. You didn’t go overboard with the decorations, just a few miniature pumpkins dotted here and there.

The entire time, Bucky lingered like a ghost, out of place amongst the hues of orange and the peculiar pink ceramic ghost wearing a military-green hat which reminds you of a certain Sergeant finding his way again.

As afternoon whispers for morning to rest, autumn leaves in colours of amber and chestnut float outside, peeking through the windows curiously. A banner of bats are in your grasp as you attempt to reach above the doorframe of his bedroom, wanting to hang it up there so it’ll cascade in a waterfall of spookiness. Yet, the chair you’re standing on isn’t that tall.

“You’re going to break your leg, buttercup.” His voice drifts into your ears from behind you.

“I’ve got it.” You stubbornly say, hopping up again to reach for the lone hook, only to miss.

“Such a persistent little thing.” He mumbles under his breath, annoyance and concern mixed together.

“Less of the little,” you scold. “I’ve taken down men twice the size of you.”

A sigh circulates around the room, “Just— can you get down from there, please? I’d rather not drive you to the hospital.” He says, and if you turned around, you’d witness the hint of pleading swimming in the vast ocean of his eyes.

“Is that worry I hear?” You tease, reaching up again, higher this time.

Except, your footing slides slightly to the left, missing the chair by an inch. Your heart flies upwards, but it catches in your throat at a strong arm encasing around your waist, slamming you against a wall of muscle, but a haven for the softest of souls.

You tilt your chin up, meeting his gaze, feeling the flex of his skin against the curve of your hip and his syrupy breath fanning against you. Everything seems so insignificant compared to staring this closely at him. The decorating forgotten, the near-fall left behind.

Now, you can see the lines on his forehead, each one a journey of what he’s experienced, deep and profound. You can see the hammocks built under his eyes where shadows sleep on, but oh, he’s incredibly strong for carrying the weight of it all. And his eyes… they’re unfocused. Glazed over like a mist has blurred his vision, forbidding him from seeing this moment.

“Bucky?” You whisper softly, but there’s no movement. Just a stillness not even statues can master.

He’s not lost—not yet—but if you don’t pull him from the depths of his mind quickly, he’ll enter that maze of horrors and never return.

“James, you caught me. I’m okay, you can let go now.” You assure tenderly.

You don’t want him to part from you. The proximity is a blessing, one you’re sure he hasn’t granted anyone else, but it’d be greedy to ask for more, not when he isn’t ready.

Yet, as his lashes kiss his skin, pupils shifting back into focus and the veil lifted, he flinches away, the safety of his touch fading. He stares at his Vibranium hand, one that never touched you, and searches for the unseeable, until his gaze flits to yours.

A vulnerableness is attempting to break through the barriers of his tough exterior, but he sends it away with a clear of his throat, and as though nothing’s happened, he questions, “You okay? Not hurt?”

You fear he's not asking about the slip, but something he could've possibly done.

“I’m okay, but Bucky—”

Before you can finish your concerned sentence, he walks away, letting you go.

Evening rolled around quickly, the darkness outside blocked out whereas Bucky would usually be welcoming the old friend. The lamp in the corner is somber, nowhere near as radiant as you, but it’s enough for him to see you perched on the opposite end of the couch to him, the bowl of popcorn he placed in the centre acting as a barrier.

Bucky didn’t kick you out after his minor dissociation earlier, despite the voice in his head telling him to. He wants you close, but not close enough where he can harm you.

“You have to watch a scary movie on Halloween, Bucky. It’s an unspoken rule.” You say, flicking through the channels on his television until choosing one and setting the remote control aside.

“Since when did you live life by rules?”

“Since it’s Halloween.”

“Yeah, well, I hate Halloween.”

The movie plays on for a while, the glow of the screen illuminating your features. He steals glances occasionally, watching you immersed in the moving pictures. It’s a beautiful thing, witnessing you indulging in something, because you never half-ass it. You put your whole being into it, no matter the cost.

He worries that’s what you’re doing with him, and it’s only a matter of time before you run empty after pouring yourself into his cracked soul.

He’s made numerous mistakes in his past, and he’ll make more in the future. Yet, with your unwavering support, a heavy block that sat upon his chest feels a level lighter.

But, no, it sinks to the pits of his stomach and more blocks build on top, because the greatest mistake he’ll make is occurring now, as he faces the tv, away from you, and his whole body grows rigid.

An unsettling sensation claws at the nape of his neck. Goosebumps prickle in terror, and a paleness washes throughout him, seizing his soul into a cage which floats away into a void.

A numbness weakens his limbs. The connection to time distorts, until the tv playing a scene of a character being slaughtered becomes his reality.

Colder.

Deadlier.

Emptier.

And boots, heavy with weapons weighing him down, turn away from the destruction he’s created.

The Winter Soldier hides, returning to the shadows, an invisible leash connected to straight-jacket-like uniform.

But, Bucky, the man who’s never ran away from a fight, whose hands aren’t merely scarred with death but life too, poises there frozen, a phantom rewatching his most decrepit memory.

A sickly sensation rises in his throat. Your head is faced towards him, eyes shut with blood seeping into the gaps where your sunlight beams from. He did this. He stole the sunshine glowing in your pulse.

The world he’s visiting, not one of his present, is gloomy. Immediately, his knees buckle and he’s knelt by your side, tilting your head back, propping your chin up, and shakily performs cpr on you. Counting the beats in his jumbled mind, puffs of air flow from him, and he’d transfer all of his oxygen into you if it coaxes the slightest of movement.

One, two three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Bucky killed you.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

For two minutes, death had its claws dug into you before Steve pulled you out.

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine—

“—James…”

A voice echoes in the cavern of his head, but he ignores it. Your lips aren’t moving, but it sounds like you. Maybe your ghost is spectating.

His movements falter, fear coiled tightly around every organ in his body. “It’s not real, I killed you.” He chokes out as tears well in his eyes.

“James, come back to me.” It’s a mere whisper, calming and cradling him, but he can’t go back. He can’t return when he’s corrupted you so horribly, where buttercups are no longer entwined with your shoes for fear of bloodying them.

Lowering his forehead against yours, a traitorous tear escapes, poisoning your body and mixing with your blood. Clamping his eyes shut, he rambles apologies to the dead while trying to combine with you. Maybe if he holds you close enough, he can join you where his apologies will be spoken clearly. Not lost in this relapse of time.

He never meant for his stormy cloud to rid the sun permanently.

“I’m right here. Come back to me, please.”

The words feel closer, hitting his skin and sending a ripple of warmth down his spine. A breath, shallow and faint, breezes against him, and he cups your cheek… but you feel warmer. Livelier.

With a slow cautiousness, Bucky cracks his eyelids open, the memory around him fading as life overpowers it. The highway with armoured trucks overturned are gone, replaced with his furniture wearing Halloween costumes. The gravel his knees dug into until they scuffed his jeans to remain by your side is replaced with a gentle lightness, cushiony and something he yearns to hold forever.

And you, no longer lifeless, but the image of life in front of him, lip slotted between your mouth in worry. His calloused hand rests against your cheek, and the weight of you leaning into his touch has the rollercoaster in his stomach halting, the high of the drop fading into something calmer.

It was a figment of his imagination combing with a memory. His ghostly past fading into obscurity, his spirited present here with him.

“You stopped weaving buttercups into your shoelaces.” Bucky whispers, as though he’s testing to see if his voice is even there.

A flash of recognition is captured on your face, and slowly, hesitant, you brush your thumb against his face, wiping away the droplet of water.

That touch—that mere touch—and feeling your skin under his fingertips is enough for him to break. It’s been so long since he’s been handled this carefully, and while you’re not treating him like a delicate doll, you’re treating him like he’s worth knowing something precious.

His next movements happen quickly, and his shoulders shake with decades of trauma. He rests his ear against your chest, arms encasing around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. The gasp you make is small, but gone as soon as you return the comfort and prop your thighs either side of his. Your fingers run through his hair, and he swears little bolts of light seep into his brain and melts him into you.

The steady thump of your heart under his ear is his lifeline. His connection to the string he was holding on for dear life, and with all your strength, you pulled until closing the distance between you, granting him this moment of true peace.

He fears if he breathes everything will disappear again, but when you speak in a tender tone, he exhales and relaxes his shoulders, “I’m alive because of you.” You whisper.

He doesn’t ask what you mean by that, he just soaks your embrace up like an old sponge finally being used again, and doesn’t let go, even when hours pass and the realm of sleep takes over you with your head finding home in the crook of his shoulder.

At first, it’s like you’re floating with strong arms acting as your protector. Then, you’re lowered onto something firm and cold, racking a chill from you, but it’s swiftly eased as a tepidness covers you.

Your lashes flutter, eyes slowly opening and bleary with sleep. Yet, you can outline Bucky’s figure, and you lazily grasp his hand, holding firmly.

“Not leaving, buttercup,” he murmurs reassuringly, “Won’t let go again.” He slips into the bed with you, remaining over the sheets to give you space.

You don’t want space. You want to cradle him like you did earlier. You want to show him how much he means to you—how much he means to the world if he looked beyond his past.

Snuggling your head further into his pillow, which unfortunately doesn’t smell like him, his face is directly across from yours, a gentle aura radiating between you two. A sliver of moonlight shines through the windows, highlighting the ghosts he’s visited on his face. You may as well call yourself a Ghostbuster because each phantom are going to be rid by you.

“Why don’t you like Halloween?” Your quiet voice slips into the silence with ease.

A beat passes.

“‘S not scary,” he answers honestly. “Halloween is supposed to be scary, but after experiencing true fear for decades… Halloween for me became pointless. Just something that gets in the way.”

You don’t respond, not offering a solution or another way of viewing the holiday. Instead, you let him think, lost in concentration, before he asks his own inquiry.

“What did you mean earlier? That you’re alive because of me?”

You hadn’t meant to let those words come loose, but in that moment, it felt right, like nothing could penetrate the bubble that encased you together. The beat in your heart is dedicated to him, the breath in your lungs continuing to flow as long as his matches.

After the Avengers disbanded, greeting death or retirement, you were lost, unsure of what do and where to turn to. However, with Bucky, you found a way to live. By checking in, by visiting, it’s not only for his benefit, but yours too.

You drown in the ocean of his eyes and don’t desire coming out for help, his waves lapping over you in a comforting hug.

But, to express to him what you meant, means something more stronger.

“I mean this.”

A whisper, then, your lips brush against his in a slow dance, testing the pace, and he falters in his breathing. You’re ready to pull away when a hand cups the back of your head and brings you closer, his lips crashing against yours in a tempo that makes heat tickle your skin, but your heart soften in bliss.

The sheets pool around your waist, and with careful precision, he slides you onto his lap, straddling him. His tongue traces the curve of your lips, and you grant him access into the velvet walls of your mouth. A groan is evoked from him, encouraging a whimper out of you, tangling together as his human hand glides down to your neck, tracing the curve of it, your collarbones, then resting upon your heart.

He’s feeling if this is real. If this is truly happening.

He’s warm and everything you didn’t expect, and when you part for air, he gazes at you in a way that makes stars twinkle in the midnight sky. Beautiful, glowing, and mesmerising.

Your breaths entwine, heavy and tantalising, noses brushing against the other. His voice is hoarse, “I need you, buttercup. Fuck, I need you like you’re the only warmth in this cold world. My only warmth. My beautiful flame in the darkest depths of hell I’m trapped in, guiding me back to the living. Back to you.”

Resting your forehead against his, cradling his face in your hands, you nod desperately, “James…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers, taking his time to brush his lips against yours before kissing either side of your cheeks lovingly. “I know. I’ve known in every message you’ve sent, in every little thing you’ve done for me. I was just so scared, baby. Scared of hurting you, scared of stealing that light you share with everyone for myself.”

“I share more with you than anyone else.” You choke out a feeble laugh, eyes glossy, and he smiles a smile that you snapshot into your mind, forever dreaming of, now your reality.

He collects an escaped tear by the corner of your lashes, the emotion seeping into the crevices of his thumb, and he’s determined to change it into something splendid.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m not questioning it anymore.”

Wrapped in up in each other’s love and unspoken questions answered with meaningful glances, your clothes create a mountain on the floor and your lips press against his chest, slow and loving, urging your adoration for him to sink into his skin.

His breath comes in flutters, and you tentatively reach where his Vibranium arm connects to his shoulder. Scars shoot out like lightning bolts, powerful and searing. With a gentle reverence, you trace them, and he tenses, until his palm pressed your fingers against the old battle wounds, your touch healing the violence that was inflicted upon him.

“Do you need to be in control?” You softly ask, knowing that after this, neither of you can come back from it.

“No... I trust you.”

Your whole demeanour softens.

His trust is something you cradle close, protecting with all your might. It’s a massive piece of himself that he’s willingly giving to you, and after everything he’s endured, letting someone else—you—take control is one step closer in progression that he mustered by himself.

Kissing down his chest, reaching his abdomen, you lick a stripe up his abs. A shiver rolls from his body and you return to fluttering kisses, worshipping every patch of him like he deserves, before reaching lower.

A tingling sensation sparks between your thighs at the sight of his cock. Mushroom tip leaking with pre-cum, thick length with all the blood rushing down, a singular vein pulsating at your mere gaze. You’ve never witnessed a man as significant and burning as Bucky, and you’re planning to express that to him in actions, but slowly, knowing he’ll be sensitive.

You lean down, taking his length into your palms, stroking soothingly when he responds with a tiny flinch. Your lips wrap around the head, suckling tenderly, before taking him deeper. He’s heavy on your tongue, his musk overriding your sense of smell. Your ears burn at the grunt you evoke from him, his hand cupping the back of your neck, an invitation to take a little more.

Wanting to please him, to ensure his pace is being maintained, you do as you're silently told until the feel of him edges the back of your throat and your nose is near the faint dusting of curls he’s growing.

“Fuck, baby. Can feel your warmth all over me.” Bucky breathes out, the grip of his fingers tightening slightly—not painfully—as you begin bobbing your head up and down, using the tip of your tongue to tease him in languid strokes, breathing through your nose and hollowing your cheeks.

You press your legs together at the lust-filled sounds he’s making, cupping his balls with your hand and fondling them. His leg twitches in reaction, pelvis thrusting on instinct, making you choke slightly, drool trickling on either side of your mouth.

“Taking me so well, buttercup.” He groans, caressing the nape of your neck as an apology for the sudden movement.

The sloppy noises of your saliva mixed with your movements edge Bucky closer. Your eyes flit upwards, heart stuttering at him already gazing at you with love and lust swirled together. He looks like a piece of art against a canvas, something to admire, cherish, and keep. You double your efforts, and his head throws back against the pillows.

“Gonna make love to you,” he breathes out. “gonna love you so hard after...” his rambling is an indication for how close he is to snapping, accompanied by the tightening of his balls. Your hand seems small compared to his length, but you stroke him with a pace that matches your leisurely licks.

“Shit, fuck, gonna cum, baby. Need to cum—”

You hum around his cock, and that appears to be the final push until a sticky warmth coats the inside of your mouth. Granting him a moment to remember the euphoric sensation, you pull away while swallowing his seed, a string of saliva connecting you to him, but it’s quickly disbanded once Bucky grasps your bicep and coaxes you up.

You hover over him, studying the shade of rose that has bestowed his face, and a protruding vein coursing down his neck acting as the stem. One would never associate Bucky Barnes as a flower, but he’s the sturdiest of the lot. Never crumbling to nature’s wrath, and always remaining tall despite being stepped on.

Leaning upwards, Bucky captures your lips with his. The movement is sloppy, like he’s still coming down from his rhapsodic high, but urges himself to tell you how amazing that was. His hand clamps onto your hip, but his Vibranium arm lays limp by his side, never once moved.

You part from the kiss, whispering in a heavy breath, “You can touch me, Bucky. You won’t hurt me.” Your fingertips are light against the Vibranium, and he searches for any uncomfortableness you’re expressing, any regret or hesitation, but there’s none of that. Just the smile that spreads across your kiss-stung lips and a reassuring, accepting nod.

In a slow movement, he strokes your thigh with the tips of his fingers, peppering the curve of your jaw with a promising kiss. Then, he moves upwards, clamping it around your hip. It whirrs softly, as though the parts are informing him it’s finally found a safe place to call home.

That’s when he makes love to you, knowing for the first time in ages, a relief settles within him, an acceptance for having lost an arm. Saccharine in his movements, and giving you enough time to adjust to him, he sprinkles soothing kisses across your face at the thick stretch. His thrusts are slow, steady, worshipping your insides. Your arms are encircled around him, pulling him closer, every part of your bodies touching somehow.

He loves you with a confidence he thought he lost amongst the snow in the ‘1940s, but you coax it out of him. You, his sunshine after a rainy day—or many rainy days in his case—makes him want to remain in the present, because you’re not his past.

You’re better.

Once the high of everything fades, the moonlight glistens brighter after reuniting two stars lost amongst hundreds of others. The afterglow kisses, the soothing caresses, the warmth shared… it’s something Bucky won’t forget about. Something he’ll never abandon or ‘ghost’ again.

As sleep whispers sweet nothings into his ears, he finds himself wanting to rest in the bed he never uses, all because you’re clung to his side, his love who promises to keep wearing buttercups.

Yet, before he can drift off to that realm, your teasing voice filters into the silence. Still peaceful, but one where a lazy smile dances on his lips, “Have you changed your mind about Halloween?”

He seals his words with a kiss to your forehead, burying his nose into your hair, “I’ll love every holiday if you choose to spend it with me.”

And you will, because this is everlasting. All ghosts of the past disappeared, all spirits cheering in the present. Yet, they’re invisible, as the only two beings who matter are cocooned together, saving the other from isolation.

Him.

And you.

taglist: @bckyslover @buckytakethewheel @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @sunday-bug @barnes-babydoll @buckybarnes82 @sleepysongbirdsings @gremlin-girly @sebs-babygirl @miraclediviner @wherewinterblooms @colettebarnes | if you’d like to be added to my taglist, click on the taglist link on my pinned page!

stan-o-ween taglist: @sebastians-love @star-yawnznn

[gemmawritess]

Caught in your crosshairs Summary:Spending your halloween at a party with Bucky, you both trick each other to earn your halloween treat Warnings:Just fluff but it gets suggestive at the end(It's October what else was I meant to do?) wc:2k a/n:I claimed my fic for the 23rd so here it is well at least its the 23rd for me in nz! So so happy to be apart of Stantasic Association and even happier for us to bring our Stan-o-ween to life with so many amazing authors! I hope you enjoy reading everyones contributions💐

Sam had been boasting about his Halloween party for what felt like forever. You, on the other hand, had been convincing Bucky to come for even longer.

"Bucky, I even have a costume planned; it will be funny," you groaned as you straddled his lap to get your boyfriend's attention off the TV.

"What's the costume?" he hesitantly asked, expecting the most heinous costume, wrapping his hands around your waist before you took one of his hands in your own.

"I'm so glad you asked!" you exclaimed, letting go of his flesh hand to grab your phone. 

Gesturing to the picture on your phone with a couple in costume, you explained, "It's simple, I go as the deer, and you go as a hunter."

"Okay, that's actually pretty decent," Bucky huffed, pulling you closer on his chest. Your cheers of excitement were muffled by Bucky's henley.

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Finally, the night of the party came. The costume you wore turned out perfect. After considering whether to wear a white mini skirt and an even smaller white top, you eventually landed on a light brown mini dress that complemented your skin tone beautifully. Taking a chance to make your outfit perfect, you drew some deer print on some brown boots you had lying around to match the horns and ears on your head.

Sitting in front of the mirror, you finished off your makeup, which was a pretty simple routine, but you just added more deer print to really sell the look. The bathroom door swinging open distracted you from highlighting your nose, as the sight of Bucky made your jaw drop.

You picked his costume with your careful eye, but you didn't imagine it'd look this good. The simple white tee that you loved on him seemed to hug his muscles just even tighter. Somehow you convinced him to have slightly camo pants and a light camo cap adorned with 2 stripes of brown face paint on each cheek. "You're staring at me like a deer in headlights," he laughed, adjusting his cap, one piece of hair falling out onto his forehead.

"Just getting in character," you cheekily replied, turning your head back to finish your makeup, trying to keep your composure for the night.

"You need a crosshair on your forehead," he suggested as he walked over to stand behind you.

"Can you do it for me?" you asked, batting your eyelashes as you leaned back on his shins. You smiled wider when Bucky looked down with a boyish expression plastered on his face.

Without a word, Bucky sat down and twisted you to sit in his lap as you passed him a red lip liner. "Where do you want it, or should it be on your forehead?" He murmured softly, his voice letting that old Brooklyn accent creep out.

"Wherever you think suits it," you suggested. The pen ran smoothly along your skin where Bucky got to work drawing a very intricate crosshair on your forehead. His tongue poked out slightly with concentration, his cerulean eyes assessing his work.

Bucky's face softened when he brought his gaze to your eyes that were wide with a lovesick expression as you admired him. "Here, have a look," he murmured again with a smirk as he realised how hard you were staring at him.

Brought out of your daze, you turned your attention from that one piece of hair that poked out of his cap to the mirror behind you. "Woah, this is amazing, Bucky," you gushed, tilting your head to see the whole thing, the intricate lines framing your head in a blood red.

"Thanks, baby," he replied bashfully, blushing slightly at your compliment — even after dating for 2 years, everything you say will always fluster him. “Should we, uh, get going?” he asked carefully, like it’d upset you.

“Yeah, sure!” you happily replied without a second thought, halfheartedly putting your makeup in your makeup bag. Boots clicking with your stride as you trailed behind Bucky to your front door. “Got everything?” you asked — it wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to forget things when leaving — one time he somehow left his metal arm in the dishwasher.

After lightly patting himself down with you watching like an aeroplane security guard, “Yes, babe, I’ve got everything,” he said oh so innocently. Gently he grabbed your hand to tangle with his metal, with his other hand fumbling with the lock.

The warm air of the night welcomed you both while you walked to Sam’s, the trick-or-treaters lighting up the streets with their excitement. “That’s the 3rd Steve!” Bucky exclaimed, discreetly pointing to the child dressed up as Captain America.

“Someone's mad no one has dressed as him,” you teased, looking up into his blue eyes, which gave you a disappointed look that only fuelled your laughter.

“I’m not,” he dismissed with a small pout that you couldn't decide if it was a real one or not.

The walk to Sam’s was nice and short, which proved a good thing sometimes — other times not the best when Bucky’s in a mood.

Before you could verbalise your thought, Sam’s voice cut through the street as he called out your names and ran like a bat out of hell. His costume made you burst into laughter and managed to crack a small chuckle out of your boyfriend. Sam’s costume was a flamboyant version of Gandalf. Fake beard swishing as he finally ran up to you.

“I adore the costume,” you immediately complimented between laughs.

“Looking real wizard-like,” Bucky added with both a confused tone and look.

“Aw, thanks, guys.” Sam gushed in reply — you both couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. “The party's going great, plus, Bucky, I need to show you something; it’s amazing,” his tone switching into a surprisingly serious one.

“Uhh, okay,” Bucky replied hesitantly, giving you a small look.

“Bucky, why aren't you dressed as White Panther and the deer?” he asked suddenly, a teasing tone laced into his voice as you all made it into Sam’s house.

“White wolf,” Bucky corrected as he held the door open for you, letting it go for Sam, making you laugh slightly.

“Awh, c’mon, man!” Sam moaned in reply as he pushed the door. Before you both could reply to Sam, he disappeared into the crowd of people in his house; the cheesy Halloween music blaring through the house immediately hit your ears.

Taking it upon yourselves, you and Bucky got a drink each and found a quiet corner to stand in. “Oh god,” Bucky suddenly groaned, wiping a hand over his face.

“What?” You looked at him and asked, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw it. 

Sam parading his nephews dressed as The Falcon. “How much candy do you think he bribed them with?” you whispered into Bucky’s ear, holding onto his bicep as you did so.

Huffing out a laugh at the predicament, Bucky replied, “Enough to cause diabetes.”

Sam’s eyes scanned the room and suddenly landed on you and Bucky laughing at something as you held onto his arm. “Now this is a proper Halloween costume,” Sam declared, pointing to his 2 nephews that gave you a weak smile. “Amazing, aren’t they? They just love me so much,” he said, smiling wide.

“Holy shit, Sam. Are they actually wearing some of your gear? It’s so realistic,” you asked, tilting your head to see closer.

“Well, yeah, duh? Turned off, of course, but gotta have the boys keeping a legacy,” he said like it was nothing, fake beard muffling his speech.

“How much candy has Uncle Sam given you for this?” you asked AJ suddenly as he laughed at his uncle. The boys giggled and showed you the 6 full-size candy bars stuffed in their pockets. That made Bucky burst into laughter. Sam grumbled something in a very fake dramatic way of his and steered his nephews off to show Joaquin.

“Do we actually know many people here?” Bucky whispered into your ear, your horns nudging against his hat as he scanned the house.

“I don’t know, I see Joaquin and Sarah, and that’s about it,” you said, turning your head to press a kiss to his cheek where it wasn’t painted. “Can we get a photo if we want to go though?” you added, making your tone just a tad sultrier than usual — that was your surefire way to get Bucky to do anything, letting your lips brush against his skin.

“I suppose we can, baby,” he said back to you, turning his head to properly meet your lips, immediately chasing your touch after you returned to leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, could you please get a picture of us?” You suddenly asked someone dressed as Indiana Jones, handing them your phone. You knew you had no chance of anyone taking your phone with Bucky practically glaring at everyone that isn't you. 

With a smile, the person began taking photos as you stood proudly next to Bucky; he had his gaze focused on you, letting his features soften even more as you began to properly pose. 

Just as you got into a cute pose, Bucky hoisted you across his shoulders like a hunter holding their kill — of course, having one hand guarding the bottom of your dress as you had your legs in a weird position from being caught off guard. Stretching your arms to sit on his broad chest for support, you're already used to being manhandled by Bucky.

After what felt like getting a couple dozen photos, Bucky outstretched his other hand to grab your phone. “Thank you!!” you called out over Bucky’s shoulder as the person walked off. "I think Aj and Cass are what Sam wanted to show you," you told Bucky as you made yourself comfy over his shoulders, fixing your legs' position. Bucky grumbled something back as he steered through the crowd of people filling the house in the most obnoxious costumes. 

"Am I gonna to be up here all night?" you asked innocently, already knowing the answer. It's a blessing in disguise, you figured, as your boots were beginning to feel quite uncomfortable with each step you took. 

"Mhm, you got caught in my crosshair. What did you expect?" he shrugged, making you squeal slightly at the movement while you swayed with his heavy strides. 

"I'll escape somehow," you whispered into his ear, making sure to keep your voice in the tone that always makes him go crazy. 

"Try all you want, little fawn," he teased back, keeping his voice quiet and sultry — a tone reserved only for you. You shouldn't have poked the bear because Bucky knows how to push all your buttons, especially when you try to press his. Retaliating, you lightly kicked his side while holding his neck. 

"I'm only just warming up," you quipped as Bucky wrapped his hand around yours. The front door creaked open after you ducked your head down, antlers almost slipping off your head. You both gave Sam a small nod in farewell before you both moved onto the street. 

"What if I am too?" Bucky asked with a smirk. as he turned his head to see you looking at his pants, which definitely seemed tighter. 

You took a second to try to think of a quick reply, but like usual, your boyfriend managed to fluster you. Without thinking, you just grabbed his cap off of his head. He turned to give you a confused look to match your own. The street was luckily starting to quiet down with all the trick-or-treaters returning home, making it so you could take your efforts of winding Bucky up further as you let your hands shamelessly roam his body.

Why is the street suddenly so long? 

On nights like this, you're sure you would've fallen asleep from the rhythm of Bucky carrying you like you weigh nothing. 

After what felt like forever, Bucky kicked the front door open and shut with all of you still waiting on his shoulders. "Too scared to escape now?" he asked. you innocently, making his way over to the bedroom. 

"Yeah, yeah," you dismissed with a pout that you barely cracked your boyfriend's facade. Yet after your words, you couldn't help your heart racing with excitement after Bucky gently but firmly threw you on the bed. 

Usually you don't get treats after tricking someone, but it looks like you get both tonight — who would Bucky be to deny you the treat you so desperately crave?

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[gremlin-girly]

Dancing in the Dark

Part of the Stan-o-ween collab with the wonderful @stantastic-association

☆ Bucky x f!reader

☆ Tags/warnings: supernatural elements, fluff, use of doll, written in 3rd person from Bucky’s P.O.V

☆ Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine. all my work is 18+. Header made in Canva with pics from Pinterest (credit to OG creators). Dividers by @/huraxy-dividers

Summary: Bucky Barnes does not believe in ghosts.... Until he meets one with impeccable music taste.

Word count: 2.022 words

Stan-o-ween Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist | Navigation

Bucky's sleep schedule was nothing short of erratic: the serum that had latched itself to his DNA ensured that he needed less sleep than the average man, however, when he didsleep he was often plagued by nightmares that kept him awake for fear of slipping into darkness he couldn't control.

When he moved into his apartment, he'd been told by one of his neighbours that the complex was haunted. He'd given a polite smile but had brushed off the comment entirely. After all, when you've fought aliens, androids, and supersoldiers - was a spectre even an issue?

Bucky didn't believe in ghosts. If they were real, he was sure that he'd be haunted by many, and even if he did believe in them, he didn't need the additional Stress of waiting to be haunted literally by his past. Floorboards creaked because of pipes. Walls groaned because the building was old. Everything had an explanation, and during his sleepless nights, Bucky had never once encountered anything remotely supernatural, thus proving that the existence of ghosts was null.

That was, until, he bought an old phonograph.

It had been a steal at an antique store. Apparently "broken" - which, to Bucky's luck was actually a quick fix - the phonograph sat proudly next to his armchair in the corner of his living room. The muddled gold petals of the speaker shone with a dull shine in the light of day but were rustically serene at night when he sat in his Chair, whisky dram in hand, playing his 30's and 40's records Sam had secured him on the website called eBay.

One night, he managed to fall asleep in his chair for two hours and when he awoke he caught a glimpse of what looked like a white Shirt darting around the corner towards his bedroom. He took the spike off the track and placed it into its holder, silently creeping through his own apartment to see if he could catch the possible intruder. But when he got to his bedroom, he could not see nor hear anyone besides himself. He did a quick search to make sure, going so far as to check he'd locked his front door. However, After checking and finding nobody but himself in his apartment, he chalked up what he'd seen to a trick of the light and an old soldier's paranoia.

A few nights later he lay awake in bed after waning from a sweet dream for once. He'd dreamt of his life before; dancing with dames in dance halls for entire nights with steve by his side. When he woke, yet again, the music he had heard in his dream was still playing. He got out of bed hurriedly and rushed into the livingroom where the phonograph he knows he definitely didn't play that night echoed crackled music through the speaker. A sense of unease trickled down Bucky's back as he moved the Spike away from the record. He definitely did not play it and, unless he suddenly developed the ability to sleepwalk, someone was in his apartment - Someone who he could not hear nor see with his supersoldier DNA and training.

A ghost.

He pushes the thought away with the click of his tongue and pads back to his bed, deciding to attempt to go back to sleep.

Many stranger things continue to happen in Bucky's apartment. The phonograph issue is a regular occurrence, Alpine Meows ar random invisible spaces and now his old history books have started moving around the shelves. Bucky opts to ignore all of these things. The music helps him sleep, Alpine isn't stressed - oddly, she seems to purr and weave herself in circles around nothing, and the books aren't being damaged.

"Man, you don't think that's weird?" Sam asks shivering as he drinks his coffee. "Like at all?"

Bucky shrugs. “ If I'm being haunted it's by the politest ghost ever."

"Ah!" Sam grins widely. "So you admit it's a ghost?"

"No." Bucky frowns, sipping his own mug. "I said 'if'."

"It's totally a ghost." Sam says smugly. "Only you could make friends with a ghost."

Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn't take the bait. If it was a ghost, and only if, how could he know for sure? He May have googled one or two methods of potential communication with People from beyond the grave but felt so incredibly idiotic for even researching it, he had deleted the search history.

But that night, when the music began to play, Bucky snuck quietly to the livingroom and peeked around the corner. Twirling in the centre of the room, sepia skirt flowing outward before wrapping around her body was a woman with almost-transparent skin.

She looked like an old photograph come to life; her lips dark like they should have been red and perfectly curled hair that had been sprayed and pinned into place. She danced alone in the centre of the room to the music, sometimes disappearing entirely before reappearing in a different space, floorboards creaking as she moved.

Bucky Barnes had never believed in ghosts until tonight. It was hard enough to wrap his head around what he was seeing but when he saw that Alpine was also watching, he felt marginally better.

Stepping out from behind the corner as her back was turned, Bucky crept closer. She was ethereal and beautiful all at once, and was the picture perfect rendition of the women he used to take to the dance halls.

"Hi-" he begins and the ghost-woman startles, turning around with wide eyes and disappearing entirely. Bucky panics. "Hey, no, wait doll - I was gonna ask for a dance!"

The room is silent. He sighs and moves to the phonograph, flipping the record and placing the spike so the second track could begin. Why did he think that would work? And, more importantly, how does one dance with a ghost?

"You mean that?" A voice, light and distant, says behind him. Bucky turns slowly and the woman is stood not two feet away, watching curiously. "You're the first person in a long time whose asked me to dance with them."

Bucky smiles. "And vice versa."

The apparition smiles softly back and offers him her hands. He takes them, and although they half vanish into his hands and feel cold to his organic hand, he doesn't flinch away. He holds them like she's made of fine paper, and moves to the music. After a few stumbles the skill returns, muscle memory takes over. There's laughter and sweet giggles over the music, echoes from the past that makes Bucky grin cheekily and Alpine chirp happily.

They dance in the dark until sunrise, when the morning sun trickles through the curtains and illuminates the living room in burnt orange hues, allowing Bucky to see dust particles trickle through his dance partner's frame.

"I'm Bucky." He says to her and she gives him her name in response.

"Thank you for the dances." She says with a sad smile. "I've missed dancing like that."

"So have I." Bucky admits, earning him a confused look.

"You're young." The ghost says, earning a wry smile from Bucky.

"Not exactly." Bucky shrugs, watching parts of her body begin to disappear. "I'm older than I look."

"So am I." She says and looks out the window as the sun begins to crest over the city. "Everything has changed."

"It has. For the better, I'd like to hope." He pauses for a moment before continuing. "The last time I was in New York I… was being drafted to fight the Nazis."

The woman's eyebrows raise, the rest of her body gone apart from her head and neck in the sunlight.

"No wonder you have such good taste in music." She jokes and then looks downcast. "I don't think I want to ask what happened for you to live so long."

Bucky, sensing that he had a limited amount of time left to speak with the spectre hurriedly said, "I'll tell you. Tonight. If you'll give me another dance?"

The woman laughs, her voice becoming more distant as she disappears into the dust. "Sure thing, handsome. It's a date."

END

A/N: You know damn well there will be a part 2. I can't deny it. I loved this idea and it ran away from me. I just wanted a damn one shot. Oh well. Cest la vie.

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