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rinniereads123 · 2 days ago

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Maid For Him

pairing | rich!boy!bucky x maid!reader

word count | 8k words

summary | bucky barnes, heir to the barnes empire, could have anything money could buy and yet, the only thing he’s ever truly wanted is the housemaid who ruined him before he was even a man

tags | (18+) MDNI, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, pervert!bucky, cocky rich boy x seductive maid, domme!reader, bratty sub!bucky, but also dom!bucky too, voyeurism vibes, masturbation (m), panty sniffing, bucky is down bad and he’s not hiding it, body worship, oral fixation, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, groping, tits in his mouth like a pacifier, mirror kink, unprotected sex, possessive sex, marking / bruising / scratching, clothes ripping, rough & desperate fucking, filthy dialogue, creampie, overstimulation

a/n | this fic is brought to you by: ovulation, unresolved maid fantasies, and the belief that if i was hired at a mansion by rich people, i too could emotionally and sexually destroy their rich son.

bucky is a filthy little pervert and i can't seem to stop writing him that way 🥀 lowkey he's giving carter baizen

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @uzmacchiato

Bucky nodded when his mother said something about mergers.

Or was it marriages?

Honestly, it didn’t matter.

Whatever words were dripping out of Winifred Barnes’ diamond-laced mouth — they barely made it past his collar.

He sat at the long oak table like he had a thousand times before, suit pressed, knife gliding through a steak he couldn’t taste, pretending to listen while his mind tuned into something else entirely.

Someone else.

You.

You were at the far end of the room, back turned, wiping down the sideboard with slow, steady strokes that made his jaw twitch.

Still here. Still working. Still fucking flawless.

His eyes dragged over your silhouette — the familiar curve of your waist, the flash of your thigh when you shifted, that damned uniform that hadn’t changed in years. Tight black fabric, lace trim. Still fitted. Still teasing.

His fork hit his plate too loud.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight, and stabbed another bite of steak just to keep from letting out a sigh.

Jesus Christ.

It had been six years.

Six goddamn years of lectures and internships and painfully average girls who moaned too loud and came too fast.

Six years of keeping his hands busy when they weren’t writing papers — busy with his cock, fist tight, eyes closed, whispering your name into a dark dorm room pillow like a fucking pervert.

And now? You were right there.

Same smirk.

Same sway in your hips.

But god, you looked even better.

His father cleared his throat.

Older. Softer in the thighs. Sharper in the eyes.

Like someone who knew exactly what they did to boys like him.

“James, are you listening?”

He blinked.

“Sure.”

Winifred clicked her tongue. “Honestly, James. You could at least pretend to listen when your father and I are trying to talk about your future.”

He looked up, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Sorry. I was distracted.”

George folded his hands. “We were saying — we’ve arranged a dinner. This weekend. The Sinclairs are bringing Bonnie by.”

“Who?”

“Bonnie Sinclair,” his mother repeated, with the kind of smile she wore when she was proud of her own scheming. “You remember her — the family owns the vineyards out in Napa. Lovely girl.”

His brow furrowed. “No.”

“No, you don’t remember her?”

“No, I’m not going to dinner.”

His father sighed. “James—”

“What, you want to sell me off to the highest bidder now? Come on. It’s not the 1800s. Arranged marriages are dead, and so is your fantasy of me falling in love with some bottle blonde wearing pearls and a trust fund.”

“James—”

He dropped his knife a little harder than necessary. “Why don’t you try setting Becca up with some rich prick when she’s home next break? See how she likes it.”

Winifred’s smile slipped.

“This is different,” she snapped. “You’re the heir. You have responsibilities—”

“To what? To your image? Or your fucking legacy?” he muttered.

They kept talking. Rambling about dynasties and preserving the Barnes name and how beneficial the Sinclairs could be for future ventures, but Bucky had already tuned them out again.

His eyes flicked to the far corner of the room.

Empty.

You were gone.

He let out a quiet sigh, leaned back in his chair, head tilted toward the ceiling like it might save him from the pressure creeping up his spine.

Great. Fucking great.

First night back in this godforsaken mansion, and not only were they trying to auction him off like a prized racehorse, but now you’d moved on to some other wing of the house.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even get a proper look at your ass yet.

Later That Night

He waited until after dinner. Until his parents retired to their wing, until the halls were dim and quiet and full of shadows.

Then he wandered.

Not with purpose — no, that’d be pathetic. It was casual. A stroll. Just stretching his legs. Familiarizing himself with home again.

Except his legs kept stretching toward all the usual spots you used to be in.

The reading room. The conservatory. The hallway by the west guest suite with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

Nothing.

Not even the click of your heels.

He passed the kitchen. Slowed. Even stepped in and leaned against the counter for a minute—under the pretense of grabbing water—But the space was empty. Not a single trace of you.

He scratched the back of his neck, lips twitching.

"Right. Because the woman he used to fuck during summer break is just gonna materialize out of nowhere now that I’ve got a degree and a new haircut."

Eventually he stopped at the foot of the servant stairwell. The one that led to the staff quarters.

He stared at it like it might open on its own.

No.

He wasn’t going to climb that staircase again.

Not after what happened the last time — back when he was eighteen and naive enough to think you’d want him to stay the night.

And you? Laughing into your pillow.

He could still remember the creak of the floorboard, the way he scrambled half-naked out the window when someone came down the hall.

Heart racing. Dick leaking. Your cum drying on his thighs.

Fuck no.

Not again.

He made it back to his bedroom around midnight. Jaw tight. Cock aching. Stripped his shirt off, threw it across the room. Sat on the edge of the bed like a fucking failure.

The worst part? He was hard. Like achingly hard.

The ache between his legs had turned into a full-throb punishment, buzzing just beneath his skin like static. He rubbed a hand over his face, then across his jaw, restless, annoyed, half-hating himself — until his eyes flicked to the armoire.

His old one. From before school.

The tall, cherrywood thing with the drawer he used to keep locked. With the key still hidden in the false-bottom of his cufflink box.

His pulse jumped. He sat up slowly, legs wide on the edge of the bed, and reached for the key.

The drawer slid open with a familiar click — and there it was.

The shrine.

Soft silk and lace folded neatly like it was holy. Panties. Bras. A few sheer thigh-highs. A wrinkled black ribbon he once slid from your hair while you weren’t looking. And beneath it all, tucked like a secret: a napkin with your lipstick stain from that time you took a sip of his champagne at his nineteenth birthday.

Fuck.

He swallowed, throat thick.

God, he used to be such a little fucking perv.

But he didn’t stop himself.

Didn’t hesitate.

And yeah.

His fingers reached out and traced the edge of a deep burgundy lace panty — the kind that cut high on your hips, left little to the imagination.

He brought it to his nose.

The scent was faint — barely there — but it was you. Soft. Clean. Sweet. Like something he should never have touched.

His eyes fluttered shut. His other hand slid towards the waistband of his boxers.

He hissed through his teeth as his cock sprang free — thick, flushed, already leaking like it had been waiting all fucking day for this.

His hand wrapped around it, tight, just the way he remembered you liked it. The lace pressed to his nose, breathing in the ghost of you. His hips lifted off the bed.

”Fuck, fuck—”

He could see it now.

It was late spring. House empty. You in that tight little skirt and red lipstick, whispering into his ear, “You’re hard again?”

He nodded, breathless, embarrassed.

“Poor baby.”

You pulled him behind the west wing stacks, shoved his back to the shelf. Sank to your knees, tugged his pants down like he was a fucking treat and sucked his dick like he owed you his life.

“You’re so loud, Jamie,” you’d teased. “You want someone to catch us?”

Except he kept whining. Kept moaning your name. Kept trying to say how good it felt, how much he missed your mouth.

So you snatched the panties off your own body — and balled them up tight.

“Open.”

And when he did, wide-eyed and obedient, you shoved them into his mouth, fingers pressing against his lips like a silencer.

“Bite down and be quiet, Jamie.”

He ended up cumming thirty seconds later.

Meanwhile Bucky’s back hit the headboard, abs flexing, muscles jerking. His hand pumped faster. His breath stuttered.

Your voice was in his head. Your tits in his face. Your fucking panties were in his hand and goddammit, he was so close—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He groaned low into the fabric, the lace catching his breath, your name tangled between his teeth as his hips jerked up into his fist.

And when he came? It was hot and thick and messy — all over his knuckles, spilling past his hand, some of it catching on the lace he still hadn't let go of.

His breathing was heavy as he stared at the ceiling. Then he let out a bitter, strangled laugh.

“Jesus Christ…”

No relief. No peace. Just sweat, regret, and the scent of you still burning his fucking lungs.

The sun was too bright. The air too crisp. And Bonnie Sinclair’s laugh grated on his last fucking nerve.

“Oh my god, is that a peacock? Do you have actual peacocks?”

Bucky didn’t even glance toward the bird strutting across the lawn. He kept walking — hands in his pockets, jaw tight, sunglasses shielding his dead, uninterested eyes.

“Yeah. They scream a lot. Make sure to watch your toes.”

She giggled. He didn’t.

His parents and hers were tucked away on the back veranda, sipping champagne and pretending this was 1890. Bonnie’s dad already talking about business mergers and dowries, probably. And Bonnie?

Bonnie was doing her best to make an impression.

She was pretty, sure. In the way white tablecloths are pretty. Elegant, polite, and utterly forgettable.

Her voice was all breathy vowels and praise for things she didn’t understand —

He smiled politely. “Everyone’s tall next to you.”

“Wow, the roses here are divine.”

“Is that real gold in the fountain?”

“You’re so tall, James.”

She kept trying to loop her arm through his. Kept brushing against him like it meant something.

And all the while, his brain wasn’t even in the conversation.

Bonnie turned to him suddenly. “So… do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You know. A girlfriend. Or like — someone you’re seeing?”

He looked her up and down. The pearls. The flats. The nude lipstick. Then glanced past her, toward the open french doors of the estate. Hoping—praying—he’d catch even a glimpse of you.

“No,” he said finally, lips twitching. “Nothing serious.”

He told himself he’d try.

Be polite. Be gracious. Be the gentleman his mother raised him to be — or at least pretend to be, for the sake of appearances. This was part of the game, after all.

Bonnie was smiling up at him, eyes wide with polite curiosity, and he forced himself to meet her gaze — just for a moment.

“Those earrings,” he said, nodding toward the small gold hoops with tiny garnet drops nestled against her jawline. “Where’d you get them?”

She lit up like he’d handed her a fucking rose.

“Oh! These? I got them in Milan last summer — there’s this boutique, just off the Galleria. Tiny place, but everything’s handmade. Vintage inspired.”

He nodded slowly, processing. Not because he cared, but because maybe… just maybe… it was something you’d like. A little box from Italy. A pair of delicate gold hoops with a velvet ribbon. He could picture it now — you wearing them, hair up, throat bare, his mouth on your collarbone.

He’d have to find the place. Or have someone find it for him. Add it to the mental list. Right beneath that vintage perfume you used to wear and that lace garter you once claimed was “just for fun.”

“That’s nice,” he said absently, offering a faint smile. “They suit you.”

It was the best he could do.

Because everything about this felt wrong.

The way she walked beside him, too close. The way she kept trying to slip her hand into the crook of his arm, like this was a first date and not a fucking business meeting arranged by bored billionaires.

They turned the corner near the east garden. Hydrangeas blooming wild against the stone wall.

And just as Bonnie began to speak again—something about polo lessons—Bucky’s eyes drifted.

Toward the veranda. The doors were open. And there you were.

Just inside. Bent ever so slightly as you adjusted a vase on a side table.

Hair swept up. A few tendrils falling into your face. Black uniform hugging your hips like it was designed to torment him personally.

You didn’t look up. Didn’t glance his way. Just straightened, turned, and disappeared down the hall like you hadn’t just punched him in the balls with one fucking glance.

He stopped walking for a second. Bonnie didn’t notice — just kept talking.

“…and Daddy’s trying to get them to expand distribution but the French are always so stubborn about—”

His fingers twitched in his pocket. His jaw ticked.

There you were. In the same house. So close. So far.

And he was here.

By the time they were seated, Bucky was already regretting his entire bloodline.

Playing escort to a girl he couldn’t even remember the last name of without prompting.

The dining room was glowing with gold-trimmed candlelight, glasses clinking, servers moving with quiet grace, and that oppressive scent of roasted duck hanging heavy in the air. His parents were in their usual seats, perfectly postured, wearing the expressions of people who genuinely enjoyed this sort of thing—parading tradition like it was holy.

Bonnie sat beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something floral. Too sweet. Forgettable.

The Sinclairs were all smiles and white teeth, praising the wine, the estate, the family history carved into the walls. His father lapped it up, nodding, chuckling, dropping little hints about future partnerships, as if this dinner wasn’t just a formality but a deal waiting to be signed.

Bucky stabbed his fork into the duck breast. It bled red beneath the glaze, and he imagined dragging the tine through his own thigh just to get out of the conversation.

He wasn't listening—again. Not really. Just catching words here and there. Napa. Legacy. Matrimony. “Bonnie’s such a well-rounded young lady.”

Sure. Round. Like the sound his head would make if it hit the polished marble floor.

He sipped his wine and glanced across the table at Bonnie, who was smiling at his mother, playing her part like she’d memorized the script. Her hands were folded just right, posture perfect, voice low and sugary. It was like watching someone try to audition for a role they didn’t even want—but were born to play.

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He shifted in his seat.

I’d rather be kicked in the dick by a horse.

He made another pass at the duck, chewing like it might keep him sane. His foot tapped beneath the table, his spine buzzing with something feral.

And then it hit him.

You hadn’t shown up all day.

Not in the halls. Not during lunch. Not even in the shadows of the estate where he used to find you quietly arranging flowers, humming to yourself, pretending not to notice how hard he stared.

You were gone.

And now he was stuck in this fucking chair, nodding along while some vineyard heiress described her favorite breed of horse.

He swirled the wine in his glass with too much force, splashing a little over the rim. Winifred gave him a sharp look. He ignored it.

Maybe if I fake a seizure I can leave early.

Another laugh from Bonnie. Another smug glance from his father. Another fucking sip of a vintage red that didn’t even taste like anything.

He was miserable. Genuinely, exquisitely, violently miserable.

“James, darling,” Winifred cooed, dabbing at the corner of her lips with a linen napkin, “Bonnie was just telling us about her experience at the Sotheby’s summer program. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Bonnie smiled sweetly, clearly oblivious to the sarcasm. “It was such a whirlwind. Between the gallery showings and the auction previews, I barely had time to sleep. But it was worth it — I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend their summer surrounded by Picassos and vintage Cartier?”

He looked up from his plate, forcing a smile that didn’t even reach the bottom row of his teeth.

“Oh. Yeah. Super fascinating.”

I’d rather be surrounded by bees.

“That’s impressive,” he offered blandly, draining the rest of his wine in one go. “You sell any?”

She giggled. “God, no. I was just assisting. But I did get to try on a necklace that was once worn by Princess Grace. Isn’t that insane?”

His mother leaned in, breathless. “I’ve always said you had the neck for that kind of elegance.”

Jesus Christ, just say you want to be related already.

He set his glass down, motioned subtly for more wine. The server filled it like clockwork. He resisted the urge to ask for the bottle.

George chimed in, his voice booming with false enthusiasm. “We were just telling the Sinclairs that once you’re settled, maybe it’s time to start thinking about property. Your mother and I have been looking at the old Whitmore estate. Plenty of room, good bones. Perfect for a growing family.”

And a burial plot, if I snap and murder everyone at this table.

Bucky smiled, sharp and tight. “Already planning the wedding? Do I at least get to pick the tux color?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Winifred said with a wave of her hand. “We’re just discussing possibilities.”

Bonnie laughed again — high-pitched and unbothered. “Well, for the record, I think you’d look dashing in navy.”

His eyes flicked to her. Then back to his plate. Then, instinctively, across the room — to where you should be. Hovering near the wall. Pouring wine. Wiping down glassware with that soft, smug little smirk on your lips. But nothing.

Empty.

He clenched his jaw, fork pressing so hard into the duck he felt it slice through porcelain.

God, you’re missing all the fun.

“James,” his mother tried again, with the same desperate pleasantness she always used when things weren’t going her way. “Why don’t you tell Bonnie about your time at Columbia? You made such wonderful connections.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said. “Great school. Lots of connections.”

Then he took another sip of wine, leaned back in his chair, and added, “Didn’t learn a damn thing that matters.”

The mansion was silent by nine.

The Sinclairs had retreated to the guest wing, his parents to their rooms, no doubt already tucked into their separate, sterile sheets, dreaming of mergers and grandchildren.

He rounded the corner into one of the eastern wings, the one with the tall windows and antique mirrors, and that’s when he saw you.

Bucky wandered the halls like a man possessed.

No real direction. No plan. Just the familiar weight of the house around him, the echo of his own footsteps over polished marble, and the burn of restless energy licking down his spine like he was still that horny teenager sneaking around past curfew.

You hadn’t noticed him. You were too busy — bent over the edge of the display cabinet beneath the mirror, polishing the surface with slow, methodical strokes.

And his mouth went dry.

Your skirt was higher than it should’ve been. Not obscene. Not intentional. But just high enough to reveal the cut of your ass, soft curves hugged tight by black lace and the smooth line of your garters strapped to your stockings.

His fingers twitched. His breath caught.

Every cell in his body locked onto you like a lion scenting fresh prey — hungry, low, and damn near feral.

The fabric of his slacks grew tight.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

He moved without thinking. Quiet. Controlled. Every footstep calculated like it might crack the floor.

The shadows helped. So did the velvet hush of the hallway.

You just kept working. Oblivious. Bent. Soft. Beautiful. Like a goddamn offering.

His eyes dragged up the back of your thighs, to the hem of that cruel little skirt, the faint indent of your waist beneath the apron ties, the shape of your hips. His throat burned.

Another step. Closer.

He was behind you now. Not touching. Not breathing too loud. Just standing there. Watching. Letting the moment devour him whole.

It wasn’t even seductive. It was just you, working like you didn’t know he was right there, like your scent hadn’t been haunting him for six goddamn years.

His restraint snapped with the sound of your hum.

That soft, casual melody you used to hum back when you’d fuck him in between folding linens and straightening bookshelves.

He didn’t remember crossing the distance. One second he was standing in the dark like a stalker, the next he was pressed against you — flush, hips grinding into the curve of your ass, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding around your front, flat against your stomach, pulling you back into him.

Your gasp wasn’t surprised.

Just amused.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said sweetly, all innocent and breathy, like your ass wasn’t already rolling back into his hips. “How inappropriate.”

His nose dragged along your throat, lips brushing the space just beneath your ear as he breathed you in like a drug. Like it would settle the fire in his chest instead of pour gasoline on it.

“You smell the same,” he rasped, voice low and breathless against your skin. “Fuck. You smell even better.”

Your laugh was barely a breath. “Mr. Barnes. That’s hardly appropriate either.”

His hips ground against you. Once. Slow. Hard.

You felt it—thick, hot, straining against the front of his pants. And that’s when his mouth found your ear.

“I’ve missed you. You've been… hiding from me.”

You let out a soft sigh, your hand coming to rest gently over his on your stomach, not trying to push him away. Not even trying to move.

Just holding him there.

Playing with him.

“I was just working,” you said. “Nothing more.”

His hips snapped against yours. Hard.

Once. Twice. Not enough friction, not through the layers, but the pressure was dizzying. His cock was thick and stiff between you, already trapped tight against the zipper of his slacks, rutting into the dip of your ass like he’d fucking die if he didn’t get more.

“Bullshit.”

He nipped at your neck, jaw tense. “You knew I’d find you. You wanted this.”

You laughed, soft and quiet.

“You always were so easy to rile up, Mr. Barnes.”

He groaned — low, sharp — and thrust again, hands gripping you tighter, like he could shove himself into your skin if he just held you hard enough.

“I’m not a boy anymore.”

His hand slid up, cupping your breast through your uniform, fingers slow and possessive, like he’d earned the right. Like this body was already his.

“Tell me no,” he breathed, lips trailing lower, grazing your jaw. “Say stop, and I will. But if you don’t—”

His voice caught.

“If you don’t, I’m gonna fuck you right here. Against this mirror. With my parents down the hall.”

You could feel his cock pulsing through his pants.

Your breath hitched.

But your smile was sift. Delicate.

“Then I suppose you’d better make it quick.”

You didn’t even have time to blink.

The second those words left your mouth — that soft, dangerous permission — he was dropping to his knees behind you like it was instinct. Like his body knew its place, and it was there, right between your thighs, beneath your ass, forehead pressed to the skin he used to dream about.

You heard his breath first.

Hot. Shaky. Desperate.

Then his hands.

One on each thigh, palms sliding up, thumbs grazing the hem of your garters, fingertips digging in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. And when he reached the top of your stockings — right where lace met skin — he groaned.

Low and thick, from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I missed this. I missed you.”

He hooked his fingers under your panties — black, sheer, soaked through — and dragged them down.

Slow. Worshipful. Watching every inch of exposed skin like it was divine scripture.

You heard the fabric stretch, then fall. And then he flipped your skirt up. Fisted it in one hand to keep it out of the way as he stared.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered. “Look at this fucking ass.”

And then he was kissing it.

Not gently. Not sweetly. Mouth open, tongue hot, lips moving from one cheek to the other like he was tasting fruit from the garden of Eden.

He bit you. Hard. Right at the curve.

You gasped, hand flying to the edge of the cabinet for balance.

“Mr. Barnes—”

His groan vibrated against your skin. You felt his nose nudge between your cheeks, burrowing deep, inhaling like a man who’d spent years starved.

“Say it again,” he begged. “Say it while I eat your fucking pussy.”

You bit your lip.

But your smile was soft. Wicked. Satisfied. Triumphant.

He didn’t wait for a cue. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even ask.

The moment his nose brushed between your cheeks and caught the heady, slick scent of your pussy, something inside him just snapped.

His hands gripped your thighs, fingertips digging into the soft flesh as he buried his face between your legs.

Tongue first.

Hot. Wet. Greedy.

He licked up your slit — slow and shaking — from your dripping entrance to your clit, like he was trying to get his first taste all over again.

You whimpered, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, hips shifting forward as your body jolted at the contact.

And god, he moaned.

A deep, guttural sound, like your pussy had just punched the air out of his lungs.

“Fuck,” he whispered, nose nudging your clit, “you taste better than I remember…”

You smirked down at him, still bracing yourself on the cabinet.

“You haven't tasted me in years, James.”

He groaned. The name made his cock jump.

“Then I’m going to make up for lost time.”

And he did.

He groaned again, hips grinding into nothing, like he needed the friction just from the taste of you.

His mouth moved in slow, obscene circles.

His tongue flattened and dragged over your clit, then flicked at it, fast and precise like he’d studied how to ruin you. Like he wanted to undo you with his mouth alone.

“Fucking soaked,” he muttered between licks. “You’re fucking soaked for me.”

Your fingers reached back, fisting in his hair, nails grazing his scalp.

“Always for you, James,” you breathed, voice syrup-thick with pleasure. “Even when you were just a boy sneaking glances at me from the study.”

He whimpered.

Whimpered.

And started eating you harder.

Lips sealed around your clit now, tongue moving in tight, punishing motions. He was groaning into your pussy, hungry, sloppy, like he was trying to drown in it.

You rocked against his face, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled, eyes fluttering shut as his nose bumped just right—

“Fuck, James—”

He grunted. Pulled you closer. Pressed his face deeper between your thighs.

He didn’t slow down.

Didn’t hold back. Didn’t give a single fuck that he was on his knees, face buried in your pussy, drool dripping down his chin like a man who’d gone rabid.

His moans were getting louder.

Obscene.

Lips slick, nose pressed to your clit as he lapped at you with messy, wild strokes. No rhythm. No elegance. Just pure, desperate need.

You gasped as he buried his tongue inside you, sloppy and deep, curling it up like he was trying to fuck you with his mouth. His nose bumped your clit again and again, and your thighs twitched around his head as you tried to hold still.

But he wouldn’t let you.

His grip tightened on your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he needed bruises there to prove this happened. Like he wanted you to feel it tomorrow.

“You’re shaking,” he groaned, eyes fluttering open to look up at you. “You gonna cum on my face, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer. So he gave your clit one long, deliberate suck. Your knees buckled.

And he grinned. “Yeah. You are.”

He doubled down.

Slurping. Flicking. Tongue dragging, nose bumping, hips fucking into the floor now as he tried to relieve the pressure in his own pants.

He was literally rubbing his cock against the goddamn wood, panting like an animal, soaked from your wetness and his own spit.

“Been dreaming of this,” he mumbled, mouth still full. “Fucking dreaming—every night—couldn’t touch anyone without thinking of this pussy—”

You moaned loud, fingers twisting in his hair.

He sucked harder, sloppier, the sounds now wet and filthy and shameless.

Slurp. Moan. Flick. Kiss. Gasp.

He didn’t care anymore.

“Cum for me,” he begged, eyes wide and shining, lips raw from use. “Please, baby—please, fuck, let me taste it—need it so bad.”

You felt it before you heard it. The shift in the air. The stillness.

And then—

A gasp.

Soft. Feminine. Shocked.

Bucky didn’t notice. He was still groaning into your pussy like he was possessed, tongue flicking furiously, nose pressed deep, muttering curses into your folds between slurps.

But your eyes flicked up.

The mirror in front of you told the whole story.

There she was.

Bonnie Sinclair.

Frozen in the doorway of the hallway, one hand still holding the edge of the gilded frame, lips parted in disbelief.

It must’ve been a hell of a sight.

The golden boy of the Barnes family — the man she was being courted to entertain — on his knees, half-dressed, face soaked in the maid’s cunt, hips grinding into the hardwood like a desperate animal.

Your hands were braced on the cabinet. Skirt flipped up. Thighs glistening.

Your eyes met hers in the mirror.

Her face twisted — horror, confusion, betrayal — and her gaze flicked down, like maybe, just maybe, she’d misunderstood.

But no.

There was no mistaking the wet, obscene sucking sounds filling the corridor. No mistaking the man moaning your name into your cunt like it was his last prayer.

And what did you do? You fucking smiled.

Not a polite one. Not a guilty one. No, this was something slow. Sinful. Salacious.

The kind of smile that said,

Her jaw clenched. Her hand flew to her mouth.

Yes, sweetheart. He’s mine.

You’ll never make him moan like this.

And he wouldn’t want you even if you tried.

But she didn’t scream. Didn’t call out. She just turned — face red, almost trembling — and walked away.

Fast. Almost stumbling.

You glanced behind, down at Bucky, still mindless between your thighs, sucking like a man starved, eyes shut tight, oblivious.

You bit your lip.

And grinned.

“Good boy, James,” you purred, hand in his hair. “You just made me so very proud.”

Your thighs were trembling now.

You’d kept yourself together—barely—when Bonnie stood frozen in that doorway, eyes wide, jaw slack, the betrayal and disbelief dripping off her like perfume.

And now you were losing it.

Because James—your James—was eating you out like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His face was slick, lips raw, tongue moving in tight, focused flicks over your clit like he knew your body better than you did.

And he still didn’t know.

Still hadn’t heard her.

Still hadn’t noticed that another woman had just witnessed him on all fours, worshipping you, grinding against the fucking floor while you held him by the hair and cooed praise into the air like he was your good little pet.

It made it hotter. Darker. More depraved.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, breath catching. “Don’t you fucking stop, James.”

He moaned in response—high-pitched, shameless—and pulled your thighs tighter around his face.

His tongue flattened, then circled, lips sucking at your clit until your knees buckled and your vision blurred at the edges.

You looked down.

Saw him panting into your cunt, nose buried, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours—and fuck, he looked wrecked. Like if you pulled away now, he’d chase you across the house on all fours until you let him finish the job.

Your hands gripped the cabinet tighter.

Your hips rolled against his mouth, rhythm messy, hungry, and he matched it, moaning louder, licking faster, tongue dragging up and down your slit with a messy, wet rhythm that made you shake.

The orgasm hit you like a fucking tidal wave.

It built slow—coiling tight in your gut—until it snapped, crashing over you with a force that made your mouth drop open in a silent cry before a moan tore from your throat so loud it echoed down the hall.

“Oh, fuck—James—yes—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He kept sucking, licking, groaning as you came on his tongue, legs trembling, pussy throbbing against his mouth while he drank it all in like nectar.

He moaned into you. Like he was the one cumming.

Your body was shaking. Your thighs clenched around his head. Your hands braced on the wood, knuckles white, as the aftershocks dragged out with every little flick of his tongue.

He was up before you even caught your breath.

You felt the shift in the air first—his mouth leaving your cunt with one last wet kiss, then the sudden heat of him rising, body crowding behind yours again.

Then—his hands.

Big, strong, trembling.

One came to your hip, yanking you backward like he was claiming his prize. The other? Flat on the small of your back, pushing you forward until your stomach met the edge of the cabinet.

You gasped, still dazed, and then—his mouth.

Wet. Open. Hungry.

He pressed it to the back of your neck, dragging sloppy kisses along your skin, leaving a trail of your slick and his spit across your throat.

“Couldn’t stop,” he groaned against your neck. “Couldn’t fucking stop—need you—need to fuck you—please—”

And then he started grinding.

Hard.

Hips snapping forward in frantic, filthy thrusts, cock still trapped in his pants, but pressed thick and throbbing against your ass through the fabric.

Rutting.

Like a dog in heat.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—I’ve been thinking about this for years—”

You felt the wet patch on his slacks where he’d been grinding the floor. Now he was grinding you just the same—harder, rougher, like the orgasm you gave him with your cunt on his mouth only made him worse.

His voice was broken, panting against your skin.

He pressed his face into your shoulder like he was ashamed of how badly he needed this—and did it anyway.

“You smell so good—feels so good—need to feel you around me—inside you—fuck, I’ll beg, please—”

Each thrust dragged a low, pitiful sound out of his throat, hips rutting faster, hands gripping your waist like he didn’t trust himself to stay upright.

Your breath hitched as you felt him reach down between you—quick, urgent hands yanking his waistband low enough for his cock to spring free.

You didn’t even look.

You felt it.

Hot. Heavy. Slapping against your ass as he adjusted his grip and angled himself lower.

No words. No hesitation.

And then—

He slammed into you.

One brutal, blinding thrust. Your body jolted forward with the force of it, chest slamming into the edge of the cabinet as your mouth fell open in a stunned gasp.

“Fuck—James—”

But he didn’t slow.

Didn’t say a word.

Just grabbed your hips tighter, pulled you back into him, and kept fucking.

Fast. Rough. Unforgiving.

He was everywhere—grunting behind you, cock pistoning inside you with a rhythm that was animalistic, primal, like he was trying to fuck the memory of every other man out of you.

“You think I came back the same?” he growled against your neck, voice sharp and ragged. “You think I’m still that dumb fucking kid? That little boy you teased and left aching?”

You cried out as he slammed into you again, cock dragging along your walls so deep it made your stomach twist.

“No,” he snarled. “Not anymore.”

His hand wrapped in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to meet your own reflection in the mirror as he kept pounding into you like a man unhinged.

“Look at you,” he hissed. “Bent over for me. Taking me. Letting me fuck you like this.”

He gave you a particularly rough thrust that made you choke on a moan.

“You’re mine. You hear me? Fucking mine.”

Your moans turned guttural, needy, echoing off the cabinet and glass. He was everywhere—his hands, his cock, his mouth, his heat—slamming into you like he was trying to brand his name on your spine.

The room was filled with the sound of it.

Skin on skin. Wet, filthy slaps. His breath in your ear. Your moans. Your pussy soaking him, clenching around him with every thrust, dragging him deeper, harder.

And Bucky was lost.

Fucking you like he’d never stop. Like this was what he was born to do. What he’d been made for.

You barely had time to moan before he pulled out—sudden, fast, leaving your cunt pulsing around the absence of him.

You gasped, still dizzy from the pounding, but he wasn’t done.

“Up,” he growled.

And in the next breath, he had you.

Flipped. Lifted.

Your back hit the polished cabinet top with a dull thud, legs spread, heels still dangling off your ankles as Bucky hoisted you up like you weighed nothing.

You opened your mouth to speak—

But he slammed back into you.

Deep. Hard. Unrelenting.

The breath was ripped from your lungs, your body arching as he planted both hands on the wood behind you and drove himself home.

Now you were face to face. Now you could see it—his eyes.

Dark. Dilated. Fucking unhinged.

Sweat clung to his jawline, his chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead as he rammed into you like he couldn’t get deep enough.

“Mine,” he panted. “Say it.”

Your head tipped back, a moan clawing out of your throat.

“Fucking say it.”

You grabbed his face. Hard. Pulled him in and kissed him like you were trying to suck the soul out of him.

Tongue tangling, mouths open, teeth scraping—filthy, desperate, uncoordinated. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned like it physically hurt him to feel you kiss him like that.

His hips didn’t stop. They kept pounding, slamming into you with enough force to rattle the cabinet beneath you.

You sucked on his tongue, hand gripping the back of his neck, legs wrapping around his waist like you were trying to trap him there.

“Yours,” you hissed against his mouth. “Yours, James.”

He whimpered.

You felt it—the stutter in his hips. The little break in his rhythm.

He was close.

“Again,” he begged, voice cracked.

“I’m yours,” you said again, slower, dirtier, nipping at his bottom lip. “You waited for me. Grew up for me. All this time, you’ve just wanted to fuck your maid—”

He snarled, slamming into you again so hard the cabinet creaked.

You bit his lip. He moaned into your mouth.

The kiss was so deep, so dirty, you felt like you were breathing through each other.

But then. He broke it.

Abrupt, messy, like he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fuck—can’t—need to see you—now—”

And then… rip.

Your eyes widened as he grabbed the front of your uniform, fingers curling into the fabric, and yanked.

The sound of buttons flying off echoed down the empty hall, bouncing across the marble like little beads of surrender.

Your uniform fell open.

Exposed. Raw. Offered.

Your bra barely held you, straps sliding off your shoulders, lace thin and damp from sweat.

Bucky didn’t waste a second.

He shoved the cups down roughly, hands shaking as he dragged them under your tits, eyes locked like he was seeing them for the first time.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed.

And then—his mouth.

Hot and open, tongue dragging across your nipple before he sucked it in, lips sealing around it with a deep, desperate moan.

You arched into him, head falling back with a gasp.

“James—”

His other hand wasn’t idle—it came up to your other breast, fingers tweaking and rolling your nipple until you were squirming on the cabinet, cunt clenching around him with every wet, messy pull of his mouth.

He groaned into your skin, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before flicking it with his tongue, suckling, pulling it deeper like he was trying to drink from you.

“These tits,” he growled, mouth moving to the other one, tongue swirling. “These fucking tits—used to jerk off just thinking about them—”

You whimpered, thighs tightening around his waist.

He was still fucking into you, deep and slow now, like he wanted to feel everything. His cock dragged along your walls, thick and pulsing, as he suckled greedily at your breast, spit and sweat slicking your skin.

“So full for me,” he whispered, looking up through his lashes, eyes wild. “You ever let anyone else suck ’em like this?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Because he already knew.

He was still sucking on your tit when your nails raked down his covered back. You were so close it hurt.

Your pussy was a dripping mess around him, slick clinging to his cock with every brutal thrust. The cabinet rocked beneath you. The sound of your skin slapping together echoed down the marble hallway like something animalistic.

“James—fuck—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

His mouth left your nipple with a lewd pop, breath hot and frantic as he looked at you. Eyes dark. Hair soaked. Jaw tight.

“Not gonna—fuck—not gonna stop—you feel too good—”

His hips snapped forward harder now, the slap of him against your thighs violent, punishing.

And then his hand found your throat.

Not choking. Just holding. Fingers pressing lightly against the sides, tilting your chin up to make you look at him.

“You’re gonna cum on my cock,” he panted, voice raw. “And then I’m gonna fill you up. You fucking hear me?”

You moaned, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You gonna take it like a good girl?” he growled. “Gonna let me fuck you full?”

That was it.

Your body went rigid— Toes curling. Eyes rolling back.

Your orgasm hit like a fucking explosion.

“James—oh fuck—I’m cumming—”

Your cunt clenched down on him so tight he almost collapsed.

“Shit—shit—fuck—” he choked, thrusts stuttering.

You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. You wrapped your arms around his neck, held him tight, and rode it out as he fucked you through it.

And then—

He followed you.

With a snarl, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt it—

Hot. Flooding.

Spurt after spurt of cum, thick and heavy, filling you so deep it was leaking out before he even pulled back.

“Fuck—baby—fuck—I’m cumming—”

His forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing, his body twitching through the aftershocks as he spilled every last drop inside you.

His breath was still ragged.

But his thrusts had slowed, reduced to slow, shallow rocks—almost like he didn’t want to leave you. Didn’t want that connection to break.

And then he nuzzled. Right into the crook of your neck. Like a cat. Like a boy.

“James,” you teased, your voice soft, breathless. “You gonna fall asleep in my cunt?”

He hummed, lips pressed to your throat.

“Wouldn’t be a bad way to fall asleep.”

You laughed, hand lazily stroking the back of his head as his mouth pressed sweet, worshipful kisses to your neck, then your collarbone, then the tops of your breasts—each one slower than the last.

Soft. Clingy. Desperate.

He sighed again, breath hot against your skin.

“Fuck… missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you. Missed this body. This mouth. This pussy—”

“Careful, James,” you said with a smirk, brushing hair from his sweaty forehead. “You sound in love.”

His head lifted. His lips, still wet, curled.

“Maybe I am.”

And then he dipped back down, tongue teasing over your nipple before placing a slow, warm kiss right between your breasts.

He sighed against your chest again, nose brushing the skin above your heart.

“Two fucking days,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough. “Been home for two days and you didn’t even look at me.”

His tone was too casual. Too careful.

“Why were you hiding from me?”

You turned your head—just slightly.

Just enough to avoid his kiss.

And your voice, when it came, was silken and sharp, laced with a bitterness you hadn’t bothered to hide.

“Didn’t want to interrupt,” you muttered. “You seemed busy… with Miss Sinclair.”

He stilled.

Just for a moment.

That petty venom sat heavy in the air. And you knew it would hit him.

It did.

He huffed—a soft, frustrated exhale against your chest—and his hands tightened on your waist as he shifted up, dragging his mouth over your skin like he could wipe the accusation away.

He kissed your breast again. Then your collarbone. Then the curve of your throat.

Your jaw. And finally—your mouth.

It was messy.

Open.

Tongue slow and insistent, tasting the remnants of your slick still on his lips, the warmth of your body still wrapped around him.

“Don’t,” he whispered into your mouth.

He kissed you again. “Don’t do that.”

His hands cupped your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks.

“You think a girl like her could take me from you?”

His voice was so sure.

So firm.

And when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searched yours like they needed to prove it.

He nudged his nose against yours.

A soft breath fell between you.

“There’s no one else. There’s never been anyone else.”

You let him kiss you.

Let him pour every ounce of devotion, desperation, and utter obsession into that slow, lingering press of his lips.

But when he pulled back — breathless, eyes glazed over, lips swollen — your smirk had already returned.

That slow, seductive little curve.

The one that made his heart race and his cock twitch, even now, when he was still buried inside you—thick and twitching, your bodies sticking together with sweat and cum.

You leaned up, fingers curling in the back of his hair again, and kissed him.

Not soft. Not sweet. Teasing.

You nipped his bottom lip just enough to make him groan, then pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.

“Always so sentimental,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Still such a romantic underneath that rich boy act.”

He blinked, still breathless, dazed—like he didn’t know whether to be offended or turned on.

“You know I fucking hate when you do that,” he muttered, lips brushing yours.

“Do what?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Say the truth?”

You laughed softly, licking into another kiss — this one dirtier, wetter, your tongue teasing his, pulling him back in just long enough to leave him dizzy.

“You love it.”

He just looked at you—flushed, panting, completely ruined—and whispered, “You know I do.”

His hips twitched. Still buried in your cunt. Still pulsing.

And hardening again.

Headcanons 🖤🤍

— pre fic: he met you when he came home for summer break from boarding school. a nerdy loser at a rich private school. he was eighteen, you were twenty-two

— you were the first woman to ever make him ache. and every glance, every moan in the dark, every moment his cock twitched at the sound of your heels? it was just another thread tying him to you.

— when you took his virginity, he wasn't confident, he wasn't experienced. but he was completely yours.

— he was overwhelmed. whimpering. he came too fast, and looked devastated about it — until you cupped his jaw and reassured him

— post fic: you don’t trap him because you’re desperate. you trap him because you’re bored.

— you’ve had his money. his tongue. his obsession. now? you want his name, his babies, his entire goddamn future.

— and the wildest part? he wants it too. he thinks the idea of you carrying his child is sacred. Like he’s being chosen.

— he proposes with some ridiculous 5-carat heirloom ring from the family vault. then throws a tantrum when you call it “a bit much.”

— his parents stop fighting after the third grandchild.

— by the fifth, they just send you jewelry and call you “darling.”

Maid!reader inspired by my queen who deserved better: moira o’hara

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

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rinniereads123 · 3 days ago

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I feel it turning into addiction | mini series masterlist

Dark!Biker!Bucky x Reader AU

Summary: He was too old for this. Crushing on his next door neighbour? Unbelievable. He should leave the poor girl alone. But fuck, he couldn’t. Could he? After all, you were so sweet, and gentle, and kind, and always baked things in the middle of the night and left boxes and baskets filled with sweet-smelling treats at his doorstep for him to find almost each morning. And what did he do in return? He imagined all the sinful ways he could make you whine and whimper for him. He was bad for you, he knew that. People called him all sorts of things: criminal, gang leader, outlaw. Bucky Barnes was bad news. But did that stop him? No. You being so forbidden just solidified his addiction. Bucky Barnes never claimed to be a good man, so he’d do whatever it takes to get whatever he wanted. And all he wanted was you.

Themes throughout the series: somnophilia, dub con, dark!bucky, age gap, smut, explicit language, biker!bucky, younger!reader, loss of virginity, mild daddy kink, mentions of stalking, voyeurism

Status: On-going

Tag List is open, comment below or send me a message/ask if you wanna be notified for future parts :)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

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rinniereads123 · 3 days ago

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Until it Takes

Pairing: Beefy! Bucky x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut. Breeding Kink. Mirror Sex.

Word Count: 300.

note: This piece is part of the Sexy September Scribbles challenge, hosted by @societyfolklore and @soelstress

Sep 2nd prompt: "Don't hide your face”

The headboard rattled behind them with every thrust, her hands slipping on the sheets as he drove her forward with the force of his hips. Across the room, the vanity mirror caught them fully: his thick arms caging her in, his hot chest pressed to her back as he fucked her from behind deep enough to leave no space for breath.

Her cheek pressed down on the mattress, squeezing her eyes shut as moans and whimpers escaped between her swollen lips.

“Don’t hide your face, sweetheart.” His voice rumbled against her ear, thick with hunger. His metal hand fisted her hair, forcing her gaze up toward the mirror. “Look at you. Look at us.”

Her reflection trembled back at her, bouncing tits, parted lips, the wreckage of what he was making of her. His hips snapped harder, sinking his cock impossibly deep, as his chest pressed heavily on her back. Her pussy clenched as pleasure ripped through her body, and his hand went over her lower belly, pressing there while he fucked her harder, faster.

“You see that, doll?” His breath possessively brushed her ear. “Gonna fuck you so full, keep you like this till you can’t think of anything else.”

Her nails dug into the mattress, sobs and cries spilling from her lips as he pinned her down and ground his pelvis against her rear.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded softly, his thrusts turning irregular. “Want you watching, sweetheart, when I put a baby in you.”

Her body shattered, and the mirror forced her to witness every second of her pleasure, his reflection all muscle and devotion as he spilled deep inside her.

“That's it. Fuck, m’ gonna make you a mommy. Gonna keep filling you ‘til it takes, sugar.” He promised.

And he always kept his promises.

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212 @dracosathenaeum @frog-fans-unite @wintrsoldrluvr

dividers by @/diviniyae

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rinniereads123 · 6 days ago

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thinking about kissing bucky’s metal hand

can i?

part 2 -> you can. gn!reader (let me know if it’s not!), 1.8k WARNINGS/TAGS: attempt at writing emotional/sexual tension, reader is a new avenger, mentions of past injury, intimacy

The two of you are in the Tower’s common room when you finally ask about it.

2AM on an uneventful Monday. Yelena, Ava, and John are somewhere in Eastern Europe on a cursed sequence of back-to-back recon missions. Bob is asleep in his room. Alexei is nowhere to be found.

Which leaves you and Bucky alone, and not in the way that you’re used to.

You’re used to being alone with Bucky in a corridor of a dilapidated power plant, shadows entwined and guns raised. In a black SUV, him at the passenger seat and you behind the wheel, sharing stale air as a stakeout bleeds through the hours. On a training mat while your feet and his trace watchful circles, patiently waiting for the first pounce.

This kind of alone is different.

No context to hide behind. Just two complicated people in simple silence, doing the little dance of strangers in a grocery store aisle. The unspoken, delicate measures of am I taking up too much space, are you passing me by, are we reaching out for the same thing?

A dance you’ve been doing for far too long.

You’re past the “can’t sleep?” conversation. It died seconds after it started—the two of you cross paths like this way too many times to the point where asking feels like a pointless formality. So many nights where his bedroom feels like a cage. As many as the ones where your bloodstream pronounces your thoughts out loud.

He’s always there first.

Always standing by the window, looking down at the city that’s just as awake as he is, as if staring at it long enough will reveal some kind of answer. Always looking at you when you walk in.

Tonight is the same.

You make tea—the flowery one Yelena bought for you. She claims it’s calming.

“Want some?” you ask, pouring boiling water into a cup with a teabag. Steam begins to waft, and so does a faint chamomile scent, the softness of it almost out of place against minimalist concrete curves.

“It doesn’t work,” he replies.

“I’m not drinking it because it does.”

A beat. Then, whispered quietly, “yeah, sure.”

That’s how you end up hanging around the kitchen island with him, sipping floral tea past midnight while exchanging sentences that barely count as small talk.

Like grieving mothers. Not knowing the words, yet understanding so fully what it feels like.

In the dimly lit room, you catch the glint of his metal arm, fully exposed thanks to his standard issue black t-shirt. Gold markings on sleek Wakandan vibranium ripple and glow when he rests his arm on the counter, plates shifting quietly.

Despite the many times you’ve seen it, it’s still mesmerizing. Especially tonight.

Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s your lucidity, or lack thereof.

It must be a heavy thing, the arm, literally and figuratively. How it carries his past.

You’ve seen Ava lug it like a pipe. Seen him wind it up when it reattaches. Heard the sound it makes. Learned how it affects his gait and reveals vulnerabilities on his right side—the side you always cover when you’re assigned to him. The side you prefer to stand on.

But more than that, you’ve felt it. Not just brush of his fingers when he returned a dagger he borrowed from you—but on your forehead, firm and real. The weight of it reassuring, the coolness of it almost soothing.

“Remember Brunei?”

You say it so soft, like you don’t mean to say it out loud to him. He looks at you, standing almost right in front of you across the island. The room seems to shrink.

“The paralytic agent?”

You nod as you replay the way that mission went sideways just two weeks ago.

The two of you and Yelena, John at the jet. An illicit research facility deep within a rainforest. How you caught a microdose of something potent through a hollow-tip dart to the neck while extracting yourself from the scene. How the hundred-degree fever hit one minute after, too fast to be harmless.

Walker had his hands full piloting the take off, rocky and bullet-riddled. Bucky noticed the signs first: your thousand yard stare and the flush on your cheeks.

“What is it?” Yelena asked, eyes darting.

His vibranium hand was on your forehead in an instant. Flesh hand on your pulse. A status check.

“You’re burning up,” he whispered, scrambling to strap you in your seat before barking all military-like at Walker—something about going faster.

You blacked out after that.

In the kitchen, you nod with your chin towards the metal arm.

“You can feel temperature?” you ask behind the rim of your mug, all casual, like you haven’t thought about it for the past fourteen days.

He glances down. The plates flex, as if they don’t appreciate the attention.

“And other indicators,” he answers quietly. “Nano-receptors. I can feel if something so much as hovers over it.”

There’s a pause before he continues. “Helps with reflexes.”

You put down your drink, not taking your eyes off dark metallic fingers against the smooth marble countertop.

“Can I touch it?”

The air is sucked out of the room into a cold vacuum. You realize what you just let escape from your mouth.

Your eyes snap to his. They’re blue and just a fraction wider than usual. Your lips part, eyelids fluttering as you avert your gaze to everywhere except him, unsure of how you’re going to glue back the moment you just shattered into pieces on the floor. How will he ever trust you again?

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

“You can.”

It takes a second for his words to register. Two. Three.

Even after they do, the world is still stopped on its axis.

Your eyes find his again, searching in them the balm to your mortification, and it’s there. A look. Soft and wavering, as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying, just like you.

But his palm is still upturned. Open. For you.

And then your hand moves, a motion so subtle you swear it’s not your own, like it got pulled by a gravitational force emanating from where his hand sits. Your fingertips stop above his, an inch apart, and you feel it.

The electricity. A kind of energy that’s not just alchemical reaction of two warm bodies, but a spark elusive enough to be craved, too real to be hallucinated.

You realize it has always been right there, in the space between your existence and his.

In every furtive post-mission glance, cataloging each other’s wounds from afar, how looking away feels as difficult as a ten-step containment protocol.

It’s there in the circles you draw around each other on the training mat, prolonging a tightrope tension that was never just about sparring.

It’s in the look on his face when you woke up in the med bay, the first thing you saw after tilted Bruneian skies. Steel blue silencing a brand of suffering you recognized as his. Like his sanity was tested while you slept.

You’ve ignored this for so long, it can only be blamed on negligence. A conscious carelessness towards your own feelings—and his—just so you can move on through life with a false sense of security.

Tenderness means both sweetness and an ache. If avoiding it means not hurting, then that’s what you’ll do.

That was your intention, and you have a feeling it was his, too. But you can’t run, not now.

You’re not sure you want to anymore.

Your fingers brush against his before you slide them down to hold his knuckles in your palm. Bucky breathes out like he hasn’t for the past minute. You sigh. He’s cold and hot at the same time, foreign but familiar.

The air crackles with heat, condensed to a fine point that coalesces in your point of contact. Your thumb brushes slowly down the back of his index finger, tracing cybernetic knuckles.

His eyes follow your movement.

Bucky tries to even out his breathing, he really does, but there’s not enough and too much air in his lungs. Box-breathing doesn’t work when you’re touching him like this.

You caress his hand like it’s made of glass and not a thousand crimes, touch so featherlight he almost thinks you’re testing its sensitivity. Like you want to find out the softest thing he can feel.

The answer is you. You are.

Bucky feels goosebumps forming on his other arm instead.

You study him like you’ll never get the chance to again, running your fingers down his with the lightest of touches—did he just shiver?—until you’re left with his pinky. You gently grab the pad of it between your thumb and index, tugging.

Like a child who wants to play, a lover who begs to stay.

He breathes your name. You look at him, lips suddenly dry. His pupils are dilated.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, walking round the island to stand next to him.

The thought of stopping makes him ache.

He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts, his body aligning with yours like a magnet finding its match.

The metal arm moves to your face, gently guiding your chin up to meet his gaze. Your knees are close to buckling. Intoxicated by a single look.

Bucky brushes his thumb across your lower lip, taking his turn to study you. The motion is both patient and indulgent, slow and sensual, betraying a deeper want in the way the metal pad of his finger catches against the plush of your lip.

The pronounced ‘thump’ behind his ribs cracks the facade. He camouflages as a silent observer, a shadow in the corner of the room, a colleague who only looks at your six for threats—when between God and himself, he’s stared at your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them to feed his dreams at night.

And he has dreamed of them. Just never as dangerous as this.

His thumb parts your bottom lip slightly. Your breath hitches.

Then you turn your head just enough to kiss his palm.

A quiet groan escapes him, one that sends rushing warmth through every nerve in your body. You stand there, hand gently keeping his in place as your mouth traces reverently across precise indentations, down to the inside of his wrist.

Your lips are supplicant against gold veins, slow and light like a private prayer.

There’s fire in his body, a holy purge or hellish torment, he’s not sure. He just knows he wants more. His heart is overwhelmed with feeling. Thanksgiving to the Wakandans who allowed this to happen. Disbelief at the sweet, sweet way you twist his hand. Salvation for every sin he’s ever drowned in.

You kiss the back of his hand first—three trailing up—then his knuckles last. One by one, your mouth closes around each protrusion with affection so pure it’s nearly erotic.

He’ll worship every part of you like that, too, if you’ll let him.

In a moment of impatience, he cradles your face again, forcing you to look at him. This time his flesh hand is on your other cheek.

You’ve never seen Bucky look so lost.

“How does it feel?” you whisper. Earnest.

Then he leans down, breathing the same air as you. He’s so close—broad chest brushing against yours—you swear you can count his eyelashes from here.

He exhales and you grow dizzy.

“Like I’m losing my mind,” he rasps, thumb swiping your bottom lip again.

Your hands move to his chest, compensating for the sudden weakness in your legs, painfully aware of the inches between your lips and his—almost zero.

“You didn’t ask me to stop.”

His eyes contemplate yours with a look that barely barricades a flood. Waves of silent secrets and denied desire thrash beneath blue rings, waiting to be let out, to be known. They scream I want you and you’re the most precious thing I don’t deserve to have in the same silence.

“I’d be stupid to,” he replies, voice low.

The electricity sparks. You can’t take it anymore.

“Bucky…”

Half-lidded eyes stare up into his, voicelessly spelling out the five letters that make the word please, the eight that make I need you, the very many that tell him there’s no going back from this.

He seems to understand.

Time stands still.

Then he kisses you—slow and deep—and the world spins.

#tbr

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rinniereads123 · 6 days ago

Text

You Drive Me Crazy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The Thunderbolts are used to you and Bucky’s harmless teasing and bickering, but in all of the time the two of you have been together they’ve never seen you fight. However, when an argument breaks out after a mission, they realize that your relationship is a lot more passionate (and entertaining) than they previously thought.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of violence, No sex but things get a lil hot and heavy at the end, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: This cute and crazy lil drabble is almost completely inspired by the argument scene in the movie Trainwreck. Also, it’s my first Thunderbolts drabble! I hope you guys like it!!

You burst out of the elevator and into the tower, Bucky hot on your heels.

“Don’t walk away from me, I’m not done.” His voice borders between a shout and a growl. He reaches for you again, and you dart away. The movement only makes him look even more furious.

“I am done. Fight over. I’m calling it now.”

He says something in Romanian. Whether it be a curse or some infuriated comment, you’re not sure. Still, you whirl on him and shove your finger into his chest. “You know for a fucking fact that I don’t speak that. Knock that shit off right now, Barnes.”

“Oh, so now you want to-“

“Oh my God, what the hell is happening?” Yelena says from the couch, and you hear Ava’s exhausted voice as she walks out of the elevator and drops down beside her.

“Don’t ask.” She sounds exhausted.

You ignore them. Bucky ignores them.

“You were supposed to wait for my signal.” Bucky says, again, and you meet his words with an exaggerated groan.

“For the last time, I saw the shot and I took it. You would have done the same fucking thing if you-“

“If John hadn’t blocked you, you would have died.”

John’s voice cuts through the fight, and he sounds just as exhausted as Ava as he makes his own way to the couch. “If I hadn’t blocked her, the plane ride back would have at least been a whole lot quieter.”

“Shut up.” You and Bucky snap in unison, both fixing him with your own glares. He throws his hands up in mock surrender.

Bucky keeps going. “You never listen. That’s the problem, doll. You need to-“

“Don’t doll me right now. You’re not the only capable member of this team, Sarge. I can take care of myself if you would just-“

“You almost got shot! Again!”

“But I didn’t!”

“Oh great!” Bucky’s own hands fly up, rage still sparking in his eyes. “That makes all of it go away. Everything’s fine now.”

Yelena’s voice cuts through now. “How long have they been doing this?”

“Hours.” John and Ava respond, sounding more worn out from listening to the two of you than they do from the battle.

The fight continues. Right in the middle of the common room.

It’s one of those arguments that just doesn’t stop. Anger and adrenaline and the horror of nearly losing each other keep the fire fueled to the point that you lose the original point of why you’re fighting. You’re just matching each other’s energy now, both refusing to back down.

“They’ll never stop. We will never sleep again.” Yelena says at one point, though none of them have left the couch. In fact, they’ve all watched and commented to each other through the entire argument, all feigning annoyance but clearly too entertained to want to leave the room.

“And you’re always kicking the blankets off of the bed in your sleep!” He shouts at one point. You feel multiple pairs of eyes move to him, and then back to you when you respond like your little audience is watching a movie. There might be popcorn out by this point. You’re too angry to care.

“Because you run like a furnace and you’re always attached to me like a fucking octopus when we sleep!”

“Oh, so you want me to sleep on the other side of the bed now?”

“No! I love it! But it’s fucking hot and we don’t need ten pounds of comforter on top of us!”

“Maybe I want ten pounds of comforter on top of us!”

“Do you?!”

“No!”

The argument moves all around the room. In front of the couch. Near the hall. In the kitchen. The energy remains the same.

“And you know what? You go down on me too much!” You shout, poking your finger into his chest.

“What?!”

“No, you - don’t look at me like I’m crazy. You do! And you act like it’s for me but I think it’s really for you because you’re such a good person whose always trying to help people and-“

“So you want me to go down on you less?”

“Don’t twist this into me not wanting you to go down on me as much! That’s ridiculous. Of course I want you to go down on me that much.”

“I want to go down on you that much. Are you telling me to take it down a notch?”

“No! Of course not! I- okay, just forget this whole part of the argument. Keep doing that.”

“Fine!”

“Good!”

“This is starting to get gross.” John says, and you both turn to him again to shout at him to shut up in perfect unison before you continue.

Ten minutes later, you’re still going. No one has moved.

“And maybe if you woke up later than dawn every day, you would be less grumpy all the time!”

“Why are we fighting?!” He shouts back, and his words finally seem to crack through the spell.

You still refuse to back down. “Because you’re so annoyingly protective all the time. We’ve covered this. You’re just-“

“Because I love you.” He snaps, energy still furious despite his words. “And the idea of anything happening to you makes me lose my mind. Why can’t you see that? Why are you always arguing with me about it?!”

“Because I love you too! I took the shot because they were aiming at you, jackass!”

He surges forward, crashing his mouth to yours with so much force that it knocks you backwards into the wall. Your hands fly up to tangle in his hair. His fly down to the backs of your thighs, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist as he all but snarls into your mouth.

If you weren’t so distracted by Bucky, you might see money exchange hands on the other side of the room.

“You see this? Passion.” Alexei says, and everyone groans. “Is good thing. They fight with love. Like warriors.”

“They’re basically eating each other.” Ava says, tone laced with disgust.

Bucky’s mouth moves to your neck, biting down hard enough to make you groan, and the sound immediately draws his mouth back to yours.

“Okay, I’m done. I have a feeling they’re not going to make it to their room, and I definitely don’t need to see that.” John says, standing from his spot on the couch. The others stand, too, all grumbling with annoyance. The moment the couch is free, before they’ve even left the room, Bucky throws you down on it and crawls on top of you.

“Drive me fucking crazy.” He’s murmuring against your neck, calloused hands sliding up beneath your shirt as his hips press against yours. You make a noise that makes him grip you harder, his teeth scraping against your skin. “Gonna make you-“

His words are cut off by a cup of water splashing over the two of you, cold and shocking, and you both shout with surprise. You look up, only for another cup of water to splash on you.

“Take it to your room! It’s like two floors below us!”

You almost laugh, despite the heat still surging through you, and sputter as a third splash of water lands on you. Did they all get cups of water? Seriously?

“Okay, we get it! Stop with the-“ You start to say, only to squeak in surprise as Bucky stands and pulls you with him, wrapping your legs around his waist once more as he starts moving towards the elevator. He’s soaked, hair sticking to his face as he presses you up against the wall and slams his mouth back against yours, hand flying out to slam against one of the buttons - you don’t even know if it’s the right one - before it comes back up to start ripping at your tactical gear.

“Oh God, not in the elevator. It’s easier to disinfect the couch!”

The words are lost as the doors close, and there’s no more fighting after that.

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rinniereads123 · 6 days ago

Text

Prometheus Masterlist

Pairing: Creation!Soldat x Female Reader

Tags: Frankenstein AU. Angst. Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Slow Burn.

Warnings: 18+ only. PTSD. Dehumanization. Violence. Mentions of blood. Road accident. Voyeurism. -Maybe more tags will be added later-

Summary: Forged in darkness and marked by scars, Soldat is freed by chance. Wounded and lost, he follows the hand that touched him without command.

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

#tbr

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rinniereads123 · 6 days ago

Text

What's a Little Sex Pollen Between Neighbors?

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 7.8k Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)

Content/Warnings: SEX POLLEN-DRIVEN DUBIOUS CONSENT; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; alternating POV sections

Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.

It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.

But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

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rinniereads123 · 6 days ago

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I feel it turning into addiction | mini series masterlist

Dark!Biker!Bucky x Reader AU

Themes throughout the series: somnophilia, dub con, dark!bucky, age gap, smut, explicit language, biker!bucky, younger!reader, loss of virginity, mild daddy kink, mentions of stalking, voyeurism

Status: On-going

Tag List is open, comment below or send me a message/ask if you wanna be notified for future parts :)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

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rinniereads123 · 6 days ago

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I Think I’ve Seen This Film Before | Bucky Barnes x Reader

I am back to writing after moving cities, starting a new job, going through a death in the family, and breaking up with my ex! Please enjoy the angst.

Word count: 20.4k

Warnings: anxiety, talk of cheating, vomit

The persistent buzzing was wearing on your last nerve.

“Buck!” you called, “your phone is ringing- again!”

Bucky’s phone sat on the opposite side of the kitchen island, vibrating into oblivion, just as it had been for the past few minutes. Part of you wanted to answer the damn thing and put a stop to whatever telemarketer spam was plaguing your boyfriend’s phone. And if it weren’t for the cookie dough covering your hands, maybe you would’ve.

And so, you called to him again.

“I think it’s probably pretty important!” You let out a sigh, “Cause they won’t stop fucking calling.”

Bucky chuckled from down the hall. Damn his enhanced senses. Not even words mumbled under your breath could escape his hearing.

“Just let it go to voicemail,” he hollered, content to ignore his ringing phone.

Bucky never had much affection for his phone. He felt it was more of a bother than an advancement. That it didn’t fit comfortably into his life. He never wanted to be this accessible. This available to other people. Until he met you.

Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous.

But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait.

He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.

But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row.

You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”

Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.

A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.

He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls.

He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.

“Um… hello?”

There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”

He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.

“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”

And just like that, the mysterious call was over.

Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.

“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”

Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:

“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”

Tara. Tara.

“Yeah.”

How could you forget?

He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.

Sam told a different story.

After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.

But she didn’t ask him to tag along.

Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky.

And it destroyed him.

He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee.

And then she was gone.

Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person.

An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?

“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.

Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it.

“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.

“Yeah. And she wants my help.”

It took you off guard.

“With what?”

Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”

“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”

Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”

A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry.

Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting.

But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.

“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.

You stared right back.

“Um, what do I think?”

You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless.

“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”

Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”

“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten. “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”

“Oh, um…” you shrugged.

The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way.

In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified.

You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.

“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-”

The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.

“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”

You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.

But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck.

You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing.

“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.”

You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.

But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern.

But you muzzled it, just like you had before.

Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy.

Wasn’t he?

Yes. Of course.

You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason.

You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around.

“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”

It wasn’t so bad at first.

His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung.

Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.

And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.

The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time.

There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole.

Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes.

Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.

But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.

“Tara said the funniest thing today.”

“Tara had a great idea.”

“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”

Tara.

Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors.

There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?

The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.

After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.

It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.

And she hadn’t even done anything wrong.

But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind.

And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.

Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.

You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky.

Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone.

You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too.

As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.

As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing.

A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking.

The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.

“Buck?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”

“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”

“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”

The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”

He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

And he was.

The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly.

How could you compete against someone like that?

Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.

His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara.

A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever.

“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”

“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”

A small sigh pushed through your lips.

It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest.

“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”

It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied.

“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”

You simply shook your head.

And that was the last night you ate dinner together.

The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.

You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.

“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”

It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.

Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.

The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”

“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”

“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged.

“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.”

With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.

With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window.

But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite.

But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.

“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”

“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”

He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess.

But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him.

Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down.

You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.

It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.

Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work.

Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.

You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.

Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job.

If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.

But you didn’t have to.

Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.

“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”

You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.

Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.

“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”

“’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.

The cabin?

Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.

“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.

“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”

Your heart fluttered.

“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”

Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will.

You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them.

“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips.

It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks.

Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his.

In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel.

After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.

All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.

On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time.

“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.”

“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”

Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”

When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.

You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.

He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open.

“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark.

Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter.

“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”

“Noon sharp,” you said back.

He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”

“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”

But you didn’t.

Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.

But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.

Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail.

‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’

But he wasn’t.

Nor was he home by two. Or three.

The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.

At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame.

You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken.

Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.

But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.

Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.

But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable.

With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.

A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage.

At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip.

The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side.

On the final ring, you answered his call.

And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.

“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”

A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned.

“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”

“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”

“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”

“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”

‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?

“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.

Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus.

Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.

“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”

The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.

“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”

You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.

Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t.

“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”

He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned.

He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.

“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”

T needed him. Not the team. Tara.

It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.

“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”

Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”

You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired.

“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in.

His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person.

“I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke. “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”

You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you.

But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?

“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”

You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”

“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”

Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you.

How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving.

His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.

He stared at you, “What are you-”

“I can’t let you quit.”

“But-”

“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”

He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.

“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”

He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you.

You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.

“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”

You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you.

A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.

Finally, he spoke.

“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”

You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.

“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”

You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”

“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”

Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?

“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”

The alarms quieted a few decibels.

“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.

He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem.

And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’.

However, you did want to ask him one question.

“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”

He nodded.

“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”

Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time.

“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.

Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”

“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”

“Cross my heart.”

You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last.

And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap.

“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”

He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape.

Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?

“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”

The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.

“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”

You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…”

“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”

He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.

And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind:

“Thou dost protest too much.”

You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind.

But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’

You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.

“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”

And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value.

“I love you too, Buck.”

He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time.

“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”

You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning.

But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.

When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold.

“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”

No answer.

“Of fucking course.”

With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief.

But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened.

Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back.

“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”

You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”

Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”

Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”

Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.

“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.

“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.

“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.

His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”

“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug.

“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”

“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”

Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh.

“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”

Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car.

The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.

There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust.

As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that.

Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home. Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.

It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.

As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well.

So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.

But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.

And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway.

But work he did, anyway.

Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree.

“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”

He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.

“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”

Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.

But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks.

The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.

He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business.

And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.

And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Things were looking up.

Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face.

He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way.

“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”

“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”

He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited.

“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.

Your jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Really.”

It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received.

“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”

You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”

He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”

You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”

“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”

It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened.

“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.

“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.

The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.

But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.

He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.

“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”

He fell silent for a long moment, thinking.

“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”

“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”

“You’d rather not what, Buck?”

He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…”

He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken.

This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.

His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”

He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face.

You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days.

“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”

You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”

“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”

You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.

The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.

And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded.

But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?

No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore.

With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.

Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door.

Bucky looked at you. You looked at him.

“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”

He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.

“Who is it, Buck?”

He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.

When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor.

It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest.

As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.

“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried.

Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?

And then a woman’s voice filled the air.

Not any woman’s voice.

Tara’s.

“I know, but I need you, Buck.”

A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open.

Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout.

You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway.

And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.

A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered.

Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed.

“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”

“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”

“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”

Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.

“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.

Bucky perked up.

“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”

“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”

“But we can’t be sure…”

“Barnes, I’m sure.”

Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”

Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.

“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”

Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important.

You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came.

“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.

A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.

“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”

“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.

With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look.

“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”

“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”

He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”

You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”

You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts?

But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it.

And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.

Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster.

“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”

“Magdalini’s?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”

You waited for something more, but nothing came.

“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.

“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”

Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with. And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies.

You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous.

“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.

You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.

Until there was another soft knock at the door.

Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver.

“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.

Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.

And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?

You gestured for her to enter, “Sure.”

She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over.

“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.

“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.

“You did? Wow. It’s beautiful. You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” you forced a smile.

Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?

“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”

It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of.

But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder.

Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there.

“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”

“I can help with-” “Oh, here, let me-”

Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded.

The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.

After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident.

You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did.

Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.

Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience.

Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.

The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.

“There,” you said , “All done.”

Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”

“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!”

Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.

‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.

After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance.

And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.

After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.

Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.

Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open.

“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.

“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”

His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.

But he never appeared.

Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.

Something was wrong.

You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size.

You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.

“Hey…” you called.

He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”

The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.

And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.

“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?”

Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.

“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”

His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.

“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

Suddenly, his eyes grew wide.

“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”

Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”

His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went.

A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering.

But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.

“I told you so!”

This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments.

But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.

It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everythingwould have to wait.

“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.

His brow furrowed, “What?”

You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”

He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.

“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”

The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.”

“Baby-”

“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.

You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.

On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump.

With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.

The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.

The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor.

But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him.

But it was too late.

“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”

The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed.

His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”

You didn’t answer.

“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”

The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman.

But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.

Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.

And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.

All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied.

“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”

‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’

The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.

The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs.

Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.

Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.

Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck.

In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them.

“I can’t do this again.”

The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.

No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect?

The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.

Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit.

“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.”

He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly.

There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger.

More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.

The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.

“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”

“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face.

“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”

“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-”

A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.

Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”

And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.

Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.

The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out.

“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”

A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand.

“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”

Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry.

“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”

It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”

And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate.

But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera.

“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern.

You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”

He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.

“Thanks for catching me, Buck.”

“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.”

He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?” he asked, “Or is it something new?”

He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.

“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees.

He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”

There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help.

“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words.

You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”

Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.

“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.

“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.

“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”

But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics.

Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard.

In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.

But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds.

“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”

“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”

Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering.

“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them.

He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something.

But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.

“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”

“What?”

He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet.

“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”

You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”

“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”

He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow.

You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon.

He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.

It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did.

When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.

Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor.

“You still love me?”

It crushed you.

“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body.

“Even after-”

“Yes,” you said against his chest.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”

This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance.

“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”

“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”

“No.”

And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals.

“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”

It was quiet- inaudible, really. But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.

The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.

But the relief only lasted so long.

“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”

Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”

The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.

“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”

He tightened his grip around you.

“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”

“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”

“Sweetheart-”

“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”

He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”

“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”

“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…”

For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate.

“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”

Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him.

“You’ve been cheated on,” he said.

You nodded, “Three times.”

A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”

Again, you nodded.

“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”

Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink.

And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs.

Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.

“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”

A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod.

“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”

“You weren’t-”

“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”

Bucky nodded.

“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”

“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”

Your shrug was cold, detached.

Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”

Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”

Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”

For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.

“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”

He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”

“Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.

The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind.

“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”

“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”

You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”

His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.

He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”

“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”

Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.

“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”

“But-”

“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”

He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.

“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”

A quiet laugh left your chest.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again- I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”

There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body.

He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak.

Your story and his were inextricably wound together, and that’s how they’d remain.

#tbr

2K notes · View notes

rinniereads123 · 7 days ago

Text

The Pink Star

pairing | new!avengers!bucky x new!avengers!reader

word count | 8.8k words

summary | when a world-famous diamond vanishes during a mission, all eyes fall on you—former jewel thief, current new avenger, and the possessive obsession of bucky barnes—who will defend you to the grave, whether you're guilty or not.

tags | (18+) MDNI, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, mutual masturbation, unprotected sex, oral sex (f!receiving), vaginal sex, praise kink, dirty talk, POST-THUNDERBOLTS, protective!bucky, soft!bucky, mean!reader, lowkey brat!reader, established relationship, possessive!bucky barnes, jealous/obsessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, nighttime confessions

a/n | i swear to you, chat, I really really tried to make this 4-5k words, idk wtf happened

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @uzmacchiato

“Do you always shuffle like that, or is that just for show?”

Alexei’s voice boomed across the living room like it had nowhere better to be. He leaned back in the leather chair with a grin too wide for someone three rounds down.

You didn’t look up. Just slid the cards through your fingers with practiced ease, the movement smooth, fluid — sensual, even, if you did say so yourself.

“I find the theatrics help distract lesser players,” you said, cutting the deck without so much as a glance at him. “Consider it a handicap, sweetheart.”

From her spot on the couch, Yelena snorted, one knee pulled to her chest, tablet glowing faintly in her lap. “More like an ego massage.”

“She has to entertain herself somehow,” Ava added, eyes still glued to the book in her hand. She hadn’t looked up once since you'd started the game, but somehow still managed to insert herself exactly where it annoyed you.

You dealt the cards slowly, deliberately, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel like power.

“Jealousy’s not a good look on either of you,” you replied mildly, flicking the final card across the table toward Alexei. “But keep talking — I win faster when I’m being underestimated.”

Alexei picked up his hand like he was holding a newborn. “You know, in Soviet Russia, we play with knives. Much more interesting.”

“I’m not opposed,” you said, crossing your legs, silk robe falling open just enough to make Alexei blink. “But then I’d have to clean blood off the carpet. And I’m allergic to manual labor.”

Yelena cracked a lazy grin. Ava turned a page.

The Watchtower’s common room was dimly lit, warm from the flickering fireplace that Yelena insisted made the place feel “less clinical.” The rain outside painted slow-moving shadows across the hardwood floors. No one else was around — just your little core, spread out like some mismatched after-hours club.

You leaned forward just enough to reach for your bourbon — untouched, but placed with intention. Every move was deliberate. You’d worn the silk for yourself, technically, but you knew exactly what it did to the room.

Alexei scratched his beard. “One of these days, you’re going to lose. And when you do—”

You cut him off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “When I do, you’ll still be boring, and I’ll still be beautiful. It’ll be tragic, truly.”

Yelena let out a low whistle, muttering something in Russian under her breath.

Ava finally looked up. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you’ve managed to drag her into something that doesn’t sparkle.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you said, “Not everything has to sparkle to be valuable.”

Footsteps echoed from the kitchen.

“Oh, you guys are playing?” John's voice cut through the warmth of the room like wet socks. “Deal me in.”

You didn’t even look up. “No.”

Alexei chimed in at the same time. “Nyet.”

Walker stopped mid-step. “Seriously?”

Alexei gave a lazy shrug, raising his glass like it might soften the blow. “Room already has enough energy. Don’t want to shift vibe.”

You finally lifted your gaze, eyes raking him up and down with a slowness that bordered on cruel. “Besides, I don’t play games with men who can’t take losing. And you, Boy Scout Barbie, are a sulker.”

Walker blinked. “I’m not a sulker.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Yelena muttered.

He muttered something under his breath and made his way toward the other end of the room, slumping into the seat next to Bob like a moody teen. Bob immediately stiffened like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Probably breathing too loudly.

“I mean,” Walker called out again, clearly not done, “what are you guys even playing for, anyway? Bragging rights?”

“No,” you replied, slow and dry. “We’re playing for dignity. You wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Yelena snorted. Bob looked like he wanted to disappear.

Alexei chuckled beside you, swirling the last of his drink. “So, what I get if I win, devushka?” he asked, eyes narrowing with faux confidence. “Something real. Something good.”

You tilted your head, lips pursing. “If you win…” You let the pause stretch, dragging the silence like velvet. “You get to say you beat me. Once. And then I’ll let you frame the cards.”

Alexei groaned. “Bah. No fun. Okay, okay—what you want if you win?”

You leaned back in your seat, stretching your arms overhead just enough to make it distracting. “Hmm. What do I want from a man who has nothing I need?”

Alexei leaned forward on his elbows, cards fanned lazily in one hand, smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Okay, devushka. If you win… I get you something made of vibranium. Real Wakandan stuff.”

You scoffed, slow and unimpressed, barely glancing up from your hand. “I already have something made of vibranium.”

Walker twisted from his spot on the couch, scoffing. “No, you don’t.”

You turned your head toward him, the motion fluid, calculated. “Yes, I do.”

He raised a brow. “What, like jewelry? Pretty sure that’s not on the market for—”

“No,” you cut in, voice syrupy with disinterest. “Unlike you… with your cheap excuse for a shield.”

Bob blinked next to him. “Damn.”

Walker bristled. “My shield is—”

You held up a hand. “Please don’t embarrass yourself further.”

Ava didn’t even look up from her book. “Secondhand symbolism isn’t a personality trait.”

Walker opened his mouth again, then promptly closed it.

Alexei chuckled, sipping his drink. “So, what is mystery vibranium treasure you claim to own, hm?”

You looked at him over the top of your cards, shrugged one shoulder, and said casually, “James’ arm.”

There was a full beat of silence.

Yelena lowered her tablet slowly, blinking at you like you’d just recited an entire monologue about tax law. “I want you to really hear what just came out of your mouth,” she said flatly. “You just… took ownership of someone else’s arm.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Whatever’s his is mine.”

Simple. Like gravity.

Ava turned a page with a deliberate flick. “So, whatever’s yours is his, then?”

“I never said that.”

That earned a huff from Yelena, who muttered something in Russian under her breath that sounded vaguely like delusional but committed.

Walker looked between you all like someone had changed the language setting on the conversation.

Alexei exhaled, long and put-upon, setting his cards down as if they weighed something. “Okay, okay… what do you want, then?”

You tilted your head, lips curving slow, deliberate — the kind of smile that meant trouble and absolutely no regret. Feline and dangerous.

“The Orlov diamond.”

There was a beat of silence.

Alexei turned to look at you fully, eyes narrowing like he was sure he’d misheard. Yelena’s tablet dropped to her lap as she cut you a sidelong glance, brows raising.

You just blinked, perfectly serene.

“You’re not serious,” Alexei said finally, half-laughing like he hoped it was a joke.

“You asked what I wanted,” you replied, your voice light, almost bored. “I answered.”

Alexei sat up straighter, suddenly far more animated than any poker game warranted. “That is Mother Russia’s diamond,” he declared, gesturing like he was rallying a crowd. “It belongs in our history, our legacy. It is symbol of strength—of endurance! Stolen by the West, admired by the world, but born of Russian greatness—”

You didn’t even lift your head. Just slid a glance toward him, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. “It’s originally from India.”

He blinked. “What?”

Yelena let out a sharp laugh, hiding her grin behind her hand. Ava didn’t even bother pretending not to smirk.

Alexei sputtered for a second, searching for a comeback. Finally, he puffed up his chest with exaggerated pride. “Well then, I simply make sure you don’t win.”

You gave him a slow, sweet smile. “You can try.”

And then, with your eyes locked on his, you slid another chip into the pot.

Alexei cracked his knuckles. You tapped your fingers against your knee, calm but coiled. The game shifted. The easy banter faded into something quieter, more serious — the room narrowing down to the felt, the cards, the chips.

Everyone else had settled in to watch.

Bob sat hunched over on the armrest of the couch, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was observing a bomb defusal. Walker sat stiff beside him, arms crossed, a faint scowl pulling at his mouth.

Ava leaned back in the corner, legs stretched out, expression unreadable behind her book. Yelena was the only one who looked remotely entertained, chin on her fist as she watched with open amusement.

The pile in the center of the table grew. Slow. Deliberate. Neither of you moved quickly now.

Alexei furrowed his brow as he looked down at his hand, chewing the inside of his cheek. You sat still, legs crossed, a fingertip trailing the rim of your untouched glass. Your eyes never left his.

He blinked. Put down one card. Drew another. Tried not to flinch.

You played your move a moment later — no theatrics. Just quiet, smooth certainty. You placed your final bet, then leaned back, completely relaxed. The kind of calm that made people nervous.

Alexei hesitated. Looked at you. Looked at his cards again.

He sighed through his nose. “I regret offering anything.”

“Everyone regrets something,” you said, your tone light.

Finally, he matched your bet.

Cards were laid.

Alexei’s face fell before the last one even hit the table. His shoulders slumped, and he gave a groan like he was genuinely in pain.

You only smiled.

“You’re kidding me,” Walker muttered.

Bob made a small, strangled sound that might have been applause or shock — hard to tell with him.

Yelena just shook her head. “Of course she won.”

Alexei leaned back in his chair, defeated, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was pure luck.”

You gathered your chips with graceful efficiency, not bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eyes. “Mm. I don’t believe in luck.”

Alexei gave you a side-eye. “So you really want diamond?”

You stacked the final chip on the pile, then leaned your elbow on the armrest and rested your chin on your hand, gaze cool and certain.

“I want it,” you said. “By the end of the month.”

Alexei groaned again. “Ridiculous.”

Watchtower — Conference Room, One Week Later

Everyone hated when Val came to the Watchtower.

She never arrived quietly. Always in heels, always carrying too many opinions and too little respect for the people who had enough evidence to lock her away forever. If she wasn’t here to corner them into another PR gala or some glossy photo-op for the press, then she was here to rip someone apart with thinly veiled passive aggression and backhanded insults dressed up like “feedback.”

This morning was no different.

You were seated next to Bucky, like always, mind somewhere else entirely as she paced in front of the projection screen, throwing her usual mix of threats and barely tolerable sarcasm around like rice at a wedding.

You had one arm looped casually through his, hand resting lightly on his forearm. Your legs were crossed, posture relaxed, entirely unbothered by the stiff tension that filled the room like smoke.

It had become routine. You in his space, wrapped around him like a claim. Him, settled beside you like he belonged there.

“Hong Kong and Japan are furious,” Val announced, clicking her remote like it owed her money. “You know, the kind of fury that comes with lawsuits, diplomatic tension, and entire governments not returning our calls.”

Yelena arched an eyebrow from her seat beside Ava. “So, same as last time.”

Val didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

Walker leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “We literally saved Tokyo from a nuclear detonation last week. They could’ve had another Hiroshima and Nagasaki on their hands.”

Silence.

It was instant. Heavy.

Even the hum of the projector felt loud in comparison.

Ava looked up slowly. Bob blinked. Yelena tilted her head at him like she was trying to figure out how much brain damage a person could suffer and still hold a government clearance.

Walker glanced around. “Was that too soon?”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s centuries too soon to make a joke like that.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond.

Val sighed, like she wasn’t even surprised. “This,” she muttered, waving a hand vaguely at Walker, “is why you guys need media training.”

She clicked through another slide she wasn’t even pretending to care about. The projector whined against the silence.

“And now,” she said, tone sharpening, “we have a completely separate mess to clean up — one that’s about to make headlines if we’re not careful.”

Yelena sighed audibly. “You say that like it's new.”

Val ignored her. Of course.

“Same day you all landed in Tokyo,” she continued, her eyes sweeping the room slowly, “something else went missing halfway across the world.”

She clicked again. The screen lit up with a high-resolution image — the glint of light catching on flawless facets.

“The Pink Star Diamond,” she said. “Gone. From its private exhibition in Hong Kong. Security footage? Wiped. Guards? Drugged. No signs of forced entry.”

The room went still.

And then — every head turned.

Toward you.

Slow. Simultaneous.

Ava didn’t even try to hide her stare. Yelena gave a soft snort. Bob blinked like he wasn’t sure if he should make eye contact or duck for cover. Walker just sat there, frowning.

You didn’t react. Not even a twitch.

Val folded her arms. “Coincidence?”

You finally turned to her, face cool, mouth poised in that bored sort of half-smile. “Absolutely.”

Alexei leaned forward slightly. “We were in Tokyo.”

You leaned forward slightly in your seat, arm still threaded through Bucky’s as you rested your other hand on the table, fingers tapping once — slow and deliberate.

“I was never in Hong Kong,” you said smoothly, voice level. “I didn’t leave Tokyo the entire time we were deployed. Ask the field team. Ask Ava. Cross-reference satellite data. Internal comm logs. Flight manifests. Movement trackers.”

Ava didn’t deny it — just narrowed her gaze slightly, studying you with that unnerving, analytical expression of hers.

Val arched a brow. “The diamond was taken by someone who avoided every sensor in a high-security vault. Who moved with precision and didn’t leave a single trace.”

Yelena gave a small shrug. “I mean… she didn’t leave the drop zone. That I saw.”

Walker snorted. “Please. You’ve snuck past tracking before. No one’s doubting your ability, that’s the problem.”

You looked at him like he was gum on the sidewalk. “If I’d stolen it, you think I’d be dumb enough to let it get traced back here? Have some faith in my standards.”

“Oh, we have faith,” Ava cut in, folding her arms and staring you down. “Just not the kind you’re hoping for.”

You arched a brow, waiting.

Val took a step closer to the head of the table. “You were a jewel thief when I found you. Let’s not rewrite history. You were halfway through smuggling the Laurent Emeralds out of Geneva when I made you an offer.”

You smiled slowly, almost sweetly. “Correction. I was halfway out of Geneva. The emeralds were already in Paris.”

Bob blinked like he wanted to take notes.

“Let’s talk logistics,” you added, sharper now. “You think I snuck out of Tokyo in the middle of a live operation, somehow got to Hong Kong, cracked a vault with no gear, took a priceless diamond, and made it back — all without being seen or throwing off the mission timeline?”

Silence.

Then, “…Yeah, kind of,” Walker muttered.

You stared at him. “You can’t even open your own locker without help.”

Yelena snorted again.

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“You act like this is personal,” you said, eyes skating over the room. “It’s not. It’s logistics. And none of you have a leg to stand on.”

Yelena didn’t even look up from her seat. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t own a single pair of sweatpants.”

You turned to her with a lazy blink. “And I can’t trust someone who surrounds herself with rodents.”

Her head snapped toward you. “He’s not a rodent, he’s a hamster, and his name is Nathaniel. And you better keep that white she-devil away from him.”

Bob whispered, “I think Nathanial and Alpine are both adorable…”

Walker cut in, loud and self-righteous. “You’re a kleptomaniac. Just admit it already.”

“I’m selective,” you corrected. “There’s a difference. If I were a kleptomaniac, your watch would be missing.”

Walker looked down at his wrist instinctively.

Val stepped forward again, clearly running out of patience. “If you have the diamond, just give it back. We can clean this up before it escalates.”

You stared at her, jaw tight, smile gone.

“I’m not giving it back,” you said evenly, “because I don’t have it.”

“You know what?” Ava said sharply. “Even if you didn’t take it — which, let’s be honest, is a stretch — you still act like this team’s your personal playground.”

You didn’t respond.

“You don’t answer to anyone,” Walker snapped. “You don’t follow protocol. You steal. You lie. And we’re just supposed to deal with it because Bucky lets you crawl into his lap like a damn—”

Your head turned.

Eyes on Bucky.

No words this time. Just a look.

And that was all it took.

He stood like someone had flipped a switch — slow, calm, but absolute. A wall rising between you and the room.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cut through the air like a blade.

Everyone went still.

Bucky looked around the table, one hand still resting gently over yours, the other loose at his side — but the tension in his shoulders said he was ready.

“You’re accusing her with nothing. No proof. No data. Just gut feelings and guesses because you don’t like how she operates.” His voice stayed steady. “She’s not obligated to win you over with small talk and trust falls. She gets the job done. Every time. And if you can’t keep up with how she does it, that’s on you.”

Yelena opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her the chance.

“She was accounted for. We all saw it. And unless someone here can produce actual evidence that she left the mission zone, I suggest you stop throwing accusations like you’re on trial for your own insecurities.”

The room was dead quiet.

You sat back, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his jaw stayed tight.

Yelena leaned forward, voice sharp. “That’s so unfair.”

You blinked, tilting your head with faux innocence. “What is?”

“That.” She pointed toward Bucky — now standing like a sentinel at your side. “Every time we call you out, you don’t have to defend yourself. You just look at him like a Disney princess and suddenly he’s barking at all of us.”

You raised your brows, lips parting slightly. “Are you suggesting I’m not a princess?”

“We’re suggesting he’s your guard dog,” Ava muttered. “Trained, loaded, and ready to bite.”

Walker scoffed. “You say ‘James’ and suddenly we’re all the enemy.”

“Maybe don’t act like enemies,” Bucky said flatly, still standing tall beside you.

You let out a quiet hum, fingers gently brushing along his forearm. “You all seem very emotional about this.”

Bob, barely breathing at this point, whispered, “She’s doing the thing again where she pretends she doesn’t know what’s happening…”

Val looked like she wanted to rip her own hair out.

Alexei finally spoke, voice low and deliberate. “You say you want me to steal Orlov diamond for you — and we all laugh. But then Pink Star goes missing and suddenly it’s out of question?”

You gave him a look like he’d just said something painfully unoriginal. “It was a joke,” you said coolly. “One you're all now taking way too seriously.”

“Because it’s not unbelievable,” Ava shot back.

“And yet, still unproven,” you replied, voice even, unbothered. “So what are we really doing here? Group therapy?”

Bucky let out a quiet breath and finally lowered himself back into his seat beside you, arm brushing yours.

“The conversation’s over,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “She didn’t steal the diamond.”

A pause.

“Very sorry for Hong Kong,” he added, almost deadpan. “But that’s their own fault for losing it.”

Yelena threw up her hands. Walker stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. Ava just blinked slowly, lips pressed into a thin line.

Val looked around the room like she was considering setting the whole table on fire, but finally closed the file in her hand with a tight snap.

“Fine,” she said, “Whatever.“

And no one argued. Not after that.

You leaned into Bucky just slightly, your tone airy as ever. “I thought I handled that well.”

He didn’t smile—not really—but you felt the way his hand found your thigh under the table.

“You always do,” he murmured.

Your bedroom, That night

“James, you’re not admiring me enough.”

Your voice came out in a lazy drawl, like it wasn’t the first time you’d said it tonight—or ever.

Bucky didn’t look away from you, not even for a second. “I am, baby.”

His voice was quiet. Rough. The kind of hoarse that came from restraint, not disinterest.

He was seated in your vanity chair, his long legs spread wide, arms resting on his thighs. The golden light from a dozen candles danced across his face—across the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed when his eyes dropped lower.

The room smelled like rose oil and candle wax. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the cool New York summer air creep in, stirring the silk curtains. The rest of the Watchtower was asleep—or pretending to be.

You were stretched across your bed like something out of a painting, legs bare, skin glowing under dim candlelight. The rose gold silk of your nightgown clung to you like it was made for this moment, slipping dangerously off one shoulder.

And on your right hand—on your ring finger—the Pink Star Diamond glittered in a way that could never be mistaken for synthetic.

It sparkled as you moved, slowly dragging your hand down the curve of your own body, letting the diamond catch the light—your collarbone, your sternum, the dip of your waist.

Bucky's jaw clenched.

“Do you like it?” you asked, eyes meeting his through your lashes.

“You know I do,” he murmured.

“Mm. You haven’t said it.”

“Sayin’ it doesn’t do shit compared to what I wanna do, sweetheart.”

You stretched just enough to shift the way the silk slid over your skin, the gown riding high over your thigh as you tilted your chin toward him. The diamond caught another sliver of candlelight as you turned your hand, admiring it like it was a museum piece.

“I think it pairs nicely with this,” you said, voice honeyed, fingertip grazing the diamond choker around your neck — icy white, square-cut stones sitting flush against your collarbone.

Bucky’s gaze dropped instantly, breath catching in his throat.

“This one,” you murmured, drawing your hand slowly down between your breasts, “I stole in Prague. Four years ago.”

His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. His fists clenched on his thighs.

You watched him watch you. Watched his restraint unravel one breath at a time.

The gown dipped as you rolled one shoulder forward, then the other. Silk slid down your arms, slow and fluid, catching briefly on your wrists before slipping away entirely.

The fabric pooled at your waist.

You made no move to cover yourself.

Instead, you lifted the hand with the Pink Star and cupped your breast — a subtle arch of your back pressing into your own touch, thumb brushing lazily over your nipple as you let out a soft, unaffected hum.

“I think it looks best like this,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Don’t you?”

Bucky looked wrecked.

Absolutely still.

Like touching himself would be a sin, but staying still was agony.

His voice broke low. “Jesus, baby…”

You adjusted your hand slightly, the Pink Star flashing as your fingers squeezed around your breast just enough to make him twitch in his seat.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just stared — like you were sacred and obscene all at once.

“You’re being very well-behaved tonight, Jamie.”

Your voice was soft, mockingly sweet — the tone you used when you wanted to draw blood with sugar. You dragged your thumb in a lazy circle, making your breath hitch just slightly, enough for effect.

“Is that for me?” you asked, tilting your head, eyes dropping briefly to the very obvious, very strained bulge in his pants. “Or are you just always that hard when you see me with something expensive on my body?”

His jaw flexed, a vein in his neck twitching. He still didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

This wasn’t new. Not for either of you.

Every time you acquired something rare — something stolen, expensive, yours — you made him sit like this. Made him watch as you modeled it, draped in nothing but luxury and intent. A necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings you'd lifted off a diplomat's mistress in Vienna.

Your thumb dragged over your nipple again, slow, absent, like you were just adjusting—like you hadn’t just knocked the breath out of him. The diamond on your finger flashed with the movement, sharp and pink and impossibly perfect.

“I think,” you said softly, “it deserves to be seen on something beautiful.”

Bucky was dead silent. Tense. Hard. Eyes fixed to your chest like he couldn’t look anywhere else.

You pinched your nipple between two fingers and let out a quiet, breathy sound that wasn’t quite a moan—just enough to let him feel it. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

You let your hand trail down the center of your chest, past the soft dip of your sternum, fingers skating over your stomach before curling over the edge of your thigh. The candlelight made your skin look warmer, shinier—like satin layered over heat.

You shifted on the bed, spreading your legs just enough for the silk to fall open between them.

And then you smiled — slow, satisfied, dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” you purred, lifting your chin slightly. “You’ll get to touch.”

A beat.

“When I say.”

You watched his throat bob, the way his metal hand gripped the arm of the chair like it might snap.

You bit your bottom lip and let your legs fall a little wider.

“But for now…” your fingers ghosted across your inner thigh, just high enough to make his breath catch again, “you can keep watching.”

You let your knees fall wider, silk gathering at your hips, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your thighs. You could feel how soaked you already were—just from him watching, from the look in his eyes like he was praying and dying at the same time.

His breath was shallow now. Barely held.

You brought the hand with your diamond down, the weight of it glinting across your knuckles as your fingers brushed through your folds, slow and slick.

Bucky exhaled like he’d been punched.

You dragged your middle finger through your wetness again, slower this time—gathering everything at your entrance before circling your clit with the kind of practiced ease that made you hum in your throat.

“See?” you murmured, eyes locked on his. “Looks good with everything.”

Your finger dipped lower, slid inside—just the tip—and then pulled back out, glistening under the candlelight. You let him see it, held it up briefly like you were about to taste yourself, before trailing it back down again.

His legs shifted like he might stand, but you shook your head once, gently. “Stay.”

He froze. Swallowed hard.

You pushed two fingers in this time—slow, deep, your wrist angling to curl against that soft spot that always made your thighs twitch. You let out a quiet breath and arched, back pressing into the mattress as your palm flexed against your own heat.

The diamond caught the candlelight again as your hand moved—subtle, steady, your breathing picking up as the slick sound of your fingers filled the room.

“Do you know what turns me on the most?” you said softly, your voice catching on a gasp as you pressed deeper. “Knowing you’re sitting there, aching, while I get myself off with your favorite view in the world.”

Bucky’s hands gripped the chair again—one flesh, one metal—white-knuckled and silent, his eyes glued to your fingers moving in and out, knuckles glistening, thighs flexing.

You rolled your hips into your hand, thumb circling your clit now, pressure building fast.

And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You looked at him—sweaty, wrecked, waiting.

And you smiled.

“Good boy.”

You barely had time to pull your fingers out before he was on his feet.

The chair scraped back against the floor, and then Bucky was moving—fast, silent, like a man pulled off a leash. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of your thighs, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d been running.

You tilted your head, smug even now. “Took you long enough.”

He didn’t respond.

He just hooked his hands under your thighs, yanked you closer in one hard pull, and buried his face between your legs.

Your gasp hit the ceiling.

His mouth was hot, wet, desperate. There was no easing into it—no slow, teasing warm-up. He licked you like he needed it, like he’d been starving for it. Tongue flat at first, dragging up your folds, collecting the mess you’d made on your fingers. Then he sucked your clit into his mouth, slow and firm, moaning like he was the one getting off.

You fisted the sheets, eyes slamming shut as your hips jerked up into his face.

“Fuck—James—”

His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you still, dragging you closer, his nose pressed right against you as his tongue worked in tight, devastating circles. The stubble on his jaw scraped against your skin in the best possible way. Your breath hitched with every pull of his mouth, every little sound he made like he was drunk on the taste of you.

And when he shifted lower, dragging the tip of his tongue down to your entrance, you felt him moan—felt it, the vibration of it buzzing right through your core as he fucked you with his tongue, messy and slow and deep.

“James—” you breathed, your voice breaking. You reached down, hand tangling in his hair, diamond flashing as your fingers curled against his scalp.

He groaned again, the sound raw, needy, and gripped your hips tighter, rutting his face into you like he was trying to drown. One hand slid up—flesh—and pressed down firmly on your stomach, pinning you to the bed like he knew you were about to come.

And he was right.

You shattered in seconds.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your hand dragging through his hair as your orgasm ripped through you sharp and fast, your hips jerking under his mouth as he kept going, licking you through it like he needed to make sure you felt every second of it.

He didn’t stop until you pushed at his head with a shaking hand, breathless and ruined.

Even then—he kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. Your slick was smeared across his chin, his lips red and glistening.

“Fuck,” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He looked up at you like you were holy. “Now let me fuck you.”

You lay back against the pillows, your thighs slick and parted, the diamond catching flickers of candlelight as your hand dropped to your side. Breath steadying. Body humming.

Bucky stood slowly, still panting slightly, eyes never leaving you. You watched him reach for the hem of his shirt, grip it tight, and pull it over his head in one smooth motion.

You always loved watching him strip.

It wasn’t even about the muscle—though that was perfect too, buff and scarred and solid—it was the way he offered himself. Like the moment his skin was bare, he belonged to you again.

He unbuckled his belt next. His pants hit the floor in seconds, and your eyes dropped to his cock—already flushed, thick, twitching, and leaking for you.

You bit your lip, letting your legs fall wider.

“Come here.”

He climbed onto the bed without hesitation, crawling between your thighs with a low grunt, hands already spreading you open again like he couldn’t get enough.

But he didn’t line up just yet.

No—he stared.

Then he reached for your cunt with his flesh hand first, sliding two fingers through your slick, watching them glisten. He dragged them up, circled your clit lazily, and then brought them back down to tease at your entrance—slow, just enough to make you twitch.

“Still so wet,” he rasped, his voice thick with awe. “Fuck, baby…”

You lifted your chin, smirking through your haze. “That’s what happens when you use your mouth instead of your attitude.”

He huffed a laugh against your inner thigh, then pushed his fingers in—two at once, filling you with ease. Your back arched slightly, the stretch so much bigger than your own touch had been.

He curled them just right. Pressed deep. His thumb rubbed at your clit again in tight, controlled circles as he watched your face like it held all the answers.

You moaned, soft and breathy. “Just like that. Fuck—James.”

He groaned, forehead pressing to your thigh for a second, then looked back up at you, pupils blown wide.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, voice rough, honest.

You just smiled and tilted your hips toward him, cunt still fluttering around his fingers. “Then don’t.”

Bucky pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your cunt clenched even after they were gone. You were still dripping, the insides of your thighs slick, the scent of your arousal thick in the air.

He shifted forward on his knees, hand wrapping around the base of his cock.

Thick. Hard. Heavy. The head flushed, already leaking pre-come.

He didn’t thrust in right away.

No.

He dragged the tip through your folds first, slow and deliberate, groaning low in his throat as your slick coated him. Up and down, again and again, catching on your clit just enough to make you jolt.

You sucked in a breath, thighs twitching, but didn’t tell him to stop.

He pressed his cock against your entrance—not pushing in, just resting there, teasing you with the weight of it—then pulled back to glide through your heat again, slower this time.

“Fuck,” he breathed, jaw clenched. “You’re so wet. I could slide in without even trying.”

You grinned, your voice low and mocking. “Then stop trying so hard.”

He huffed a laugh, his free hand gripping your thigh, holding you open.

Another slow grind of his cock through your folds.

And then—

He lined up properly. Pressed forward.

And sank into you.

Your mouth dropped open, a breath catching deep in your chest as he filled you in one steady, unforgiving thrust. No rush, no hesitation—just a smooth, deep slide that had you gasping by the time his hips met yours.

“Fuck—” he groaned, head dropping for a moment, his forehead brushing yours. “You feel like heaven.”

You clenched around him, pulling him deeper, dragging your nails across his back.

“You feel like mine,” you whispered.

And then he started to move.

He started slow—just for a second—dragging his cock out until only the tip remained inside you, then slamming back in with a force that knocked a sharp moan out of your throat.

Then again.

And again.

Relentless. Deep.

The sound of his hips slapping against your ass filled the room, loud and filthy, mixed with the wet drag of your cunt pulling at him like your body knew it was built for this.

You gripped his arms tight, nails digging into muscle and metal— and for a split second, your eyes caught on the contrast of your hand against his vibranium bicep.

The Pink Star flashed.

The diamond, shining and delicate, pressed against matte vibranium.

“Oh,” you gasped, laughing breathlessly even as he fucked you through it, “that looks so good together—”

Bucky grunted above you, hips stuttering just a bit. “Baby—”

You squeezed tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him in deeper, tighter. “Don’t stop. Just—god, sweetie—look at it.”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His face was buried in your neck now, teeth scraping your skin as he rutted into you, desperate, panting, gone.

“Fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, always—can’t—”

You clenched around him on purpose, smiling through your moans. “You gonna come already, baby? Or do I have to ride you ‘til you cry?”

He groaned—deep and broken—his thrusts growing erratic, harder.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”

You arched beneath him, the diamond catching one last flicker of candlelight as he slammed into you over and over, the bed creaking, your body singing.

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Yours, baby. Just don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Not until he was buried so deep inside you it felt like you were one breath away from breaking apart completely.

His vibranium hand pinned both your wrists above your head, the cool metal firm against your skin, holding you open, helpless beneath him—not that you ever minded. You loved when he held you like this. Controlled you like this.

You felt his rhythm stutter for just a moment—his breath catching as his eyes flicked up, just barely—

To your hand.

To the Pink Star glittering on your ring finger, pressed tight beneath his palm, your fingers flexing under his grip every time his cock punched into you deep.

“Yeah,” he rasped, letting out a breathless, wrecked laugh. “You’re right, baby. That does look good.”

Then he slammed into you, harder, rougher—dragging a cry from your throat as your back arched off the bed.

“Fuck, baby—this pussy’s mine,” he gritted out, jaw tight, fucking you like he needed to brand it into your body.

“You are mine,” you panted, breath breaking into soft, frantic sounds as your orgasm coiled sharp in your gut. “All of you—this cock—your mouth—your fucking arm—mine.”

His head dropped to your shoulder as he groaned, full-body shaking, thrusts messy now, erratic, hips slamming into you over and over. The head of his cock dragged right against that perfect spot inside you, over and over, until your legs trembled and your cunt clamped around him—until suddenly he pulled out, slick and heavy, leaving you gasping at the loss.

You didn’t have time to complain.

He grabbed your hips, hands rough and urgent, flipping you with practiced ease. His metal hand pressed into your lower back, firm but not harsh, guiding you down to the mattress until your spine arched perfectly, ass up, face against the sheets.

You loved when he got like this.

When the control slipped just a little. When his restraint cracked open and you could feel the desperation underneath.

“Just like that,” he muttered, voice hoarse, reverent. “God, look at you…”

You felt him stroke the head of his cock through your folds again, dragging it through the mess between your thighs.

Then—he slammed back in.

Hard. Deep.

You let out a choked moan, fingers clutching the sheets as he gripped your hips and fucked you harder than before. The angle was brutal — his cock hitting deeper, faster, the sound of skin on skin now filthy and loud.

“Fuck, darlin’, you’re so tight like this,” he growled, pounding into you with sharp, perfect thrusts. “You love it—don’t you? Letting me bend you. Letting me take you.”

“Yes—yes, James—fuck, don’t stop—”

He grunted, grabbing a fistful of your hair with his flesh hand, pulling you up just slightly, your back still arched, mouth slack and moaning. His other hand stayed locked on your hip, keeping you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Your whole body was shaking, orgasm coiling tighter, your cunt clenching around him again and again.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he rasped against your shoulder. “Bent over like my perfect fuckin’ toy?”

You nodded, nearly sobbing, hips pushing back against him. “Yeah—I’m—fuck, James—I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he growled. “Do it for me.”

And you did.

Your orgasm hit hard, but Bucky wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

He pulled out just long enough to haul you back against him — one strong arm wrapping around your waist, the other anchoring your thigh as he dragged you into his lap. Your back met his chest, slick skin to slick skin, his cock sliding between your folds again as he settled you down on top of him.

You let out a sharp gasp as he thrust up into you from below—hard and deep—the new angle making your whole body jerk, your cunt already pulsing from how wrecked you were.

He held you there, tight against him, your legs spread wide across his thighs, his metal hand gripping your jaw as he turned your head.

You didn’t resist.

Your mouth found his in a hungry, desperate kiss — your tongues tangling immediately, breathing each other in like you needed it. His kiss was filthy and soft at once, the kind that tasted like devotion wrapped in lust, the kind that said I’d die for you, but first I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.

He fucked up into you hard and fast, your bodies slapping together, your breasts bouncing with every thrust as he moaned into your mouth.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, lips dragging to your jaw, your neck, kissing everything he could reach. “You take it so fucking good… tight little cunt just pulling me in—fuck—I’m so close—”

You could barely breathe, your head dropping to his shoulder, one hand gripping his thigh, the other tangled in his hair as he fucked you through another aftershock, your body shaking in his arms.

“James—fuck—I want it—want you to come inside me—”

His whole body jerked.

And then he did.

With a broken groan against your neck, his cock throbbed deep inside you, pulsing hard as he spilled into you, hips stuttering with each twitch, his arms wrapped around your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He held you there. Still. Breathing hard.

Your cunt still fluttered around him, your whole body sticky and spent and trembling.

You smiled against his shoulder, breathless, boneless, full.

And he kissed the side of your face like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then his breathing slowed, heartbeat thudding heavy against your back as the last few pulses of his orgasm faded. You stayed there, slumped against him, skin sticky with sweat, his arms still locked around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

But then he shifted — carefully, gently — kissing the curve of your shoulder as he pulled his cock from you, slow and deliberate.

You whimpered softly at the loss.

The stretch, the heat, the fullness—all of it slipping away as his cock slid free, dragging through your soaked folds one last time.

And then you felt it.

Warmth.

His come leaking out of you, thick and heavy, trickling slowly down the inside of your thigh.

You sighed, content. Possessed. Ruined.

Bucky let out a soft, wrecked sound behind you—half groan, half awe—as he looked down between your bodies and saw it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice low, reverent. “Look at that.”

His metal hand drifted down your stomach, tracing over your pelvis before his fingers slipped lower—collecting his own spend as it spilled from your cunt.

He rubbed it in. Slow. Gentle. Almost like he was marking you with it.

“Messy girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “You love when I fuck it this deep, don’t you?”

You let out a soft, satisfied hum, still dazed, your hand reaching back to curl around his thigh. “Just like I said…” you whispered, voice lazy, lips curling into a small smile. “Everything that’s yours is mine.”

His chest rumbled behind you. And he didn’t argue.

You exhaled slowly as you slid off his lap, your legs wobbly, your thighs still sticky with him. He caught your arm gently to steady you, but you were already shifting back onto the bed, sprawling lazily across the sheets like a queen returned to her throne.

You stretched, just a little, then sighed.

“Run me a bath,” you murmured, voice hazy but firm. “And bring me another nightgown, please. One of the white silk ones.”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question.

“Yes, baby.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your shoulder, then stood — naked, flushed, his cock still glistening with you as he padded toward the bathroom first to start the water.

The soft sound of running water filled the space.

Then he disappeared into your closet.

The doors opened into a space almost as large as your bedroom — walls lined with mirrors, plush carpet underfoot, the scent of your perfume hanging faint in the air.

One side was filled floor to ceiling with clothing: dresses, robes, gowns, coats arranged by fabric and color. Beneath them, rows of heels, boots, and custom shoes in velvet-lined cubbies.

The other side?

Glass cases and open displays sat under soft lighting, each one housing a piece that could bankrupt a small country. Famous jewels that had vanished off the face of the earth—now resting silently in your private gallery.

The Luxembourg Sapphire.

The La Peregrina Pearl.

The Florentine Diamond.

Bucky walked past it all with the quiet, familiar interest of someone who’d seen it all before… and still felt like he wasn’t supposed to.

He didn’t touch anything.

He just found the white silk nightgown you asked for—thin, sleeveless, soft enough to slide over your skin like water—and brought it back to you.

You were still on the bed, eyes half-lidded, legs open, the candlelight dancing on your still-exposed skin.

“Bath’s almost ready,” he said softly, offering the gown.

You took it without a word, slipping it on slowly, deliberately. And smoothed the silk down over your thighs, the fabric catching just slightly where your skin was still sticky and flushed.

You looked up, and there he was.

Still watching you.

His body was relaxed, but his eyes were locked on yours — heavy-lidded, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch you again or just stand there and thank god you let him breathe the same air.

You lifted your arms slowly, languidly, wrists loose, fingers curled just slightly.

“Take me to my bath?”

Your voice was low. Barely a question.

His mouth twitched, lips curling into something soft, a little wrecked.

“‘Course, darlin’,” he murmured.

And then he stepped close, bent down, and slid his arms under your legs and behind your back — lifting you like it cost him nothing.

You sank into his hold, arms curling around his shoulders, nose brushing his neck as he carried you into the bathroom.

Later That Night

The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the city through the barely cracked window and the occasional creak of the bed shifting under your bodies.

The candles had mostly burned down, little pools of wax cooling in their glass bases, shadows soft and heavy across the walls. The sheets were a mess beneath you—kicked halfway off the bed, damp with sweat, and still carrying the scent of sex and silk.

You were naked again, your white nightgown discarded somewhere on the floor after round two had turned slow and rough—deeper, more desperate.

Now, you were draped half on top of him—chest to chest, your thigh slung over his hips, toes brushing his shin. His cock lay soft and spent between you, trapped under the weight of your thigh, resting against the hard plane of his stomach, still tacky with the evidence of just how hard he’d come inside you.

Your cheek was pressed to the side of his throat, your nose brushing lazily along the sharp line of his jaw as your lips planted slow, wandering kisses.

His arms were around you, one hand splayed wide on your lower back, the other lazily gliding up and down your spine—not really comforting you, more like soothing himself. Like keeping you close was the only thing holding him steady.

Your fingers toyed lightly with his hair, the weight of the Pink Star still glinting faintly in the low light as it caught against the strands at his temple. You hadn’t taken it off.

You never took your newest prize off the first night. It was a rule. Possession needed to be felt after all.

But this?

This was the part of the night no one else ever got to see.

No cruelty. No teasing. No commands.

Just you. A little sleepy. A little warm. Nuzzling his neck like a cat in her favorite sunspot, soft kisses trailing down his pulse point.

Bucky didn’t speak. He never did first. He just let you have this—his body, his warmth, the silence.

Because this was the closest thing you ever came to asking for comfort. And he knew that.

Your lips brushed his neck again, slower this time—less a kiss, more a lingering press of your mouth against his pulse. Your breath was warm on his skin, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw.

You didn’t lift your head. Didn’t change your tone. Just whispered.

“You won’t make me give back my diamonds… will you, James?”

The question hung in the dark between you—delicate, heavy, threaded with something that wasn’t quite fear but not far from it.

It wasn’t about the Pink Star.

Not really.

It was about the whole closet of them. The ones you stole before you met him. The ones you wore like armor. The ones no one ever understood. The ones that made people think they knew you—when they didn’t.

But he did.

You didn’t look at him as you said it. Just buried your nose in the crook of his neck, lips brushing his collarbone as you pressed another soft kiss there—almost like an apology.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then his arm curled tighter around your back.

His vibranium hand slid up the length of your spine with that same slow rhythm, fingertips dragging gently, almost reverently, like he was tracing the edges of something precious.

“No, baby,” he said softly. “I won’t make you give back anything.”

Your lashes fluttered against his skin as you breathed him in—warm and steady and always there. You didn’t answer his words. Didn’t say thank you. You just pressed another kiss to the hollow of his throat, your hand now lazily tracing down the slope of his chest, not teasing—just feeling.

It was quiet again.

But you weren’t done. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“You love me, don’t you?”

It wasn’t coy. It wasn’t playful. Just soft. Raw. Honest.

Like if he didn’t answer, the silence might fill with something too sharp to swallow.

He turned his head just slightly, lips brushing your temple, breath fanning across your hair.

“I do,” he whispered. “God, I do.”

Your hand stilled against his chest.

Then, a little quieter—

“You need me?”

His grip on your back tightened for just a second, like his body responded before he could.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered. “More than anything.”

You didn’t speak right away. Your mouth just trailed lower along his jaw, pressing the kind of kisses you never gave anyone else. Slow. Thoughtful. Like you were imprinting yourself into his skin.

And then—

You breathed it into the space between his throat and shoulder. Quiet. Dangerous.

“You’ll never leave me…?”

His hand lifted to the back of your head, cradling it gently, thumb brushing your hairline.

“Never.“

His voice was firm now. Steady. Certain.

“Even if the whole world turns on you,” he murmured, “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.

His hand stayed at the back of your head, stroking slow, mindless circles as your body finally started to sink against him—your breathing evening out, your leg still thrown over his hips like you were anchoring him to the bed.

The Pink Star glinted faintly in the low light, still on your finger, resting against his ribs as your hand settled over his heart.

And somewhere, in that half-conscious haze between desire and sleep, your mind wandered.

Diamonds.

You had hundreds of them.

Tucked away in velvet and glass, sealed behind locks and systems no one could break.

Each one rare. Priceless. A little dangerous.

But none of them compared to him.

He wasn’t flawless. Wasn’t carved or polished. He was scarred. Weathered. Real.

And he was yours.

Your most precious diamond.

You wouldn’t give him back either.

Ever.

Not even if the whole world demanded it.

You smiled against his neck, the last of your thoughts slipping into sleep as his arms tightened just slightly around you.

And you didn’t need to say you’re his.

That part was obvious.

Bucky when his girl is so obviously guilty and in the wrong:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

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rinniereads123 · 7 days ago

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ᴛʜᴇ sʜɪᴘ ᴏғ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

pairing | titanic!au!bucky x fem!reader

summary | on the most luxurious ship in the world, you find yourself torn between duty, desire, and the boy from third class who could ruin everything.

tags | Titanic!AU, star-crossed lovers, class differences, forbidden romance, lowkey cheating, slow burn to not-so-slow burn, angst & yearning, EVENTUAL SMUT, third class!bucky x first class!reader, canon-typical titanic tragedy, angst & longing, bratty!reader x lovesick!bucky, classism, reader is valentina’s daughter, period-typical sexism

a/n | this was literally supposed to be a oneshot 🧍‍♂️

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my “The Ship of Dreams” taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

divider by @uzmacchiato

ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 3

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 4

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 5

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rinniereads123 · 7 days ago

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he was chaos, he was revelry

summary: Bucky tells you to go out and have a day at the mall and get whatever you want. When you only buy a $20 Squishmallow, he has to intervene. word count: 2.9k+ pairing: mafia!bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: if you don't know, i'm a sucker for mafia dark romance books. like literally a whore when it comes to reading them on my kindle. most of the time it's the female character spending thousands of dollars with the male character's money because it's enemies to lovers, but here's a little twist on it! <3 warnings/tags: mafia au, sweetheart!reader, shy!reader, bucky is the mafia boss and rich, fluff, bucky loves his girl

The sun barely filtered through the heavy curtains when you padded into the kitchen, the tile cold under your socks. The scent of strong coffee hit you first, followed by the low rumble of Bucky’s voice from the adjoining office.

You’d gotten used to it, mostly—the way his mornings started in one world while yours stayed in another. You could hear him through the cracked door, his voice sharp, all steel and threat. “If he thinks he can skim off my shipments, he’s got another thing coming. I want him handled by noon. Make it clean.”

A pause. The scrape of a chair. His tone dipped even lower. “And tell the Rosetti crew if they send another man sniffing around my docks, I’ll gut their operation and leave the bones for the rats. Yeah. That’s all.”

Silence followed, broken only by the soft click of the call ending. And then the door opened, and suddenly you weren’t in the world of the Barnes Syndicate anymore.

“Morning, doll,” Bucky murmured, his voice rich and warm like the coffee he carried. The sharp edges of his morning melted away the second he saw you standing there in your oversized sleep shirt, hair a little mussed, hands tucked in your sleeves. His whole face softened, like the violence of a few minutes ago was just smoke he could brush off his shoulders.

“Hi,” you whispered back, smiling shyly as he walked over and pressed a kiss to your temple. He smelled like cedar and the faint bite of cologne, a mix you’d long since decided meant home.

“Made your tea,” he said, nodding toward the counter. Sure enough, the mug was there, steeping just the way you liked. “Sit. Eat something for me, yeah?”

You obeyed, curling into the chair as he slid a plate with toast and strawberries your way. He perched on the edge of the table, still in his black dress shirt and vest from early meetings, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the gleam of his metal arm in the morning light.

“You’re free today, right?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t just threatened someone’s life two minutes ago.

You nodded, chewing on a strawberry.

“Good. I want you to go out, doll. Shopping. Whatever you want. No limit.” He leaned in to kiss the top of your head, and you could hear the indulgent smile in his voice. “You’ve been holed up here too much.”

Your first instinct was to refuse. “Bucky, I don’t need anything—”

“Not what I asked,” he interrupted gently, but with the kind of authority that made your cheeks warm. “Humor me. Take Natasha with you. Let her carry the bags.”

You blinked. “Bags?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Plural. Go spoil yourself for me, sweetheart.”

---

Natasha Romanoff was the perfect bodyguard. Or maybe the scariest one. She leaned against the mall’s marble column in black jeans and a leather jacket, sunglasses hiding her sharp eyes. Everyone who glanced her way looked twice, then decided they had somewhere else to be.

Meanwhile, you hesitated at the entrance of yet another gleaming luxury store, feeling like a kid sneaking somewhere you didn’t belong. The displays were immaculate—handbags behind glass, shoes lined like art pieces.

“You can go in,” Natasha said dryly behind you, arms folded. “You’re the girlfriend of James Barnes. They’ll probably carry you to the register if you ask.”

“That’s… worse,” you muttered under your breath, earning the faintest twitch of a smirk from her.

You wandered inside anyway, letting the sales associates swarm. They started listing the merits of different bags and scarves, but your heart wasn’t in it. The idea of spending thousands of Bucky’s money on a purse that would just sit in your closet made your stomach twist.

After an hour of store-hopping, you had… nothing.

Natasha raised an eyebrow as you walked past a fountain, hands still empty. “You’re going to break his heart, you know.”

“I’m looking!” you insisted, cheeks warm. “I just… don’t need any of this.”

Then, as if fate had a sense of humor, you spotted it.

A wall of squishmallows.

You froze in the doorway of the toy store, heart stuttering at the sight of the soft pastel sea of plush animals. There, on the middle shelf, was the one you’d been eyeing for weeks: a fat little lavender bunny with floppy ears and a permanent sleepy smile.

You drifted closer, fingers brushing the soft fabric like it was spun sugar. Price tag: $20.

Behind you, Natasha sighed, long-suffering. “This is what gets her attention. Not the diamond bracelet. A… blob.”

“It’s not a blob,” you whispered defensively, hugging the smaller version in your arms first. It was only $9.99, which felt safer somehow, but after a long stretch of indecision—cuddling it, putting it back, and staring at the bigger one—you finally picked up the larger bunny.

It was so soft.

“Okay,” you mumbled to yourself, taking it to the register. Natasha trailed after you, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this was her life now.

Hours later, back in the car, your entire “haul” sat on your lap: one squishmallow. The driver’s rearview mirror reflected the barest twitch of his mouth, like he knew exactly how Bucky would react.

You clutched the plush closer and sank into the leather seat, shyly happy in a way that didn’t need anything more than this $20 marshmallow bunny.

---

Bucky’s evening had been a blur of phone calls and quiet threats. He’d wrapped up a meeting in his office, loosening his tie as he sank into the leather chair and finally glanced at the credit card notifications on his phone.

He expected a list of designer boutiques, a jeweler, maybe that cozy little bookstore he knew you loved. He’d practically begged you to go wild, and he wanted to see the proof in numbers.

Instead, there was just… one charge. $20.48 – Playtime Toys.

Bucky blinked. He stared at it like it might rearrange itself into something sensible. “Twenty… dollars?” he muttered under his breath, scrolling to make sure the statement wasn’t glitching. That was it. The entire day out, with Natasha as your guard, and you’d spent less than a single steak at his favorite restaurant.

He called his driver first. “Where’d she go today?” Bucky’s voice was calm but suspicious.

The driver chuckled quietly. “Couple clothing stores. Looked around. Bookstore for a while. Stationery shop too. She didn’t buy anything. Just… looked.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the toy store?”

“She found a stuffed animal, boss. Held the small one for a long time. Put it back. Eventually bought the bigger one. That was it.”

Bucky sighed and ended the call. He sat there for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He could practically picture you, wandering the mall like a shy little ghost, falling in love with a plush toy instead of anything remotely expensive.

He wanted to be exasperated. But mostly? His chest ached with something warm and stupidly fond.

---

The penthouse was quiet when he returned, the only light spilling from a single lamp in the living room. His steps softened instinctively when he spotted you curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

You were on your side, hair falling over your face, the TV murmuring some late-afternoon sitcom rerun. And nestled against your chest, clutched in both arms like a lifeline, was a plump lavender bunny squishmallow.

Bucky froze in the doorway, the sight hitting him like a punch. God, he was ruined for this. His cold, lethal world fell away entirely as he walked closer. You’d tucked your cheek against the plush, and he noticed—when he leaned down—that faint, familiar scent. His cologne.

He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, crouching beside the couch. “You sprayed my cologne on a marshmallow bunny, doll?” he murmured, brushing a knuckle over your soft hair.

You mumbled something sleepy, half-lost in a dream, nuzzling the squishmallow closer.

Bucky sat on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, and just… watched you for a moment. The only person in his entire world who could fall asleep clutching a stuffed animal while he had men stationed with rifles on the roof.

He finally, gently, tugged the bunny from your arms. You stirred with a tiny whine, lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him, bleary and soft. “Bucky?” Your voice was a whisper.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, lowering himself onto the couch and pulling you into his lap with one smooth motion. You melted against him instantly, head on his shoulder, the residual warmth of sleep making you pliant. He pressed a kiss to your hair. “We need to talk about your… shopping.”

You perked up faintly, confusion knitting your brows. “Shopping?”

He held the squishmallow up like evidence. “This. This is all you bought?”

Warmth flooded your cheeks. “I… I didn’t really see anything I needed…”

“Doll,” he said, voice low and thick with amusement and a hint of frustration, “I told you to spoil yourself. I gave you a driver, Natasha, my card… and you spent twenty bucks at a toy store?”

You squirmed in his lap, shy and defensive. “I like it. And… it was enough.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then let out a slow breath and shook his head, lips twitching. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

“Sorry…” you whispered, eyes dropping.

“No, no, don’t you dare apologize.” His voice softened instantly, the steel melting into warm honey as he cupped your cheek. “I just… I want you to have things, doll. Pretty things. Comfortable things. Everything.”

“I don’t need everything,” you murmured, leaning into his palm.

He kissed your temple, his metal hand rubbing slow circles on your thigh. “Then I’ll just have to keep trying until you take at least something from me that costs more than a marshmallow.”

You giggled quietly, burying your face in his neck. “It’s a bunny.”

“Uh-huh,” he teased, hugging you tighter, the plush squished between your bodies. “My terrifying reputation out there, and at home my girl smells like sugar and sleeps with a bunny.” His thumb stroked along your jaw, and he whispered, “you’re mine, doll. And I’m gonna spoil you whether you like it or not. Starting tomorrow. No more twenty-dollar limits.”

“Bucky…” You whined softly, but your arms tightened around him anyway, secretly loving every second of his indulgent attention.

He chuckled low in his chest, already plotting which stores he’d personally escort you to next—because clearly, leaving you to your own devices had resulted in a lavender squishmallow and absolutely nothing else.

---

You woke to warmth. It was the slow kind—like sunlight through gauze, or fingers tracing your hip beneath the covers. The sheets were tangled around your legs, and your cheek was pressed into Bucky’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear.

His arm was slung low around your waist, all protective weight and heat, and you barely had time to stretch before his hand slid up to your ribs. “Morning, doll,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep.

You made a soft noise in reply, pressing your nose to the crook of his neck. He smelled like expensive soap and the clean spice of his cologne—the same one you’d sprayed, just a little, onto the squishmallow now sitting like a sentry on the couch across the room.

His chest rumbled under your cheek. “You smell like that damn bunny again.”

You smiled sleepily, too warm and soft to be embarrassed.

“You gonna let me do this properly today?” he asked after a moment. His voice was lighter now, teasing, but there was a thread of something real beneath it. “Let me spoil you?”

Your hand found his shirt—half unbuttoned, likely from some midnight phone call you’d slept through—and you nodded against him. “M’kay,” you mumbled.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and it lingered. “Good girl.”

---

You’d never shopped with Bucky before. Not like this. Sure, you’d trailed beside him during quick errands or sat with him while he bought suits—but this was different. This time, you were the purpose. The focus.

You’d barely made it out of the car before the first store employee spotted him.

The shift was immediate.

People noticed him the moment he entered any space. Not because he made noise—he didn’t. Bucky moved with the coiled calm of someone who knew the world would part for him whether he asked it to or not. His arm slid around your waist as you stepped into the first shop, and just like that, every sales associate in the building looked like they were preparing for royalty and war all at once.

You leaned into his side instinctively. “I think they know who you are,” you whispered as a woman in a sharp black suit all but sprinted to the counter to alert someone else.

Bucky smirked. “That’s the idea.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sweetheart.” He stopped you with a gentle squeeze around your waist. “We are not doing the bunny stunt again.”

You flushed immediately. “It wasn’t a stunt—”

“Mm.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss behind your ear. “Start picking things. Or I’ll start picking for you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already steering you toward the displays, one hand low on your back.

The boutique was quiet and spotless, everything sleek and expensive. You gravitated toward a soft knit sweater first—cream-colored, slightly oversized.

Bucky watched you run your fingers along the hem, then plucked it off the hanger himself and handed it to an assistant. “This one. In three colors.”

You blinked. “Three—”

“Cream, navy, and that soft pink. You’ll wear that one at home.”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter. He was already moving on.

By the third store, you had a growing collection of bags hanging from his metal arm—cozy sweaters, soft linen dresses, a pair of boots you’d admired silently until he caught the look in your eye and made the purchase without blinking.

You tried to be subtle about what you liked.

He noticed everything anyway.

When you paused too long at a shelf of delicate hair clips, he picked out two and handed them to the attendant with a nod. When your fingers drifted toward a candle with a vanilla-peach scent, it was quietly added to the growing pile.

And when you looked guilty every time he paid?

He leaned in close, speaking low so only you could hear. “You don’t get it yet, do you?” he murmured, thumb brushing your hip. “All of this? It’s for you. Always has been.”

You swallowed hard and didn’t trust yourself to reply.

---

By noon, you had four shopping bags of your own and six more hanging from Bucky’s arms, none of which he’d let you carry. You insisted on at least holding one—and he handed you the smallest, lightest one with a smirk.

“I’m gonna have to build you a closet just for gifts,” he muttered as the two of you walked through the marble corridor of the high-end mall.

“I don’t need a closet.”

“You need shelves. A dressing room. Hell, a second apartment.”

You gave him a look. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you spent twenty dollars on a plush rabbit like I haven’t buried people for more expensive things.” He turned to face you, stepping into your path and backing you up gently against a column. His arms caged you in without touching, just the looming warmth of his body in that damn black jacket he looked so good in.

You blinked up at him, flustered by the attention—and the grin playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Let me take care of you,” he said, softer now. “Let me give you everything. You don’t have to be shy with me. Ever.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the bag you were holding. “I’m just… not used to all of this.”

“I know,” he said, leaning closer, his forehead brushing yours. “But get used to it. Because I’m never gonna stop.”

---

By the time you returned to the penthouse, you were exhausted, glowing, and more than a little overwhelmed.

Bucky insisted you go lie down while he had the packages brought in and sorted.

When you finally walked into the bedroom, the bags were neatly arranged in a corner—and your squishmallow was still sitting upright on the couch by the window, as if it had stood guard the entire time.

You smiled at it, then dropped into bed.

Moments later, the mattress dipped beside you, and Bucky pulled you into his chest with a content sigh. “You did good today, doll.”

“I bought stuff.”

“You let me buy stuff for you,” he corrected, arms curling tighter around your waist. “Progress.”

You tucked your face into his neck, voice muffled. “You still mad I only bought a bunny?”

“Still can’t believe it,” he said, chuckling. “But I’ll allow it.”

You let out a soft laugh, heart so full you didn’t know what to do with it. Outside this room, he was the head of the Barnes Syndicate—ruthless, respected, feared. But here, with you, he was the man who carried ten bags through a mall just to see you smile.

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rinniereads123 · 14 days ago

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blood ledger - masterlist

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: 1940s Brooklyn. You owe the Barnes crime family money you don’t have. When their enforcer comes to collect, he offers an alternative form of payment that has nothing to do with cash.

Warnings: dark!bucky, fem!reader, mob/mafia au, 1940s setting, dub-con elements, power imbalance, age gap, loss of virginity, possessive behavior, violence, threats, manipulation, angst, eventual smut (minors dni), period-typical sexism, toxic family dynamics, morally grey characters

a/n: idk man i'm ovulating

➵ one ➵ two ➵ three

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rinniereads123 · 14 days ago

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Illegal

MASTERLIST POST

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! CONTAINS SPOILERS; angst, smut (specifics will be listed in each chapter), curse words, gore, dirty talk, violence, mafia, gangsters, mob, drugs, fbi, police, guns, knifes, weapons, money laundering, illegal stuff, manipulation, toxic relationship, alcohol usage, family trauma, pregnancy, parenthood, deaths, blood, injuries, panic attacks, hospitals (may add more later as I write).

playlist | pinterest board

A/N: Obviously I do not work for fbi, i have no idea how exactly they work so please keep in mind that this is a fanfiction 😭 take with a grain of salt!! i got inspired by playing gta v online so that’s kinda the vibes i am going for with this series—los angeles, heists, illegal businesses and yk… all of that. also this fic is very self-indulgent ngl.

Chapter One — „Sinker”

Chapter Two — „Feelings”

Chapter Three — „Breakdown”

Chapter Four — „Bruises”

Chapter Five — „Liars”

Chapter Six — „Mess”

Chapter Seven — „Hope”

Chapter Eight — „Years”

Chapter Nine — “Home”

Chapter Ten — „Regret”

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

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rinniereads123 · 16 days ago

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Prometheus

Pairing: Creation!Soldat x Female Reader

Tags: Frankenstein AU. Angst. Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Slow Burn.

Warnings: 18+ only. PTSD. Dehumanization. Violence. Mentions of blood. Road accident. Voyeurism. (for now)

Summary: Forged in darkness and marked by scars, Soldat is freed by chance. Wounded and lost, he follows the hand that touched him without command.

Word Count: 7.1k.

note: After finishing Tangled, someone asked if I’d ever thought about writing an AU with another creature. I’d always loved the idea of a Frankenstein-inspired story, but I never quite managed to give it proper shape. And, here we are.

The only sound was the cards slapping against the wooden table, punctuated with the occasional scrape of chair legs and the clink of whiskey glasses. Smoke from cigarettes curled lazily in restless ribbons, casting shadows across the dimly lit room where four Hydra officers sat hunched over their game.

"Your move, Schmidt."

Soldat knelt in a corner, bent over boots that had already been polished to a mirror sheen twice that evening. The rough gray uniform scratched at his skin, a shapeless garment that swallowed his body. No shoes, the stone floor drilled its chill into his bones as he worked. His motions were relentless and precise, dragging cloth over leather in strokes that were so exact that a metronome might have measured them.

"Look at the concentration on that thing," Brennan muttered, laying down two kings. "You'd think those boots were made of gold."

A ripple of laughter circled the table. Soldat didn't react. His shoulders remained perfectly squared and his breathing even, as he moved on to the next boot in the endless line they'd provided him.

“I wonder if Zola matched all the parts properly when he stitched it together,” Schmidt mused, his voice flat with casual cruelty. “That arm looks a bit darker compared to the torso, don’t you think?”

Hayes leaned forward, squinting through the haze. “Now that you mention it… yes. There- along the shoulder. The seam is clear enough. Skin tone’s all wrong.”

“Ran out of quality stock,” Brennan said with a snort. “Had to make do with whatever corpses were left on the field.”

The cloth in Soldat’s hand stilled. Not long, just the faintest pause, before resuming its rhythm. A strand of dark hair fell across his face, obscuring the pale blue eyes that remained fixed downward.

"I heard Zola's been wanting to test all its... functions," Hayes said, in a conspiratorial whisper. "Says we've only scratched the surface of what it can do."

Schmidt raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Use your imagination, I know you can," Hayes gestured vaguely toward the figure on the floor. "Built it from the finest specimens. Young soldiers, all in their prime. One would assume everything works."

The laughter that followed was harsh and grating. Soldat continued his work, but the cloth twisted faintly in his grip, knuckles white against the leather.

"Damn, Hayes. You have a sick mind."

"Just saying," Hayes shrugged, taking a swig from his glass. "Waste not, want not, right? If we're keeping the thing around for entertainment..."

"Might be fun during the next card game," Schmidt added thoughtfully. "Could use something to liven up these long nights."

Soldat reached for another boot. His movements remained controlled and mechanical, but a keen observer might have noticed the slight tension that crept into his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly.

"Pass," Hayes said, folding his cards. "But speaking of entertainment… Soldat."

The dark threads of hair framed his features as his head lifted immediately. Blue eyes, startlingly cold in the gaslight, fixed on Hayes with perfect, hollow attention.

"Bring us another bottle from the cabinet. The good stuff."

He rose smoothly to his feet with fluid movements despite the patchwork nature of his construction. Up close, the signs were more obvious: the subtle color variations where different limbs had been grafted together, the scars that marked the seams of Zola's handiwork. A masterpiece of anatomical engineering, cobbled together from the finest specimens the battlefield could provide.

He crossed to the liquor cabinet with measured steps, each footfall silent on the stone floor. His hands -one noticeably paler than the other- reached for the crystal decanter with precision.

"Look at that," Brennan murmured appreciatively. "Moves like a dancer. Zola really knew what he was doing."

The Soldat returned with the bottle, setting it on the table with careful precision before resuming his position on the floor into the posture of a penitent. He picked up another boot, another cloth, and fell back into the rhythm of endless, meaningless labor.

"You know what I heard?" Hayes leaned forward. "Zola's been keeping notes. Detailed observations about its... responses. Physical reactions. Reflexes."

"What kind of responses?"

"The interesting kind." Hayes grinned wolfishly. "Apparently, despite all the conditioning, some basic human reactions are still intact. The body remembers what the mind's been trained to forget. Touch, pressure, pain. The instincts are still in there."

"That so?" Schmidt dealt another hand. "Might warrant investigation. For scientific purposes, naturally.”

"Of course," the others chorused, laughter filling the smoky air.

Brennan ground his cigarette into the tray. “Strange, though. It’s too quiet tonight. Usually, we obtain at least some sound out of it when we work it like this.”

Hayes tilted his head, studying the figure on the floor. “You’re right. Normally, there’s a grunt, a breath, something. Tonight, nothing.”

"Maybe it's finally learning its place," Schmidt observed. "Though I have to admit, the silence is almost... disappointing."

Hayes reached for the empty glass, rolling it in his palm before sending it spinning across the room. It shattered against the Soldat’s back, exploding into shards that rained around him.

Not a flinch. Not a flicker. He bent only to the task at hand, as though the violence had never happened. He simply reached for another boot and continued his methodical polishing, ignoring the glass that now littered the stone around his knees.

Brennan clicked his tongue. "Didn't even blink."

"Clean that up," Schmidt ordered casually. "With your hands. Don't want anyone cutting themselves on your mess."

Without hesitation, Soldat set down the boot and complied. He collected each piece carefully, tiny cuts blooming along his skin where the edges bit in, but he did not pause, did not look at the red that streaked his fingers. Stacking all in a neat pile beside him, he returned to his polishing as if nothing had happened.

The officers exchanged glances across the smoke and cards, their expressions a blur of cruelty, boredom, and something close to admiration for the thing they commanded.

----

Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor, growing closer. The card game paused as a junior operative burst through the door, his face flushed from running.

"Sir," he panted, addressing Schmidt. "Urgent telegram from headquarters."

Schmidt’s eyes read the message, and his expression hardened line by line until his jaw clicked audibly. He crushed the telegram in his fist. “Shit. The operation at the Archduke’s gala is scrubbed. Faulty intelligence. Security doubled.”

"What does that mean for us?" Hayes asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

"It means," Schmidt stood slowly, "that we need the Soldat. Tonight. And it needs to be fast."

The men exchanged uneasy glances. Fast meant automobile, a technology so recent and expensive that using one would draw unwanted attention. Witnesses. Complications.

"We'll have to use the box." Brennan muttered.

In the corner, the polishing cloth went still. For the first time that night, the Soldat froze entirely. For just a moment, his pale blue eyes widened before the mask of compliance slipped back into place.

"Soldat," Schmidt barked. "Leave those boots. Get your gear. Now."

He rose smoothly to his feet, stepping carefully away from the glass fragments near his knees. Blood from the cuts on his palms dripped steadily onto the stone floor as he moved toward the door with silent steps.

The basement of the manor was a different world. Darker, damper, thick with the smell of mold and neglect. His bare feet made no sound on the worn stone steps as he descended into the depths of the building. A narrow corridor led to his cell, if it could be called that.

A windowless room barely large enough to hold a rickety cot and a threadbare blanket that had seen better decades. No comfort, no softness. Just containment.

In the corner was a reinforced wooden chest, its iron bands and heavy lock speaking to the importance of its contents. he knelt before it and worked the combination with precision. The lid opened with a protesting creak, and the smell of oiled leather and steel spilled into the cell. Inside lay his second skin, Hydra’s true claim over his body.

A fitted black leather uniform that seemed to absorb what little light filtered into the cell. The jacket was cut in a military style but modernized, with reinforced panels across the chest and shoulders. High boots polished to a mirror shine sat beside fitted trousers designed for silent movement. Fingerless gloves lay folded beside a utility belt equipped with holsters and pouches for various implements of destruction.

And there, nestled at the bottom like a sleeping serpent, was the mask.

The leather contraption swallowed the lower half of his face, a cage of straps and buckles designed to bite into flesh during long hours of deployment. It did not simply silence him; it stripped away the possibility of identity. Not a soldier. Not a man. A weapon.

Soldat’s breathing hitched almost imperceptibly as he lifted the gear from its resting place. Outside, he could hear the men moving urgently, their voices carrying down through the manor's ancient walls. Time was running short, and delays were not tolerated.

He began to change, trading his shapeless gray uniform for the sleek black leather that transformed him from prisoner to predator. The trousers were tight around his legs, the boots laced up until they bit into his calves, and the jacket fastened against his chest as though it had been cut from his very outline.

The muzzle came last, as it always did. His hands trembled -barely, briefly- as he lifted it to his face, feeling the familiar weight of leather against his jaw, the press of straps against his head. The buckles clicked into place, sealing away the last traces of whatever humanity might have remained in his expression.

When the door of the cell opened again, the creature that stepped through was not the kneeling thing with bloodied palms and silent obedience.

It was the Winter Soldier.

----

Schmidt stood behind a wooden table in the briefing room, with blueprints and diagrams spread before him like a battle plan. Hayes flanked him.

"Your target," he began without preamble, “A Philosopher's Stone. Genuine, if the reports are to be believed.”

“Intelligence suggests it can transmute base metal into something harder than steel," Hayes added with barely contained excitement. "Imagine what we could accomplish with such materials."

Schmidt spread the blueprints wider, tracing his finger on the building's layout. "The estate belongs to Lord Pemberton, a collector of... unusual antiquities. The stone will be housed in his private vault, here-" he tapped a room in the building's east wing, "behind a steel door and combination lock. Security consists…”

Soldat absorbed every detail: entry points, guard rotations, the location of the servant's quarters, and the distance between the main house and the gate. His mind catalogued each piece of information with mechanical precision.

"You have four hours from insertion to extraction," Schmidt continued. "Retrieve the stone. No witnesses."

The muzzle allowed no voice, but Soldat’s curt nod was enough.

"Needless to say, failure," Hayes said quietly, his eyes trailing meaningfully over his body, "is not an option."

It never was. Beneath the black leather, scars crossed Soldat's skin, marks that had nothing to do with Zola's surgical reconstruction. Reminders of lessons, the price of imperfection carved into flesh that felt pain all too keenly despite its origins.

"Move out," Schmidt ordered.

Soldat followed his handler through the manor's twisting corridors to the hangar that waited at the far end of the complex, a converted stable large enough to house Hydra's most valuable assets.

He carried no weapons. Those would travel separately inside the vehicle, stored in compartments designed for easy access once they reached the target site. His next accommodation, after all, would have precious little room for anything beyond his own body.

Barely room enough for that.

In the center of the cavernous space was an automobile, black and impossibly modern for the remote countryside. But it wasn't the vehicle that drew his attention.

It was the iron trunk strapped to its rear.

The container was built like a vault, thick iron plates riveted together, with only a handful of small holes drilled near what would be the head. Ventilation, just enough to sustain life. Nothing more.

His steps slowed almost imperceptibly as they approached. His breathing, already controlled by the restrictive muzzle, would become a careful exercise in survival once sealed inside that metal tomb. Every inhalation would need to be measured, calculated, and conserved.

For just a moment -barely a heartbeat- he hesitated.

The crack of a palm against leather echoed through the hangar like a gunshot.

"Move, you worthless piece of shit!" Schmidt's voice exploded with sudden fury, his hand still raised from the vicious backhand that had snapped Soldat's head to the side. "What do you think you are, standing there like some frightened child? You're nothing! A fucking collection of spare parts stitched together for our convenience!"

Soldat's head remained turned from the blow, a red mark blooming across the exposed skin above his muzzle.

"You exist because we allow it," Schmidt continued, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "You breathe because we require it. You feel pain because it serves our purposes. And you will get in that box because that's what tools do, they get stored."

He grabbed a fistful of dark hair, wrenching Soldat's face toward the iron container. "Look at it. That's where you belong.” Then he shoved him toward the trunk with enough force to send him stumbling forward.

"Now get inside before I decide you need a more permanent reminder of your place."

The Soldat’s back straightened as all traces of hesitation vanished behind the mask. He approached the iron container already calculating angles, positioning, and the careful arrangement of limbs necessary to fit within the cramped confines.

The box yawned open like a hungry mouth, waiting to swallow him whole.

He placed one booted foot inside, then the other, lowering himself with fluid grace despite the restrictive space. His knees drew up to his chest, arms folded tight against his torso, and then shifted to his side, dark hair falling toward his face as he settled into the cramped fetal position that would be his world for the next several hours.

The iron walls pressed against him on all sides, cold metal biting through the leather of his uniform. Through the small ventilation holes, he could see fragments of the hangar's gaslight, brief glimpses of freedom that would soon disappear entirely.

Schmidt's came from behind him, twisted with disdain. "Useless trash," he muttered, slamming the lid down with a resounding clang.

----

"Alright, who's driving?" Brennan's voice came muffled through the iron walls, followed by the sound of car doors opening.

"Not me," Schmidt replied with a slight slur. "Had three glasses of that whiskey, maybe four. You're more sober than I am."

"Like hell I am. You saw me matching you drink for drink all evening."

A pause.

"Fine," Schmidt said with exaggerated patience. "We'll take turns. Two hours each. You start, I'll sleep, then we switch when we hit the halfway point."

"Fair enough. Wake me if you see any constables on the road."

The engine roared to life with a mechanical growl that vibrated through every rivet of the iron container. Soldat closed his eyes, focusing on the careful rhythm of breathing that would sustain him through the journey ahead. Each inhalation had to be measured, each exhalation controlled. The mask made everything more difficult, forcing air through narrow passages while the metal box turned his breath stale and warm.

The automobile lurched forward, beginning its journey through the winding country roads that would take them to the target.

For nearly two hours, he endured the relentless punishment of rutted dirt roads and rocky paths barely wide enough for the automobile's wheels. The primitive roads of the countryside were never meant for such modern contraptions, and his body pressed against the unforgiving metal with each violent jolt, the constant battering made worse by the cramped confines. Then something changed.

The vehicle veered sharply to the right, and he felt the sickening sensation of the wheels leaving the treacherous mountain path entirely, plunging over the rocky embankment into the ravine below.

The world became chaos: metal slamming, glass shattering, the sickening sensation of weightlessness, followed by hard impacts as the vehicle tumbled down the steep embankment. The iron trunk became a battering ram, slamming against trees and rocks, each collision driving Soldat against the container's walls with crushing force.

Then, silence.

Smoke. The distant crackle of flames began to spread through the wreckage near him.

He lay still in the darkness, assessing damage and cataloguing pain. His left shoulder felt wrong. Dislocated, perhaps fractured. Blood trickled from somewhere above his right eye, warm and sticky against his face. But he was alive.

Alive, and trapped.

----

She lay in her bed staring up at the wooden beams that crossed her cottage ceiling.

Tomorrow would mark exactly two years since she'd stepped off the mail coach in this remote village, carrying nothing but a battered medical bag and the desperate need for silence.

She closed her eyes, but the sleep remained elusive. It always did when her mind wandered back to the years that had led her here.

The war had demanded nurses, and her country had been bleeding young men faster than the hospitals could tend them. She'd learned her craft not in the sterile halls of some prestigious institution or a convent, but in the chaos of military campaigns that had stretched across her homeland for the better part of a decade. Women like her -unmarried, without family ties- had been essential when every able-bodied person was needed to keep soldiers alive.

Six years in the military hospital. Six years of learning to set bones, stitch wounds, and recognize the difference between a man who would live and one who wouldn't. She'd become skilled at reading pain in a soldier's eyes, at knowing which wounds were beyond her abilities and which she could heal with careful attention.

Then came the draft notice. Two more years, this time in field hospitals that moved with the army itself. Tents pitched in mud, working by candlelight, and the constant thunder of artillery that made her hands shake as she tried to thread needles with precision.

When the war finally ended, the city felt like another battlefield. Too many people, too much noise, too many reminders of what she'd seen and done. The offer to work as Dr. Whitmore's assistant in this isolated village had felt like salvation, a chance to practice in quiet rooms where the loudest sounds were birds singing outside the windows, and for the first time in years, she could breathe without smelling blood.

The villagers had their peculiarities, certainly. They were suspicious of outsiders, prone to superstition, and sometimes brought her patients with ailments that seemed more suited to the last century than this one. But the doctor paid for her services, as also did the people who ventured to her house instead of going to the clinic for small things, and most importantly, they left her alone when she needed solitude.

She turned onto her side, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Tomorrow she would gather herbs from the undergrowth in the forest, as she did every few weeks when her supplies ran low. The routine had become her comfort, walking the familiar paths, identifying plants by touch and scent, and filling her satchel with nature's gifts.

----

The first light of dawn was creeping through the window when she finally gave up on sleep. She rose quietly and moved to the small wardrobe that held her possessions.

Her fingers found the familiar fabric hidden behind her respectable dresses: the practical bloomers she'd worn during her time at the field hospitals. The divided skirt had been scandalous enough in a war zone; here in the village, it would be nothing short of outrageous. But the forest paths were treacherous, full of roots and brambles that could easily catch in a dress, and she had no intention of returning home with torn fabric and scraped knees.

She pulled the bloomers on quickly, followed by a simple blouse and sturdy boots. The best part of leaving before the village woke was avoiding the disapproving stares that would surely follow if anyone saw her in such "immodest" attire.

A lady, after all, should never draw unwanted attention from passersby, even if that lady happened to be trudging through dense undergrowth in search of medicinal herbs to heal them.

In the small kitchen, she prepared a quick breakfast of tea and bread, eating by the window as she watched the world slowly wake around her. Then she braided her hair back into a practical plait and secured some tools in a leather satchel that would hold the day's harvest.

The walk to her favorite gathering spot would take nearly two hours through increasingly wild terrain, but she didn't mind. The solitude was worth every step, and the herbs that grew in that remote area were some of the finest she'd ever found. By the time she returned, the satchel would be full of plants that Dr. Whitmore's patients would need in the coming weeks.

She stepped out into the cool morning air, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders as she began the long walk toward the forest. The road was empty, and she moved quickly, eager to reach the tree line before anyone might spot her unconventional clothing.

----

Soon the roofs of the village disappeared behind her, and the dirt road gave way to a narrow track where brambles tugged at her bloomers.

The forest thickened the farther she went, until the morning light broke only in scattered shards through the canopy. Her satchel was already half full with chamomile and willow bark when she decided to venture a little further up the hillside, searching for a particular mushroom that grew only in the soil near the summit.

As she advanced through the dense undergrowth, something dark and unnatural caught her eye between the trees ahead. She paused, squinting through the dappled shadows, trying to make sense of the shape that didn't belong among forest and stone.

Metal. Twisted and blackened.

Her training took over before her brain could intervene. She moved toward the wreckage promptly, already cataloguing possibilities. A cart accident, perhaps, or some piece of industrial equipment that had somehow found its way into this remote wilderness.

But as she drew closer, the disaster became clearer.

It was an automobile, one of those impossibly expensive modern things she'd only heard described in the city, never crossed one. The vehicle lay on its side, its elegant lines now warped by impact and flames.

Her steps quickened despite the rational knowledge that after such devastation, there were unlikely to be survivors. Still, years in field hospitals override logic.

Someone might yet live. Someone might yet be saved.

But as she reached the twisted wreckage, hope died in her chest.

Two figures sat slumped in what remained of the automobile's interior, barely recognizable as human. The fire had been merciless, leaving behind only charred remains that spoke of a death too swift for suffering, or so she hoped.

She whispered a brief prayer for their souls and stepped back from the scene, scanning the scattered debris for anything that might identify these poor souls. Personal effects, luggage, anything that could help her notify their families or at least give them proper names for burial.

That's when she noticed it, at perhaps twenty feet from the main wreckage, half-hidden behind a fallen log.

A metal container, roughly the size of a large trunk but built with the reinforcement of a bank vault. Iron plates riveted together with industrial precision, the surface darkened by soot but otherwise intact. It must have been thrown during the automobile's tumble down the embankment.

She approached it carefully. There were small holes drilled on the sides. Ventilation holes, perhaps? An odd feature for luggage, but then again, she'd never seen an automobile before today, much less whatever cargo such wealthy travelers might carry.

Maybe inside she would find documents, identification papers, something to help piece together who these people had been. The least she could do was ensure they received proper burial rites and that word reached whatever family might be waiting for their return.

The lock looked complex, but the impact might have damaged the mechanism. She knelt beside the container, running her fingers along its edges, searching for any weakness that might allow her to open it and discover the identities of the poor souls who had met such a violent end in this peaceful forest.

----

Darkness had been his companion for hours now. Thick, suffocating darkness broken only by thin streams of light filtering through the ventilation holes.

His body had grown stiff and cold in the cramped confines, his muscles cramping from the enforced fetal position. The muzzle made every breath a careful calculation, and the stale air inside the container had grown heavy and warm with his exhalations.

Then he heard them, footsteps, soft but distinct against the forest floor.

Every sense of his body sharpened instantly, battle-trained instincts overriding physical discomfort. Through one of the small holes, he could make out movement between the trees. A figure approached the wreckage, and he pressed his eye closer to the openings, straining to see clearly through the limited view.

A woman. But dressed... strangely. Practical clothing that was more suited to man's work than feminine respectability. She moved toward the burned automobile, and he watched her pause at the sight of the bodies inside.

Her posture spoke of familiarity with death, professional assessment rather than feminine hysteria.

Then her gaze found the container.

His heartbeat quickened, a betrayal of the perfect stillness they'd trained into him. She was walking toward him now, circling the iron trunk with obvious curiosity. She could free him. But then what?

The mission parameters came to his mind: no witnesses. But his handler was dead, his charred remains were testament to that.

The woman appeared to pose no immediate threat, but years of experience had taught him that threats often came in deceptive packages.

Yet, she was his only chance to escape this iron coffin. Without her intervention, he would die slowly, as his air supply dwindled and his water ran out.

Through the small opening, he watched her work at the lock. She whispered something -words he couldn't quite make out through the metal walls- but her tone seemed... kind? Concerned?

His training collided with something else, something deeper and more human that the conditioning had never quite managed to erase. The part of him that recognized compassion when he saw it, even if he couldn't remember the last time he'd experienced it himself.

----

She forced the lid open with both hands, metal biting back and groaning until something gave in.

The stench hit her first: sour sweat, rusted metal, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of old blood. Her stomach lurched, but she pushed harder, and the lid fell back with a hollow clang.

She found herself staring down at a large body, folded into a space that seemed far too small to contain it. Dark hair fell across a muzzled face that was more angles than curves; his wrists bore the telltale bruising of restraints.

For a second, her brain refused to make sense of it, because people didn’t go in places like this. Even in the worst hospital, or the psychiatric wards she'd heard whispers about, or even prison cells. This was worse.

Cult sacrifice, she thought darkly, some ritual cage. Or human trafficking. Something obscene.

Her mind catalogued the obvious injuries: contusions across his exposed skin, the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the telltale signs of dehydration in his sunken cheeks.

But it was his eyes that made her blood freeze.

Pale blue and burning with the desperation of a cornered animal, fixed on her with an intensity that made every instinct scream danger. She wanted to reach out, but his stare nailed her where she stood. This was no accident victim. This was something else entirely.

She used a gentle tone, the same one she'd used with delirious patients who couldn't distinguish friend from foe. "It's alright," she whispered, though nothing about this was alright. "You're safe now. I'm going to help you."

Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, as if touch alone could conjure sense from this nightmare. She swallowed, fixed her gaze on the black mask strapped tight over his mouth and jaw. Not cloth. Something harsher, molded. It erased half his humanity, leaving only his eyes, and they were a world unto themselves. Glacial, fever-bright, alive with a feral calculation that made her pulse stumble.

Slowly, she lowered one hand, palm open, “I just want to check you,” she murmured, though her voice quivered. “Make sure you’re not-”

A shift. Barely more than the flex of muscle under dark leather, but enough to stop her breath. His shoulders twitched like he meant to unfold, to get out from that coffin of steel.

Her instinct screamed to slam the lid shut and run.

Instead, she forced herself an inch closer, brushing the rim of the box with her fingertips.

The sound he made was not a word. It was the guttural choke of someone whose throat had forgotten how to speak. Low, warning, animal. His stare pinned her harder than any chain could.

She froze, realizing all at once that whatever this man was -victim or monster- he was not used to mercy.

----

The lid opened, and suddenly the world became too bright, too vast, too unpredictable. his pupils contracted painfully as daylight flooded his iron prison, and with it came the scent of trees and damp herbs, alien smells after hours of breathing his own stale air.

The woman's silhouette blocked out part of the light, and every conditioned reflex screamed the same message: new contact equals a potential threat, equals eliminate.

Pain lanced through his dislocated shoulder as he managed to shift maybe two inches. His legs, cramped from hours in the same position, barely responded to his command. The most he could manage was that slight twitch of his shoulders. Pathetic, but apparently enough to make her freeze.

Good. Fear was useful. Fear kept people at a distance.

The sound that emerged from behind his muzzle was barely human. Part warning growl, part the rasp of air through a throat that had been silent too long. He couldn't form words even if he wanted to, couldn't explain, threaten, or negotiate. All he had were his eyes, and he used them like weapons, fixing her with a stare that had made grown-up men step backward.

She didn't run. That was... unexpected.

Instead, she moved closer, touching the edge of his prison. He could see her hands shaking despite her calm voice. Probably it was her professional instinct versus self-preservation, he had seen it before.

But this was different. She wasn't Hydra. The way she looked at him, the horror in her expression when she'd first opened the container... that wasn't the clinical assessment of a handler evaluating their asset. That was a genuine shock at his treatment.

Which meant she was either an exceptional actress, or she truly had no idea what he was.

His eyes tracked her movements as she leaned closer, cataloguing every detail. Her clothing suggested practical work rather than wealth. Her posture spoke of some kind of medical training, since she seemed confident around injuries and blood. And underneath it all, that gentleness in her voice that his mind insisted must be manipulation, even as some deeper part of him wanted desperately to believe it might be real.

He flexed his fingers. If he pounced now -if his body would even allow it- her throat would be within reach. Quick, simple, and efficient. A solution Hydra would approve.

And yet… he didn’t.

He hated to hesitate.

"You're hurt," she said simply, keeping her voice soft.

His eyes tracked the movement of her lips, then darted to her hands, back to her face, then to the forest beyond her shoulder.

Calculating escape routes, she realized. So she reached slowly toward the leather satchel at her side, watching his reaction. The moment her hand moved, his entire body went rigid, that warning sound rumbling again from behind the mask. She froze, palm still open in the air.

"I’m gathering medicine," she whispered, tapping the satchel gently. "Some is for pain."

Something flickered across his visible features. Confusion, perhaps, or disbelief. As if the concept of someone offering to ease his pain was foreign as a language he'd never heard.

She withdrew her hand, settling back on her heels. "I won't touch you without permission," she said firmly.

His eyes widened fractionally, and she caught something raw and desperate flashing across his features before the mask of wariness slammed back down.

----

Minutes passed in tense silence. She didn't move closer, didn't reach for him, didn't do anything but sit beside the container and occasionally glance around the forest, as if keeping watch. The gesture was unconscious, protective, and it did something strange to his chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with the muzzle's restrictions.

When a branch snapped somewhere in the distance, his reaction was immediate and violent. His body jerked against the container's walls, sending fresh agony through his dislocated shoulder, but he couldn't stop the response, couldn't control the way his nervous system flooded with panic chemicals.

"Shh," she breathed, and before she could think better of it, her hand was extended toward him, not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her palm. "It’s just a squirrel. You're safe."

Safe. Another impossible word.

But her hand... wasn't closed into a fist. Wasn't holding a weapon or a tool. He stared at it, this foreign gesture, trying to process what it meant.

Slowly -so slowly she barely dared to breathe- his own fingers stretched from where they'd been pressed against his chest. His hand was shaking, fine tremors that spoke of exhaustion and overstimulated nerves, but he lifted it anyway.

He didn't quite touch her. Just let his fingertips hover an inch away from her palm, close enough to feel her heat.

It was the first choice he could remember making in years.

The first time he had reached toward another person instead of backing away.

Then retreated.

----

"Can you sit up?" she asked eventually, "That shoulder needs attention, and lying like that will only make it worse."

He considered this. His body was screaming at him to move, to get out of this confined space, but the other voice in his head -drilled into him, beaten into him-insisted he wait for explicit permission. He hesitated, staring at her lips, waiting for the tone of authority that never came.

With considerable effort, he braced his good arm against the metal wall and pushed himself upright. Every inch was agony. His shoulder throbbed with each movement, and his vision hazed at the edges, but he gritted his teeth behind the muzzle and made no sound. He would not show weakness. Weakness cost blood.

"Carefully," she murmured, softly. Her tone held no impatience, no irritation at his obvious limitations. "There's no rush."

No rush. When had there ever been no rush? When had anyone ever told him to take his time, to move at his own pace?

For a flicker of a moment, he hated her. Hated the softness of her tone and the impossible patience in her eyes, because it made his chest hurt.

Yet he couldn’t look away.

He found himself staring at her again, trying to decode this impossibility of a woman who looked at him and saw something worth helping instead of something to be used.

"So… may I look at your shoulder then?" she asked, in the same careful tone. "I need to see how badly it's dislocated."

He stared at her. The question was something foreign and dangerous. May I? Not an order. Not a demand. A request for permission that he could theoretically refuse.

His breathing quickened behind the muzzle. Permission implied choice, and choice implied consequence, and consequence meant pain if he chose wrong. But she was waiting, patiently, for an answer he didn't know how to give.

Slowly, reluctantly, he managed a single, jerky nod.

She moved with deliberate care, telegraphing every motion as her hands approached the leather of his jacket. Her fingers found the fastenings, and she began to work them loose with the efficiency of someone accustomed to undressing patients.

The moment her knuckles brushed against his collarbone through the leather, he flinched violently. Not from pain -though his shoulder screamed in protest at the movement- but from something different.

Touch that wasn't meant to hurt him was so foreign that his body didn't know how to process it. Every nerve ending fired warning signals, even as a treacherous part of his mind relished the warmth of her skin, the gentleness of her hands.

She froze immediately. "I'm sorry," she whispered, pulling back. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head frantically, then stopped, confused by his own reaction. Why was he apologizing? Why did he care if she thought she'd caused him pain?

"The jacket needs to come off so I can see the damage properly," she said softly. "I can help, or you can do it yourself if that's easier."

The leather was tight against his body, designed for stealth and durability rather than easy removal. With his left arm useless, getting it off alone would be nearly impossible. But the alternative-

His good hand clenched into a fist against his thigh, nails biting into his palm through the fingerless glove. The physical pain was easier to process than the emotional chaos her simple offer had unleashed.

After a long moment, he forced himself to meet her eyes and nodded again. Permission granted, even though every instinct screamed against it.

She worked with care on the intricated fastenings of his jacket. The leather was unlike anything she'd encountered. Reinforced, military-grade. As she peeled it away from his injured shoulder, she realized there was nothing beneath it. No shirt, no undershirt. Just skin pressed directly against the harsh material.

Her hands faltered as more of his torso came into view.

The dislocation itself was bad, yes, but treatable. Her training could assess that with a glance. What stopped her cold were the other things.

Scars. Not the random marks of an accident or battle, but precise, surgical lines that traced along his shoulders where arms met torso, skin tones mismatched in subtle, unnatural variations. And down the center of his chest, a vertical scar ran from sternum to navel, perfectly straight, perfectly intentional.

She tried to keep her expression neutral, professional, but her brow furrowed despite her efforts. In all her years tending battlefield injuries, in all the horrors she'd witnessed in military hospitals, she had never seen anything like this.

This wasn't surgery to heal. This was a surgery to build.

Her gaze met his, searching for some explanation, some context that would make sense of what she was seeing. But his pale blue eyes were fixed on her reaction, tracking every flicker of her expression like a man taught to read danger in the smallest twitch.

He was waiting for her to recoil. Waiting for the disgust, the fear, the horrified recognition of what he was.

She forced her hands to remain steady as she gently examined the shoulder joint, even as her mind reeled with impossible implications.

Her fingers pressed carefully along the swollen ridge of his shoulder, testing the resistance of bone against muscle. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but didn't pull away. Not once. He just sat there on the crate, breathing shallowly through the black mask, just looking at her.

"You're going to have to stay still," she murmured, more to fill the silence than because she thought he needed instruction.

She braced him with one hand against his chest, feeling the heat of his skin under her palm, and the steady thrum of his heart. With her other hand, she eased the joint back into place with a clean motion.

The pop was muffled, but his reaction wasn't. His whole body tensed, jaw clenching beneath the mask, veins rising at his temple, but not a sound escaped his lips.

When it was done, she let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. His arm hung heavy but properly aligned now.

----

For a long moment, neither of them moved. He stared down at his shoulder with something approaching bewilderment, as if he couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened. Slowly, tentatively, he rolled the joint. The sharp pain that had been his constant companion for hours was... gone.

His eyes snapped back to her face, wide with confusion that bordered on panic. This made no sense. Pain was alleviated through punishment, by earning relief through completing tasks, and by proving one's worth. Not freely through gentle hands and whispered reassurances.

She was still watching him with that same careful attention, and he realized she was waiting for some kind of response. Gratitude? Recognition? He didn't know what she expected, didn't know what was appropriate. His handlers had never required thanks for maintenance; he was equipment, and equipment was repaired when it broke, nothing more.

But this felt different. She felt different.

His good hand moved without conscious thought toward his shoulder, then stopped just short of touching the spot where her palm had pressed against his chest. The skin there still felt warm, still carried the ghost of her touch, gentle and utterly foreign.

A sound escaped his lips then, barely audible through the muzzle. Not quite a whimper, not quite a sigh. Something raw and confused and desperately grateful that he had no words for.

She leaned back slightly, giving him space, but her expression remained soft. "Better?" she asked simply.

He nodded. It was all he could manage to do, but to him it felt monumental. The acknowledgment that yes, she had helped him, and he was better because of it.

The concept was so alien to him that it made his chest compress with something that might have been emotion, if he'd been allowed to feel such a thing.

Next Chapter

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