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figtreesandmoonlight · 15 days ago

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Let It Burn

Bucky Barnes X Reader One Shot

Word Count: 6.2K

Summary: Your boyfriend, or your now ex-boyfriend, you should say, had cheated on you. Not only that, you’d walked in on them. The ‘them’ in question is him and your best friend from college. Safe to say, you're devastated. You withdraw from the team and the world entirely. But Bucky Barnes wasn’t going to let his best girl suffer alone any longer. And he has a plan to help you get over your ex. All it takes is a couple of matches and a rooftop, right?

Story:

You weren’t really sure how long you’d lain in bed. You’d told FRIDAY to keep the door locked and the blinds down unless an emergency mission came through. And even then, it needed to be a real emergency. An aliens-from-space-have-come-back level emergency.

Everything ached. Your cheeks ached, your lungs ached, your ribs ached, your eyes ached, your head ached. And your heart. That felt like it had been ripped in two. So you lay there, searching your body and your mind to feel anything. Anything other than the hurt that was crippling you. You didn’t know when you’d started crying. You didn’t know when you’d stopped either. Hell, you didn’t even know how you’d got to your room.

Ronan was the love of your life. Or, he was meant to be. You’d got together in your final year of university. You’d both studied music at Cambridge, and fallen in love while battling each other across supervision tables. Hell, when you’d moved for work, assuming your relationship would have to end, he followed you to the States. He stood by you when the world found out about your powers, when people were calling you dangerous, when people were calling for you to be locked up. He’d stayed with you when you got the call from Nicky Fury, when you’d been invited to join the Avengers, when you’d been given a room in the compound and invited to call it home.

He hadn’t moved into the compound with you. After a few late-night conversations and harsh words from both sides, you’d both eventually agreed that you needed to move in on your own at first, and find your place within the team before he joined you. You needed to feel like you belonged at the compound and with your new extended family. So you had.

After a few days of feeling like an intruder, you’d been invited by Sam to a whole team training session. You’d never have expected it, but being thrown down into the mats about ten times in a row by Captain America, and being helped back up after each fall, was what helped you feel at home with the team. That, and the cheer that rose from the team when you finally managed to score a point back, putting THE Captain America on his arse with one extrordinarily timed kick. It was a mix of skill and, honestly, good luck, but the laugh that Sam barked out in pleasant surprise and the metal hand that clasped your shoulder in praise helped you find your feet with your new family.

For the first time that night, after a movie and take-out, you’d fallen asleep in your room without calling Ronan in tears, thinking you’d made some huge mistake. Things only got better, you built up relationships with all the team in different ways, often working out in the gym with Sam, tinkering in the lab with Bruce, and talking with Wanda. Then there was Bucky. You didn’t know how to explain your relationship with him. It wasn’t like you weren’t friends. You were the closest to him of all the members of the team. But in quiet ways. In almost silent walks to and from coffee shops in town, in sitting together in his room and listening to Bucky’s vinyl collection from the 40s. In the way you’d sit up together on nights when neither of you could sleep, watching films from your childhood in an attempt to ‘educate’ Bucky, or listening to him tell stories about Steve before he got huge. Neither of you was an especially tactile person, but in those quiet moments, you’d always find yourselves maintaining a point of contact between you. You felt it in the way his chest rumbled and his shoulders shook when you made him laugh, he felt it in the way your head would always find itself resting on his arm or his chest when you’d fall asleep, despite claiming you ‘weren’t even tired’.

Bucky and Ronan had never really got on. You’d always assumed it was some kind of culture clash, something about the two guys personalities never quite mixing. You didn’t know that the first time you’d properly introduced him to the team, Bucky spent the entire night finding out every single bit of information he could about Ronan. The bad, and the even worse. Bucky had found out about Ronan’s history of being less-than-faithful. To put it bluntly, before he got with you, Ronan had slept around. A lot. When he was supposed to be in a relationship with another woman.

Bucky pulled you aside after training one day, eyes gentle, talking to you like some kind of injured animal. All you could think was that you’d fucked up somehow. That you were being kicked off the team. That you’d done something to hurt Bucky. When he’d finally spat it out, Bucky had never expected you to laugh, telling him that you already knew, and that Ronan had ‘grown up’ a lot since then. But you’d laughed with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. And the concern in Bucky’s eyes never quite melted away. You assured him that Ronan would never do something like that to you, that you were happy. That you were in love. So instead, Bucky took to watching. To observing whenever Ronan was around, never engaging, but never ignoring either. Watching with distaste at how Ronan treated you like you were an accessory, an addition, and not his whole world. How his eyes would roll at you when you weren’t looking. At how he always made jokes at your expense. It made you sad that the two men you were closest to weren’t friends. But they didn’t hate each other either. And you decided that that was good enough for now. Over time, they’d come to an understanding, you were sure. Because how could you love them both so deeply if they didn’t get on?

You’d told Ronan you were going to stay the night at the Compound: he’d been at work all day and was going to stay in the city rather than battle the rush hour traffic. It was the perfect plan. You’d left the compound after training, knowing that Ronan had been pulling long hours in the office recently. You were going to surprise him with a home-cooked dinner after work. You’d pulled up outside your shared apartment block on one of Bucky’s bikes; he’d taught you how to ride when you first joined the team, and told you that you had free rein on his bikes whenever you needed one. So from time to time, you took him up on his offer. You pulled the groceries out of the back compartment and moved to the front door, excitement building in your chest. While you cooked, you mused, you’d put on one of the albums Bucky had been trying to get you to listen to. Each album he recommended felt as though he was offering a part of himself up to you, a special memory of his past, and you took it in with open, careful hands. Yes, it’d be the perfect thing to listen to whilst you cooked.

You hummed to yourself as the elevator (which had only recently been fixed) ascended to your floor. Yet as the old doors rattled open, a sense of unease filled your stomach. Your apartment sat at the end of the hall, and you could hear noise emanating from it. At least, it was coming either from yours or Mrs Johnson’s flat, but you didn’t have her pegged as someone who listened to Lola Young. So, Ronan was home early. He’d only texted you an hour ago, saying his boss was keeping him late, but maybe he’d worked something out? You didn’t know. Sure, it was odd, but hey, it meant you got to spend even more time with your favourite person, so who cares? And you could still surprise him and make dinner for the two of you. At least that was what you tried to convince yourself as you walked down the hallway, your fingers unconsciously tightening around the handle of the shopping bag you were carrying, the pit in your stomach deepening as the music got louder and you got closer.

Your hands were shaking as you lifted your key to the lock. You could hear someone moving around inside. You could hear someone laughing. A woman’s voice. A laugh that you would recognise anywhere. But Sophie was out of town. Your best friend had told you she had to go and look after her sick aunt. You hadn’t questioned it. Hell, you’d sent her flowers. But you knew her laugh. She was in your apartment. And so was Ronan. You couldn’t breathe, air catching in your throat as you tried to draw in some air while opening the door to your home. To the home you shared with the man you thought you’d be with forever.

The groceries were on the floor. You didn’t register yourself dropping them. Didn’t hear the thud of them hitting the floor. An apple rolled into the corner of your peripheral vision. You didn’t notice it. All that you saw was your boyfriend and Sophie, on the sofa, fucking. There was no nice way of putting it. There they were, jeans thrown across the rug you’d thrifted for your first-ever apartment, Ronan on top of Sophie, moaning her name into her hair. He hadn’t even heard you come in. Sophie did though. Her eyes shot open as she tried to sit up, locking eyes with you and yelping out ‘shit’.

That was what brought you back to yourself. Your brain hadn’t caught up to what you were seeing, but your body was on autopilot, turning out of the room, the combination of Ronan and Sophie swearing and calling after you falling on deaf ears. You were in the lift when Ronan started to run after you, jeans hastily pulled over his legs and unbuttoned. The doors shut just in time to save you from a conversation you simply couldn’t have had in that moment. Your breathing was shallow, waves of tension were rolling over your body, swiftly followed by ones of nausea. Home. That was all that was running through your mind, on repeat like a mantra. Home. Home. Home. You shouldn’t have been driving. Not really. But you needed to get out of there. Needed to be at the compound. You could fall apart there. There would be people to put you back together. But you couldn’t do that here. Not in front of them.

The roads were mercifully empty. You’d dissociated for the entirety of the ride, but you somehow found yourself back at the compound. The sun had set at some point during your drive, and you pulled into the garage in darkness. You didn’t respond to FRIDAY as she welcomed you home. You dropped the jacket and helmet you were wearing on the floor - you could come and get them another day. Right now, everything was too tight. Too much. The sterile lights of the garage felt like they were interrogating you. The hum of the air conditioning was too loud. Your jeans were too sculpted to your skin. Your hands started shaking again as you got into the lift but you didn’t notice. You didn’t ask FRIDAY to take you anywhere specific. You were too afraid of what would come out of your mouth if you opened it. But in the silence of the lift, the shaking of your hands moved up your arms, as you desperately wrapped them around yourself, desperate for any kind of comfort. Your breaths were coming hard, fast and sharp, as the tears that you had fought the whole drive home forced themselves over the edge of your eyes, burning hot tracks down your cheeks, your hand pressing against your mouth to try and stop the cries that were forcing their way out. You were falling apart, and you were alone.

But not for long. The lift had moved without you realising. You didn’t have time to try and stifle the sobs that were coming out of your mouth as the doors to the elevator opened onto the common room floor. Someone yelled a greeting over their shoulder to you, but you didn’t hear it. You tried to take a step out of the elevator, but your legs betrayed you, and you crumpled to the ground, like a can put under too much pressure, with a loud thud and a surprised cry you didn’t even know you had let out. ‘Shit!’ Tears were flowing openly now, and you couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked your body. Bucky and Sam rushed into your vision in an instant. Someone was talking to FRIDAY, asking for scans, yelling for scans of something. Soft hands cradled the sides of your face, and ocean blue eyes filled with concern bore into your own. But you couldn’t breathe. Let alone respond to the person in front of you. Something cold and hard pressed into your chest, grounding you, pulling you back to reality from the hellscape you’d found yourself trapped in. One of your palms was guided to rest against something equally hard and soft, something warm, rising and falling slowly. Bucky. Your hand was on Bucky’s chest. He was asking you, practically begging you to ‘breathe with me doll’.

So you tried, because Bucky was your best friend and you’d always do everything you could for him. You could still hear Sam in the background, saying something or other to FRIDAY. The scans. He was asking for scans of your body, for security footage.

Oh. They thought you were hurt. They thought you’d been attacked. That’s why they looked so scared.

Your breath was still rattling through your body, shaking all of you as it forced its way in and out of your lungs. But it had slowed down a little. Enough, now, that you could stammer out ’N-not hurt’. Bucky and Sam exchanged a glance. It was worried. Sam looked scared, his jaw was set, his lips pursed in a straight line, while worry creased his brow. But this slackened, barely perceptibly, as he realised whatever happened to you wasn’t physical. Bucky, on the other hand, looked more angry at the news. There was a fire burning in his eyes, his jaw clenched, and you felt the metal palm still resting against your chest shift slightly, tensing even more than it was. He was furious, you realised, your frantic eyes now taking in the way his shoulders had lifted with tension, the way that his flesh hand was curled into a fist. There was a sadness, too. You saw it in the way that his eyes, after scanning your body to confirm for himself that you weren’t physically hurt, softened when they locked with yours.

The pressure on your chest that was grounding you suddenly eased away, as Bucky’s arms snaked under your knees and across your back. Your head rested in the crook of his neck, your tears falling into Bucky’s Henley as he lifted you from the floor of the elevator. In any other situation, it would have been almost comic to see the way the three Avengers had squeezed themselves into the tiny space. But not right now. Instead, Sam led the way to the sofa, onto which Bucky placed you down as gently as if you were shattering porcelain. You felt like you were. Something inside you was breaking into a million pieces, and you weren’t sure it would ever fix itself back together. Sam pressed a mug of something warm into your hand, and Bucky’s hand never left your back, running it up and down gently, letting you work out the sadness that was wracking your body while reminding you that he was there for you. Sam leant down and whispered something into Bucky’s ear that you couldn’t hear. Without ever breaking his focus on you, Bucky nodded to Sam, approving whatever he said, before Sam walked into the elevator.

You and Bucky were left on the sofa. Slowly, your mind came back into your body, grounded by the contact with Bucky, through the warmth in your hands, by the soft and reassuring presence refusing to move from your side. As your sobbing slowed, you recognised a litany of whispering coming from Bucky, ‘just breathe, Doll, you’re gonna be okay. I’m here. Just keep breathing for me.’ Something in the back of your mind recognised that it was the same words he would repeat after you had a nightmare. You were eventually in enough control of your breathing to match it to the strokes of Bucky’s hand across your back. For a while, you were sitting in silence with Bucky, side by side. Your head tilted to rest on his shoulder, and his human hand came to thread his fingers through your hair.

‘Ronan was cheating on me,’ you eventually whispered out, your voice hoarse from crying, breaking a little as you spoke. ‘I went to surprise him and he and Sophie were- were…’ you trailed off. You couldn’t finish the sentence. Bucky didn’t need you to. He simply stilled his hand in your hair, manoeuvring you so that you were once again pressed into his chest. And he just held you. No false promises. No empty words of reassurance. Just Bucky. Immovable Buck, who, deep down, you knew would always be by your side. Eventually, you felt your eyes droop, exhaustion hitting you like a brick wall, as you allowed the comfort enveloping you to lull you into sleep. Bucky placed a gentle kiss to your forehead, and once you were asleep, he whispered to you ‘I have you, Doll. And he’ll never hurt you again, I promise. I won’t let him.’ Slowly, tenderly, Bucky lifted your unconscious body into his arms and rose from the couch. He walked down the corridor to your room, the one opposite his. Friday opened your door without him having to say anything, soft lighting bathing your room as he walked over to your bed. He placed you down gently, shifting you so you were under the covers. He dropped down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead and to wipe away the tears that were still falling from your eyes, even in your sleep. With one final look, he turned from your room, fists clenched into balls of rage, jaw set and eyes dark as Bucky headed down to the garage and his bike. Nothing was going to stop him.

And that was how you got to where you are now. Cocooned in what was perhaps your fourth or fifth day of rotting in bed. You’d only begrudgingly left the safety of your bed to go to the bathroom, or grab a bite of something from one of the many plates the team had left outside your door. It was like they were on some kind of rota, each member of the team bringing you a meal you wouldn’t eat, pleading outside of your door for you to let them in, before eventually giving up. You hadn’t even listened to them; after the first time Sam tried to talk to you through your door, you’d asked FRIDAY to soundproof the room. It was nothing personal, but the world around you had been completely broken. Ronan had always been your constant. From uni, to the move, to joining the team. He’d always been there. And when he cheated on you, he ripped away your best friend in the process. Through their joint action, your whole world had been ripped away. And you were gutted. Not in that disappointed way. It felt as though someone had split you open with a knife, and one by one ripped out every part of your insides, stamping them into the gravel beneath their boot while you had to watch. You’d sunk into a kind of numbness. That was the only way to describe it; you couldn’t move. Couldn’t drink. Couldn’t eat. You barely felt alive. So you lay there, and let the world outside carry on turning without you.

Bucky Barnes was pissed. The bruises on his fist had just about healed. He didn’t know if the ones that lingered came from the hole he punched in the drywall of the compound kitchen moments after he’d finally settled you in bed, or from his fist connecting with Ronan’s face. He didn’t care. He was still pissed. If he weren’t worried about killing the man, he’d go back. But Bucky didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself again. Sam had had to pull him off of the ass the first time. So now, he sat. Like a guard on watch. Bucky took up a sentinel outside your room. He’d moved there on day three of you refusing to come out. It was now day five. He’d seen your hand creep out at some point during the night of day four to grab a cereal bar and bottle of water that he’d left outside your room after the plates of food had gone untouched. His shoulders sagged a little at the sign of life, relieved that you were at least eating something.

FRIDAY wouldn’t let anyone in, and the team were trying to respect your decision to lock yourself away. It was when Wanda explained to them that it was like you were grieving the loss of someone, that they started to understand a little more. Sam had done the same after losing his partner in the field. Bucky did the same after Steve left him to go back to Peggy. They got it. They were worried, but they got it. Or at least, they made the effort to. One night, as Bucky sat, as ever, watching over your room, ready to be there the second you were ready to be with someone, something changed. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface finally erupted. He could hear you crying, his super soldier hearing surpassing FRIDAY’s ability to mute your room. You didn’t deserve this. Something inside of Bucky broke with every stifled whimper he heard, and damn it, he’d had enough. You deserved better, you were worth so much more, and he was going to show you it.

He had override access to your room. Your second mission with the team had been a failure. After it, you’d locked yourself in your room and failed to come out. That night, you’d had a nightmare severe enough to wake the whole compound with your screaming. Bucky had kicked your door in as he raced to get to you, FRIDAY’s locks be damned. He’d held you down as you fought against whatever was attacking you in your nightmare. He’d softly talked you back into the room when you woke up disoriented. He held you and listened to you as you cried. From that night onwards, Bucky had override access to your room. He hadn’t wanted to use it. He tried to make a point of it. Sam had suggested he use it a few days ago, just to make sure you were okay. But Bucky wanted to respect your space, to let you come to him. Except you weren’t. And he couldn’t do it any longer. He refused to sit on the other side of a door he knew you were suffering behind. Alone. He wouldn’t have it. He let out a nervous sigh, questioning if he was about to make the wrong call.

‘FRIDAY, lockdown override, password Rainy Days.’

‘Lockdown protocol overridden, Mr Barnes’.

You heard the lock on your door open with a soft click. Your back was turned from the door, and you didn’t have it in you to move. A fresh wave of tears had let itself cascade down your cheeks, and everything felt so heavy that you couldn’t move. You felt the bed next to you dip slightly as the scent of cedar wood and cinnamon surrounded you.

‘I know you’re hurting, doll. And I’m not asking you to stop hurting. But I am asking you to let me in.’ You felt Bucky’s arms slide around your body to turn you over, gently pulling you out of your cocoon of safety so that your cheek was resting in the warmth of Bucky’s chest, his vibranium arm cradling the back of your head. The gentle rise and fall of Bucky’s chest and the kindness in his blue eyes as they searched for your own seemingly helped ease the pain radiating through you as your eyes met his. Looking into the blue eyes that captured your own, you let out the smallest whisper, ‘I wasn’t enough for him Buck.’

‘No, no doll,’ he replied instantly, his voice firm but driven by kindness as he pressed a quick kiss into your hair, ‘you are everything. Everything. You hear me? He was a fool for not seeing that.’ You didn’t have a response in you, not a verbal one anyway, so you chose to bury your head further into his chest, allowing the comfort of Bucky to wash over you. The pair of you stayed like that for a while, Bucky’s arms holding you tight, supporting you and surrounding you with a love you so desperately needed to feel as his chest gently rose and fell. At some point, Bucky had started humming under his breath. You didn’t recognise the melody that floated from him, more focused on the vibrations that the hum sent through his chest, helping ground you in the moment. Eventually, you looked up again at Bucky, for the first time in a week, feeling connected to the world you were in. ‘There you are, doll’ came Bucky’s voice from above you, as he smiled down at you, ‘had us all scared for a minute there. Come on, I got a plan for us.’

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to respond to him, pulling you into his arms and standing up from the bed with you still wrapped in them. You couldn’t help the little shriek that left your mouth at the unexpected movement, followed by the smallest of laughs that made Bucky’s heart sing. ‘What? Buck I don’t wanna -’ You asked, trying to wriggle your way out of his arms to no avail. Buck didn’t respond to you, instead merely replying in the form of his signature smirk as he walked you into the lift. ‘Take us up to the roof please, Fri’.

‘The roof? Bucky, sweet as that sounds, I don’t think there’s gonna be any stars out yet.’

‘Hush doll,’ he replied quickly, ‘we don’t need any stars. I got something else planned to help you feel better’ he shifted you in his arms slightly.

‘On the roof?’ You deadpanned back to him.

‘Mhm, we’re gonna push Sam off and see if Redwing comes to save him or not’

‘Buck-!’

‘Kidding, doll. But please, trust me on this? I wouldn't ask you to do anything right now that I thought might upset you. But you’ve been in that room too long.’

‘I’ll always trust you, Buck’ you replied, voice smaller than before, ‘you know that.’ You missed how his smile grew at your words, the warmth in your own chest distracting you.

The doors to the lift opened silently. Bucky walked the pair of you out onto the roof. The sunset behind you was breathtaking, oranges, pinks and reds bled into each other, a symphony of a sunset playing out before your eyes. The clouds were rests, the sun the conductor, the birds that flew through the sky the notes on the stave painted out on the glorious colours in front of you. Bucky sat you down in front of the fire pit, on one of the chairs Sam had brought up weeks ago, officially declaring the weather nice enough for summertime ‘team bonding’ nights around the fire. So naturally, the first night everyone had sat out there, it had started raining before Sam could even get the fire lit. Your heart clenched briefly at the memory: you hadn’t been able to join the team that night. You and Ronan had fought about you spending more time with the team than with him, so you’d left the compound to head to the flat where another argument awaited you. Bucky had sent you photos of everyone running inside from the rain with the line ‘bet you’re missing this’. If only he’d known how true his joke was.

Bucky crouched in front of the fire pit, the wood crackling to life with flames quickly. Bucky’s hands moved quickly, with an elegance that reminded you he’d probably learnt how to light a fire all those years ago in Brooklyn. How different his life was now. The tips of the flames were dancing where they met the golden sunset above them. Now, you felt his hands drape something soft over your shoulders, one of the blankets you guys kept up here for nights exactly like this.

‘Now you got a choice, doll’ You looked up with confusion at Bucky from where he had turned around to face you. You weren’t sure you could string together a coherent conversation, let alone make any decisions. But Bucky carried on, ‘We can just sit in silence. And that’s fine, doll, I’m more than happy here with you watching the sun set. But, I found these’ Out of somewhere you didn’t know, Bucky had produced a cardboard box, the lid on so you couldn’t see inside. ‘Wanda said that after she broke up with her first partner, she and her friends had some kind of ritualistic cleansing burning ceremony or some shit. I know he’s in your guys’ apartment right now, but I found these, and I thought…I don’t know, it’s stupid really…’ Bucky had trailed off, a hand coming to rub the back of his neck as he now walked towards you with the box balanced on his metal hand. He slowly lowered himself into the space on the sofa next to you, leaving just enough of a gap between the two of you that you knew it was intentional. He was letting you decide if you were ready to see what was in the box.

You were sitting up straight now, and the tightness in your stomach had returned. You were aware of how swollen your cheeks were, of how much your back ached from lying down for days on end, of how your breath stuttered slightly as you shuffled closer to Bucky. Slowly, your hands rested over his, one warm, the other cool, as you lifted off the lid of the box with him, feeling breathless the whole time. Inside the box were some of Ronan’s thing that had been scattered across the compound. One of his hoodies, one of his stupid notebooks that he tracked his workouts and diet in and a Polaroid of the two of you on the sofa in your flat. What was once your flat, anyway. The same sofa that…

‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, if you’re not ready, that’s fine. But I can’t just watch from the sidelines while you rot away, hun. You’re too precious for that. So if you wanna cry, I’m here. You wanna break shit? Great, lets go to the workshop. If you just want to sit, I love a sofa. But if doing Wanda’s cleanse-thingie, I got you covered. We’ve got a firepit and I’ve got no other plans doll.’

Your movement caught Bucky off guard, or you assume it did from the small ‘oomph’ he let out as you barrelled into him. You wrapped your arms around him, breathing in the scent of wood and vanilla as it mingled with the smoke from the burning fire pit. You burrowed your head into the crook of his neck, and his arms enclosed themselves around you, wrapping you in a tight embrace, one hand on your lower back, the other holding the back of your head. ‘Thank you, Bucky’, you whispered out. A tightness had found itself in your voice, but not from sadness. Instead, from the feeling of being seen. Bucky saw you and was willing to stand by you through whatever you needed. And what you needed, you realised, was to let Ronan’s shit burn. To free yourself from him, from any memory of him in your life.

An almost giddy laugh borne from the nerves that rattled your core took over you as you reached into the box, picking up the Polaroid first. You held it in your hands, shaking every so slightly like a leaf in a light breeze as you studied your and Ronan’s faces. There was a genuine happiness on both of your faces. You’d just made it to New York. The next stage of your lives was about to begin together. But now, all this image conjured up was feelings of hurt. How long had he been cheating on you? How long had Sophie been lying to your face? Bucky gave you an encouraging nod, a warm smile spreading across his lips as the sound of your laugh pulled it out. You moved closer to the fire pit, taking a second to think about what you were doing. Were you ready to let all of this go? As you stared at the image, you felt Bucky’s metal arm slip around your waist, pulling you into him, letting his warmth surround you, as he softly spoke ‘You don’t have to do this, doll. It’s up to you.’ Surprisingly, that was the push you needed, the reassurance that regardless of what you chose, of what happened to you, Bucky would be there, to hold you up, to support you through it all. Your hand lingered over the fire, dangling the image so that the tongues of fire slowly lit the corner of the image. It burned slowly, and you watched as the fire enveloped the memory, reducing it to nothing but ash that could blow away in the wind. And as it burned, you felt lighter. Something in the act made you feel lighter. Freer. The fire was taking away the hurt. The nervous laugh at what you were doing turned into something light, sparked by joy and freedom instead of fear and regret.

You took the box from Bucky now, eager to carry on, to remove all the remnants of Ronan from your life. You picked up the notebook, flipping it open to a page and without bothering to look at his messy scrawl, began ripping pages out of the book, screwing them up into balls and throwing them onto the fire, laughing all the while, your laughter matched with a lower one, which rumbled out from Bucky’s chest. ‘Hey Fri,’ Bucky called out, ‘give us some tunes’. The sound system on the roof burst to life, the joint team playlist providing a soundtrack for your evening. You rose to your feet, ripping faster now, watching the fire grow and grow, tiny specks of burnt paper floating into the air, landing in your hair, on your face, on your clothes. You didn’t care. You were free. At some point, Bucky had stood up with you, singing along to the Smiths song that was playing. He reached for your hands, inviting you into a dance, spinning you under his arm before pulling you into a hug while the pair of you swayed back and forth, laughing all the while. You felt the warm rumble of it as your head pressed to his chest. Bucky’s hand reached up to your face, gently cupping your cheek as his thumb brushed along your cheekbone, swiping away a stray piece of ash that had fallen onto your face.

Your broke the moment, not recognising the feeling that was building in your chest from your closeness to Bucky, looking instead to the cardboard box that rested on the table next to the fire pit. All that was left now was the hoodie. You paused as you held it in your hands. It was just a stupid hoodie, but the comfort it brought you was more than that. It was too big for you, enveloping your frame when you wore it, filled with the soft scent that reminded you of your ex-boyfriend. ’Tell you what. Throw it on, and I’ll give you one of mine to replace it.’ You looked at Bucky, eyebrow quirked up, ‘That a promise, Barnes?’ You asked back, a cheeky smile spreading its way onto your lips as you allowed Bucky to draw you out of the brief stupor your mind had found itself in.

‘I promise, doll. Let it burn.’

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fic #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky reader fanfic masterlist #bucky comfort #sam wilson #protective!bucky #angst #hurt/comfort

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marvelstoriesepic · 4 months ago

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Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

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craftymommabear · 2 years ago

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Omg Ioved this series so much! I just sat and read it instead of accomplishing things today.

Series Masterlist - Never Say Goodbye

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. **(Rated M – 18+ only) | [Soulmate AU]

Series Tags/Warnings: Soulmate AU set in season 1 & 2, romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, angst, smut, attempted physical assault. Could be considered a "fix it" fic (you'll see).

Part 1 - Proximity

Part 2 - Connection

Part 3 - Contact

Part 4 - Guessing Game

Part 5 - Self Defense

Part 6 - Trust Building

Part 7 - First Touch**

Part 8 - Long Distance

Part 9 - Intensive Care

Part 10 - Worthy**

Part 11 - Soul Bond

Part 12 - Home

Epilogue

Series is complete!

Bonus Tracks:

(3-Part Sequel)

#1: Disturbing the Peace

#2: One Last Hunt

#3: To Be Loved

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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thebarneschronicles · 6 months ago

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Closer to Home

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: As you settle into your new role as the team’s “girl in the chair,” helping Sam and Bucky with their missions, you find yourself increasingly drawn to Bucky's intense presence. His brooding silence is matched only by his watchful eyes, and despite his gruff exterior, your kindness begins to chip away at his walls. When Bucky insists on walking you home one night, clyou chalk it up to his old-fashioned sense of duty and think nothing of it. But as the night unfolds, you realize there’s far more behind his actions than just good manners, and your growing feelings for him may not be as hidden as you think.

A/N: This was supposed to be something else ENTIRELY. But it just unravelled and here we are! Please, feel free to let me know your thoughts about it! B xx

Closer To Home Masterlist

Your relationship with Bucky hadn’t started with fireworks or dramatic confessions—it began like any other normal relationship: after drinks and a movie.

It was a quiet evening, the kind that felt heavier after long hours at your desk. You were finally wrapping up for the night, shrugging on your coat and slinging your purse over a shoulder. The clock had just ticked past 10 p.m., though it hardly felt late to you. Still, your shoulders sagged under the tension of the day—hours spent poring over intel, trying to uncover scraps of information that might help Sam and Bucky on their next mission.

“You shouldn’t be walking home alone.”

You looked up to find Bucky leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed. His voice was gruff but not unkind, his blue eyes shadowed but steady.

“It’s just a few blocks,” you replied, already bracing for the argument.

His jaw tightened—a subtle shift, but one you’d come to recognize as the start of his infamous stubborn streak. “Doesn’t matter. My ma would haunt me if I let you.”

That earned him a laugh. “Your 'ma' sounds like quite the character.”

“She was,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It disappeared as quickly as it came. “C’mon, grab your stuff. I’ll walk you.”

You didn’t argue further, mostly because you were too tired to win, and partly because there was something oddly comforting about his protectiveness, even if it came wrapped in brooding silences and sharp glances.

Being around Bucky had taken some getting used to. You knew about him, of course—who didn’t? But nothing had prepared you for the sheer intensity of James Buchanan Barnes up close. His unrelenting stares, his quiet presence that somehow filled a room, and the way he seemed to carry the weight of entire worlds on his shoulders.

When you’d first joined their team as the “girl in the chair” (a term Sam insisted on despite your repeated protests that you were, in fact, a woman), you hadn’t known what to expect. Your days as a research journalist had been left behind in favor of a role that felt more like a sidekick to two superheroes. Never the hero, always the support.

“It’s not nothing, though,” Sam had told you once, catching you mid-eye-roll during a particularly grueling debrief. “You’re saving lives too, y’know. Every name, every address you dig up? That’s someone else’s tomorrow you’re protecting.”

Still, the job came with its own toll: exhaustion, migraines, and a constant ache in your wrists from hours of typing. But it also came with a quiet sense of purpose—and Bucky’s occasional company.

At first, his silences had been intimidating, his brooding presence almost oppressive. But you met him with unwavering kindness—bringing him coffee when he looked like he needed it, or letting him retreat into your office to escape Sam’s chatter. Slowly, the silences grew shorter, and the stares softened into something more watchful.

Now, walking beside him under the soft glow of streetlights, the quiet felt less like distance and more like understanding.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “is this a one-time chivalry thing, or do I get an official escort service from now on?”

Bucky snorted. “You’re assuming I’m doing this for you.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, grinning. “Who else is benefitting from my safe arrival home?”

He glanced at you, a spark of humor flickering in his eyes. “Sam’ll never let me hear the end of it if something happens to you. Man loves his lectures.”

“Ah,” you said, mock-serious. “So I’m saving you from Sam’s wrath. Got it.”

He didn’t answer right away, but his pace slowed slightly, his hand brushing the base of your spine as you turned a corner, like he was directing towards home. “Maybe I just like making sure you’re okay,” he muttered.

Your heart stuttered at his words, a quiet ache blooming in your chest, but you didn’t dare press him further. Hope was a dangerous thing, a fragile spark that had burned you one too many times before. It was safer to tuck it away, to pretend his words meant nothing more than what he’d said—a simple gesture of kindness, nothing deeper.

You were friends, after all... right? Or at least, friendly. He was kind to you, yes, but Bucky Barnes was kind in a way that felt carefully measured, like a soldier fulfilling his duty. He was a gentleman through and through, the kind who’d been raised to believe it was his responsibility to make sure no lady faced the dangers of the night alone.

“His mah would’ve expected nothing less,” you thought wryly, your lips tugging into a faint smile.

He was a man out of time, after all. Decades removed from the era he was born into, yet somehow still anchored there, even now. You wouldn’t have been surprised if the rules he followed were the same ones ingrained into him all those years ago. And maybe, just maybe, it was easier to believe that than to let yourself hope he cared for any reason beyond habit or honor.

“Almost there,” he said, his voice breaking through your thoughts. His hand hovered near your elbow, steady and sure, as if ready to catch you should you stumble.

The steps to your door loomed far too quickly for your aching heart, bringing an abrupt end to your time with the brooding soldier. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if your body was reluctant to leave his quiet, steady presence.

You paused on the final step, its height almost eliminating the difference between you and Bucky. It gave you just enough courage to look up at him, your fingers nervously twisting around the strap of your purse.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He dipped his head in a single nod, his icy blue eyes flickering down to meet yours. His expression, as always, was unreadable, cast in shadows under the dim streetlamp. “Anytime.”

The simplicity of his reply made your chest tighten. You nodded in return, swallowing hard as your heart hammered in your throat. Turning away from him, you fixed your gaze on your front door, willing yourself to move forward, to end the moment before it unraveled you completely.

Friends. That’s all this was. It had to be.

So why did it feel so wrong to turn your back on him? Why did it feel like you were forcing yourself to betray something deeper, something unspoken, simply by walking away?

Your hand was on the doorknob before you realized you’d stopped moving, the quiet war between your heart and your mind reaching a fever pitch. You squeezed your eyes shut, battling the urge that rose in you like a wave.

Don’t do it. Just go inside. Let him leave.

But the battle was already lost. Before you could stop yourself—before logic could wrestle control away from the reckless beating of your heart—you turned. Your feet moved without permission, carrying you back down the steps toward him.

It wasn’t a decision so much as a pull, steady and undeniable, the words slipping from your lips as if carried on a tide of longing you couldn’t resist.

“Would you like to come up for a drink?”

The words tumbled out unbidden, your voice trembling just enough to betray how desperately you wanted him to say yes.

His reaction couldn’t have been more Bucky if he tried. His eyes shifted, and you swore you could see every emotion flash through them—surprise, hesitation, something a lot like longing—before they settled back into the stoic mask he always wore. Quiet. Unimpressed. Broody. And yet…

“I wouldn’t mind a beer.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, shaky with relief, and you motioned toward your door. “Well, come on then. I’ve got a six-pack that’s been waiting for some company.”

His presence filled the small apartment in a way that made your breath catch, the air somehow heavier, more electric. How many times had your silly, stubborn heart conjured up this exact scenario? Late at night, Bucky standing just inside your door, peeling off his worn leather jacket and tugging off the gloves that shielded both metal and flesh. Then, as if he’d done it a thousand times, he’d settle into a corner of your couch, legs spread, shoulders sinking back into the soft fabric like he belonged there.

“There's Heineken, Bud, and Corona,” you said, your voice only slightly betraying your nerves as you toed off your shoes and dropped your keys and purse by the door. “I think I might even have some whiskey stashed away somewhere. What’s your poison?”

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze trailing lazily around the room before settling back on you. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Your stomach flipped, and you nodded, biting back the grin threatening to stretch across your face. “Sure thing,” you said casually, though you were certain the flush creeping up your neck gave you away.

You turned toward the kitchen, your heart doing an embarrassing little leap as you busied yourself rummaging through the fridge and cabinets. The clink of bottles felt absurdly loud in the quiet apartment, every moment stretching with the weight of his presence just beyond your line of sight.

“Nice place,” he called from the living room, his tone casual but laced with something warmer.

“Thanks,” you replied, grabbing two beers and popping the caps off with practiced ease. “I’d say make yourself at home, but it looks like you’ve already got that covered.”

When you re-entered the room, there he was—exactly as you’d imagined so many times before. His jacket was draped over the back of the couch, his gloves neatly set beside it, and Bucky himself sprawled out comfortably. His metal hand rested casually on his knee, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as his eyes met yours.

“Here you go, Mr. Barnes,” you said, forcing a steady smile as you handed him the green bottle.

“To your first visit,” you began, raising your own bottle in a toast. You couldn’t help the way your gaze lingered, taking in the sight of his broad frame on your couch, the casual way he sat, the sheer presence of him filling the space. Warmth pooled low in your belly, and before you could stop yourself, you added, “May it be the first of many.”

His smirk deepened at that, a flicker of amusement flashing across his features. He raised his bottle silently, going for a sip—but you stopped him, your hand darting out to rest on his.

“Wait!” you blurted, your palm lightly pressing against his larger one.

His frown was slight, his gaze shifting between your hands before settling on your face. “Why?”

“You have to look at me when we cheers,” you explained, your voice a little breathless, a little unsure of what you were doing but too far in to back out now.

His brow arched. “And why’s that?”

“Bad luck if you don’t. Years of it.” You shrugged, suddenly feeling the ridiculousness of your own words but refusing to back down. “I mean, I can’t even count how many years... Probably best not to risk it.”

For a second, you thought he might argue. But then he chuckled, a soft sound that sent a flutter straight to your chest. “God knows I’ve had enough of that already, haven’t I?”

You giggled, your laughter bubbling out, light and carefree. The fact that he played along felt like a victory, a small but monumental crack in his stoic armor.

With a glint of something softer in his eyes, he tilted his head toward you, his gaze locking with yours. “Alright, doll,” he said, his voice quieter now, warmer. “Let’s do it properly.”

Eyes steady on yours, he clinked his bottle against yours, the sound sharp and satisfying in the quiet room. And then, he didn’t look away—not for a second—as he took a slow sip.

You followed suit, the contact between your eyes and his making your heart race so fast you thought it might burst. The heat in his gaze was steady, grounding, and yet it sent a thrilling, electric charge through you that made your knees nearly buckle.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low, the faintest curve to his lips as he lowered his bottle.

“Much,” you replied, somehow managing to keep your voice steady, even as your pulse thundered in your ears.

The air between you seemed to shift then, heavier but no less comforting—a new tension that simmered beneath the surface. If Bucky noticed the way your gaze lingered on him, the way your breath hitched every time his hand grazed your knee as he reached for another beer, he never said a thing.

He was the perfect gentleman, as always. Even when you slid closer on the couch, settling beside him on the plush cushions - even though there were a whole three other seats available to you. Even when you turned toward him, resting your head on your palm, your eyes tracing the strong lines of his face while you rambled about the mission reports piling up on your desk. He didn’t even glance at your neckline when you leaned over him to grab the remote, though you couldn’t help but steal a quiet inhale of his scent—clean, warm, unmistakably him.

“Alright,” you said, breaking the quiet. “I feel like I’m torturing you by making you listen to all this. Do you feel like watching something?” Your tone was cheery, light, but your heart raced at the thought of sharing something as simple and intimate as watching a film together.

With your eyes fixed on the TV, you missed the brief hesitation in his expression—the flicker of doubt that crossed his face and quickly vanished. Yet, neither the guilt, the fear, nor the pain that lingered in his soul seemed strong enough to stop him from embracing what you offered so openly: a chance to simply be. For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky seemed just a little less burdened by the shadows of his past, a ghost of his old self and a lot of his new one urging him to give in.

“What’s on Netflix?” he asked, his voice low and casual.

Your head whipped around so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “How do you know what Netflix is?”

His lips quirked into a rare, genuinely amused smile, the kind that made your stomach flip. “I’m old, but I’m not that old, doll.”

“You’re 106,” you shot back, arching a brow.

“And yet, I still know what streaming is,” he countered, the smile growing. “I’m not living under a rock.”

“Well, I am impressed, Mr. Barnes,” you teased, settling back into the cushions. “What else do you know about modern technology? Please tell me you’ve at least heard of TikTok.”

His expression shifted into something closer to a scowl, but the playful glint in his eye betrayed him. “I know about TikTok,” he said, sounding almost offended. ��And dating apps. God, the horrors,” he added, shaking his head dramatically as he glanced at his phone like it was some sort of ancient relic.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound warm and genuine, filling the cozy space between you. But beneath the humor, your stomach twisted with an unexpected knot. Dating apps?

“What about dating apps?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the curiosity in your voice was hard to hide.

Bucky groaned, slouching deeper into the couch as though the thought of them physically pained him. “I don’t know, doll. They just seem... unnatural. All these profiles and swiping left or right, like you’re picking a product instead of a person. Not my thing.” His voice held a certain distaste, and the casual way he said it made you wonder if he was speaking from experience—or just his own strong sense of principle.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the questions bubbling up inside you. Had he ever used them? Was he speaking from personal experience, or just from watching the chaos unfold around him? Your thoughts shifted uncomfortably, and you tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

“I get it,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s... kind of weird, honestly. It’s like shopping for a date, but with less... quality control.” You shot him a teasing grin, but the tightness in your chest was hard to ignore.

Bucky chuckled, the sound a low rumble that was soothing, even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Exactly. I mean, if I’m gonna meet someone, I’d rather it be... I don’t know, real? Not behind a screen.”

For some reason, his comment made your heart stumble, a traitorous beat skipping out of rhythm. You quickly dropped your gaze to your beer, hoping the reaction wasn’t written all over your face. Was he hinting that he preferred real, in-person connections? That he’d rather... meet someone like that?

You cleared your throat, feigning casual interest to mask the swarm of uncertainty rising inside. “So, how would you go about it? Finding a date, I mean. Is Sam your wingman?”

Bucky nearly choked on his beer, shaking his head vehemently. “God, no! Can you imagine? He’s too busy being Captain America to care about my love life... except when he’s accusing me of flirting with his sister.”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, and your chest tightened with something sharp and unwelcome. Jealousy. You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to chase it away. “I didn’t know you liked Sarah,” you said, and to your horror, the disappointment in your voice was impossible to hide.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the shift in your tone. “She’s great,” he said with a thoughtful nod. Then his lips curved knowingly. “But not like that.”

The heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks was impossible to ignore, and Bucky’s sly grin told you he’d noticed. Your relief collided with your curiosity, the two tangling into a dangerous need to know more. “Oh,” you started hesitantly. “So... if not her, then who?”

He took another sip of his beer, the pause deliberate. “Had one date with the waitress from that Asian place we always order from. It… didn’t go well.”

Your brows furrowed. “And you haven’t tried again since then?”

“Not really.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair, the movement deceptively casual. “You know how it is these days—apps, algorithms, everyone judging you by a couple of photos and a bio. And who’s lining up to date a former assassin, huh? People know too much, too soon. Real connections don’t happen that way.”

The self-deprecating edge in his voice made your heart ache. You tilted your head, studying the way his vibranium fingers tapped lightly against the beer bottle. “Maybe,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the nervous thrum beneath your skin, “you’re looking in the wrong places.”

His gaze snapped to yours, sharp and searching. “Oh yeah?” he asked, voice low, almost daring. “And where do you think I should look?”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his question, his attention. “Maybe a little closer to home,” you murmured, eyes resolutely fixed on the beer bottle in your own hands.

The silence that followed was electric, charged with unspoken possibilities that hung in the air like static. His gaze lingered on you, steady and intense, and you could feel it even without looking up. It made your pulse race in a way you didn’t dare acknowledge.

The truth was, you weren’t sure if you were just caught up in the moment—or if there was something more lingering in his words, in the way he was looking at you now.

You wanted to ask. The question burned on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. But a part of you hesitated, afraid of the answer. What if this was nothing more than friendly banter? What if pushing further shattered the comfortable connection you’d built?

“Closer to home, huh?” Bucky’s voice was a low rumble, breaking the silence but not the tension. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, and for a moment, it felt like he was closing the space between you. “And what does that mean, exactly? You got someone in mind for me, doll?”

There it was—that nickname. The one you pretended to hate but secretly adored. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the corner of your mouth twitch, betraying the smile you tried to suppress. His voice was so close it warmed you from head to toe. “I’m just saying,” you replied, forcing your tone to stay neutral, “maybe you’re overthinking it. Sometimes the best things are right in front of you.”

His lips quirked, his expression softening as if he’d caught onto something unsaid. “You think so?” Bucky asked, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

You dared to turn your head and glance at him, and the way his blue eyes locked onto yours stole whatever breath you had left. “Yeah,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I know so.”

The moment stretched between you, fragile and heavy with unspoken words. You swore he was leaning closer, his gaze flickering briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. And suddenly, the question burning in your chest felt inevitable.

“Bucky…” you began, voice trembling slightly, unsure of what you were about to say—or what he might say back.

“Yeah, doll?” Bucky’s voice was gentle, a thread of warmth in the charged air between you.

You hesitated, but the weight of your emotions was too much to carry any longer. “Is this a date?” you finally blurted, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself.

For a moment, his expression didn’t change, and then he shook his head slowly. “It’s not,” he said, his voice steady but quiet.

Your chest tightened, and the disappointment hit hard, like a blow you hadn’t braced for. You tried to mask it, but your face betrayed you, your shoulders sagging under the weight of the rejection. The ache in your heart grew with every second of silence that followed, the room feeling colder with each passing beat.

What you missed was the storm raging behind his steel-blue eyes—the internal battle he fought against his demons, the ones that screamed he wasn’t good enough for you. Wasn’t good enough for anyone. He’d carried those ghosts for too long to ignore them now. But he wasn’t blind.

He’d noticed the way your smile softened when it was meant for him, brighter and warmer than it ever was for anyone else. He’d seen how you fretted over him after missions, your hands fluttering with concern even at the smallest scratch on his skin. And he’d felt the hope radiating from you tonight when you’d invited him over, your words laced with a vulnerability you rarely showed.

Bucky knew. He’d known for a while. And that knowledge both terrified and thrilled him. Love, in any form, was fragile—he’d learned that the hard way. But tonight, sitting here with you, he realized he couldn’t keep running from the possibility of it.

He wanted you. Your laughter, your kindness, your stubbornness, your touch. He craved all of it. And maybe he didn’t deserve it, but for once in his long life, he wanted to try.

Bucky set his beer down, his movements deliberate, and leaned closer. His flesh hand brushed against the back of your arm and the touch sent a shiver up your arm.

“It’s not a date,” he repeated, voice low but filled with a quiet resolve that made your breath catch, hurt twisting at your heart.

Your brow furrowed, the downturn of your lips impossible to hide. “Heard you the first time…”

“This isn’t a date,” he pressed on. Then, with a small, almost shy smile, he added, “But it could be.”

Your heart skipped, his words hanging in the air like a lifeline. “Bucky…”

Cutting through your hesitation, his gaze locked onto yours, unflinching, steady. “If you want this… if you want me, I’m yours. I want to try.”

The vulnerability in his voice left you breathless, stealing any coherent thought you might have had. For the first time in what felt like forever, hope blossomed in your chest, warm and radiant. You didn’t hesitate this time, your lips curving into a soft, trembling smile.

“Is this because you’re afraid of the apps?” you teased, the quip breaking the intensity just enough for you to breathe. But your voice wavered slightly, and your eyes glistened with the tears threatening to spill. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll steal your virtue?”

Bucky chuckled, low and genuine, the sound sending warmth curling in your chest. “I’m not a damsel in distress, doll,” he said, his tone playful as his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. The simple touch sent shivers down your spine, and you leaned into it instinctively.

“And you’re also not the big bad wolf you think you are,” you countered softly, your voice tinged with both affection and defiance.

“Well, technically…” His lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “I am the White Wolf.”

You rolled your eyes, the tension breaking into something lighter, something safe. “He jokes,” you said, shaking your head. “He could be kissing instead…”

His grin softened, and for a beat, he just looked at you, his hand still lingering near your face. Then, as if your words had given him permission, he leaned in, closing the space between you in a way that felt both inevitable and extraordinary.

“Guess I’ll take your advice for once, doll,” he murmured, his breath brushing against your lips.

The moment his lips touched yours, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you. His kiss was gentle at first, a question rather than an assumption, as though he wanted to be sure this was what you truly wanted. His warm hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your cheekbone, while his vibranium hand rested lightly on your knee, grounding him in the moment.

You sighed into the kiss, your hand instinctively reaching up to thread through the short hair at the nape of his neck. The movement drew him closer, and he obliged, deepening the kiss with a soft groan that sent a shiver down your spine. His lips were soft yet firm, moving against yours in a way that spoke of patience and restrained hunger, like he was savoring every second of this moment.

His vibranium hand finally moved, finding your waist with surprising tenderness. The cool metal was a stark contrast to the heat of his other hand through the fabric of your shirt, but it pulled you to the reality of him—both the man he was and the one he’d fought so hard to become.

When you parted briefly for air, his forehead rested against yours, his breaths mingling with yours in the small space between you. His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and brimming with emotions he didn’t have to say out loud.

“Doll…” he whispered, his voice rough and full of awe, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

But you weren’t done. You weren’t ready to let the moment slip away. Sliding your hand from his neck to his jaw, you tilted his face back toward yours, brushing your lips against his again, slower this time, savoring the taste of him. He responded immediately, his grip on your waist tightening as his mouth moved against yours with more certainty, more passion.

The kiss deepened, growing warmer, more insistent. Your bodies angled closer together, his presence consuming your senses. You could feel his heartbeat against yours, steady and strong, and the faint rasp of his stubble as it brushed against your skin only made the experience more intoxicating.

You weren’t sure how it happened—one moment you were pressed against the back of your couch, his hands and lips demanding your full attention, and the next, you were straddling his thighs. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as your harsh breaths mingled, the taste of his tongue intoxicating and impossible to resist.

For all his claims of being a man out of his time, Bucky Barnes knew exactly how to touch a woman. His hands were a perfect dichotomy: one warm and strong, the other cool and unyielding, but both equally firm and commanding. His touch left no room for doubt or hesitation, responding to every unspoken plea you hadn’t yet found the words for.

And his kiss? God, his kiss. You could write sonnets about the way his lips moved against yours, the way his tongue teased and claimed you, coaxing a need from you that you hadn’t known you were capable of. None of your wildest fantasies could compare to the reality of him, his body pressed against yours, solid and capable. The things it could do—what it was doing, what it promised to do—set your whole body alight with yearning.

You kissed him harder, deeper, needier, your hips moving instinctively against his. His groan rumbled low in his chest, a sound that only made you crave him more. But just as your movements grew more desperate, his vibranium hand clamped firmly on your hips, halting your rhythm. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, gentle but insistent, forcing you to break the kiss.

“Doll…” His voice was rough, laced with a warning that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

You blinked at him, still dazed, heat crawling under your skin as you realized what you’d done. “Yes, I’m sorry, I know—I’m sorry,” you stammered, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

His breaths came heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours as his steel-blue eyes bore into yours. The hunger there mirrored your own, and the restraint in his grip only made you want him more.

Your lips quirked into a small, teasing smile, your own need warring with the desire to break the tension. “Seems like I really am trying to steal your virtue, huh?” you joked, your voice light but shaky as you turned your head to press a soft kiss to his palm.

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through the hunger. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, his hand slipping from your jaw to trail gently along your cheek, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips.

Your free hand wrapped around his vibranium one, your thumb tracing the grooves of the metal. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with promise as you leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the charged silence stretching as his hands anchored you, holding you steady but never pushing. His restraint was palpable, and you knew without a doubt—if you wanted more, he would give it to you willingly. But only if you asked.

You wouldn’t, though. Not tonight.

Instead, you leaned in, brushing soft, sweet kisses against his lips, your movements unhurried and tender. Each kiss felt like a promise, an unspoken assurance that there was no rush, no need for anything more than this moment. It took superhuman strength—the kind he had—not to let it escalate.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your lips tingling and your cheeks warm. His eyes searched yours, and the way he looked at you—like you were the most precious thing in the world—made your heart swell. His thumb grazed your cheek, his smile soft and genuine.

“How about that movie?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes betrayed a depth of emotion that made your breath catch.

You laughed, the sound breaking the last remnants of tension and filling the cozy space around you. “Alright, fine. Let’s find something to watch, then. Any preferences?”

“Anything but those baking shows Sam keeps trying to get me into,” he muttered, his lips quirking in faint exasperation.

A giggle bubbled out of you at the mental image of Sam dragging Bucky into a world of frosting, sprinkles, and delicate pastries. The idea was so absurd yet so perfectly Sam that you couldn’t help yourself. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, your lips lingering just long enough to feel the faint rasp of stubble. “Deal. No baking shows.”

As the two of you settled back onto the couch, scrolling through movie options, the tension between you shifted again—this time, it was softer, lighter, wrapped in a warmth that felt safe and steady.

Bucky stretched his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers absently brushing against your shoulder as you leaned into him, your body naturally seeking his. And for the first time in a long time, you noticed something different about him. The shadows that usually haunted his expression seemed to have lifted, replaced by something quieter, something calmer.

Here, with you, Bucky wasn’t the broken soldier or the ex-assassin haunted by his past. He was just… himself. And in that moment, you realized that’s all you’d ever wanted him to be.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter One

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, threatening language, death of a minor character

Word Count: 4.6k

On a scavenging run, two unknown groups arrive unannounced. Through the gunfire, you’re separated, cornered, captured. A skull-faced Lieutenant makes a decision, changing your life forever.

Chapter Two

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Eden is a home.

It is a person. A place. A community

It is the scent of old musty books, and the quiet peace before the rising dawn.

You work by candlelight in the silent hours, an open book resting on the table in front of you. Wearing gloves to protect it, you carefully turn the page, gaze scanning the faded lettering. Most of it is legible, and with some time and care, you’ll be able to replicate it on new paper with fresh ink.

Preservation.

Not of your mortal life and those that live in your community, but the preservation of humanity, culture, and human history. Five years since the world fell apart, and yet you remain, carrying on with purpose, restoring books, transcribing those that are close to falling apart, and keeping records of the years that came before.

It is enjoyable, fulfilling work but you serve a greater need to your community. Here, within your sanctuary of several hundred people, you provide them entertainment and education. The children come to you for picture books and story time, and the adults visit when they need an escape.

You are but one piece of a large whole.

“What are you doing here so early?”

You glance up, smiling at your assistant. “Could ask the same,” you laugh, pushing back from the table. Standing, you remove your gloves and set them next to the book.

Sam, your archiving assistant yawns. “Thought I’d get here early since you’re going out today with Zac and his group.” They rub at their eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the gate already?”

“Shit,” you mutter, checking the mechanical clock hanging on the wall. Sam is right. You should be at the gate right now. “Double shit,” you groan.

Sam laughs and reaches for their own gloves. “I’ll handle this.” Putting them on, Sam settles into your chair. “We doing a refurb on this?”

“No,” you say, running around the room, grabbing your jacket and backpack. “Some of the pages are too faded. Binding is also bust.”

“Transcribe then,” murmurs Sam, gently closing the book to inspect the integrity of the cover. “Where are you going again?”

“Zac mentioned a small town they scoped out. No activity.” You walk over to Sam, yanking your jacket on. “He said there’s a library.”

Sam’s head pops up. “Seriously?”

You nod excitedly. “Said the place was locked up tight. Windows still intact.”

“Untouched?” asks Sam, eyebrows rising in surprise. You nod. Sam whistles lowly. “What a fucking find.”

“I know!” you exclaim. “Could really use some encyclopedias.”

“And dictionaries,” adds Sam longingly.

Tugging on the front of your jacket and then smoothing the front, you zip it up. “Zac said I can bring back as much as I want.”

“Did he really?” Sam shakes their head and opens the front cover of the book. “That man is sweet on you.”

“Which is why I take advantage,” you giggle.

Sam bursts out laughing. “Go. They’ll leave you behind.”

With a grin on your face and a hop to your step, you wave at Sam before heading out the side door and into the early morning. The sun is just starting to rise. Most people are still asleep or starting their day. You walk by the communal buildings where the earliest risers are preparing breakfast. You sigh when you get a whiff of what they’re cooking, wishing you could snag a meal before departing.

As you approach the gate, Zac raises his hand in greeting.

“Have I held everyone up?” you ask tentatively, glancing around.

“Not at all. Still loading up a few things. Your timing is perfect.” Zac smiles, and though you find him pleasant, nothing stirs within you. There is no lust or even romantic interest.

You observe the line of cars queued at the gate. Usually there are only one or two, but there are at least ten vehicles here including the salvaged U-Haul. “Taking a whole convoy?”

“We’re going to need it.”

“For a small town?”

Zac chuckles. “I’m dropping you off at the library. Ben will come with you.”

“I get a security detail?” you ask excitedly and Zac nods. “Fancy.”

Zac scratches at his neck, gaze roaming over the convoy. “There’s a car assembly plant a few miles outside the town. Gonna strip what we can. If things go well, we’ll come back.”

“No activity then?”

“None,” confirms Zac. “We’ve had a scouting team out there for the last two months. Not a soul has passed through.”

“That’s fortunate,” you murmur.

While your community has been largely untouched and unbothered by the outside world, there are still so many unknowns. There have been stragglers that have shown up, and while several have been accepted in and integrated, there are many more that have been turned away or shot on sight. Sometimes you think it cruel, but there are all sorts of horrors in the world now.

Ben walks around the front of the nearest car, and beams in your direction. “Hear I’m looking after you today,” he says, going in for a hug.

You accept it easily. Ben is the comedian of the community, always having a kind word and funny joke.

“And helping me haul books,” you add.

Ben winks in your direction and then turns to Zac. “We’re ready.”

Zac nods. “Load up!” he shouts.

Everyone around you heads to their designated vehicle. Engines roar and car doors slam. You follow Ben, hopping into a dusty Jeep Wrangler.

It’s several hours of open road and clear weather.

You and Ben pass the time by singing songs and playing car games. It’s a good distraction until Zac comes on over the radio and tells Ben their exit is coming up. The rest of the convoy drives on as Ben cuts away to take an exit ramp. A few more minutes and he’s coming to a stop just on the edge of town, parking the Jeep amongst a cluster of trees. The vehicle is completely hidden.

“Ready?” he asks, sliding the keys into his pocket.

“Backpack? Check. Gun? Check. Foldable wagon? Check.”

Ben blows raspberries. “Can’t forget the foldable wagon.”

You playfully smack him on the arm. “You want to haul all those books back yourself.”

“No thank you,” he mutters.

The walk is pleasant, but overall silent. Ben carries an M4AI. The arsenal back home is massive, and whenever there are trips outside the compound, the military-grade weapons come out. He keeps his head on a swivel, but other than the occasional animal sounds and the rustling of leaves, all is quiet.

“Here it is,” sighs Ben, extending one arm toward a stand-alone building at the corner of an intersection.

The library isn’t overly big. If anything, it’s what you’d expect from a small town.

“Now I know you’re excited,” he begins, slightly leaning in your direction. “But you stay close. We’re entering from the back.”

All you can do is nod eagerly, words escaping you. It’s been almost six years since you’ve been inside a library. This is a treat. It takes an insane amount of self-control to not skip all the way to the back of the building.

While the front of the building faces the intersection, behind the library is a small parking lot and two dumpsters. Ben does a slow sweep of the lot as the two of you walk toward the employee entrance. Satisfied that nothing and no one is around, Ben lowers his gun. Removing his backpack, he sets it on the ground, and rummages around inside before withdrawing lockpicks.

Adrenaline surges within you.

A few wiggles.

And then—

Click.

Grinning like an idiot, Ben slips the lockpicks into his backpack and puts it on. Grabbing his gun, he presses himself to the brick wall. Slowly, Ben opens the door with the tip of the rifle. It gives under his touch easily, the hinges even silent as the door swings inwards.

“Draw your weapon,” whispers Ben. “We need to do a sweep first.” As you reach for your Glock, Ben shakes his head. “And leave the damn wagon.”

Leaning the foldable wagon against the wall, you remove your gun from its holster. Ben enters and you follow, shifting your body to watch for anything coming up behind you. It’s a slow sweep. Starting along the wall, the two of you walk the perimeter, checking the back offices, and then finally the center-most area.

Ben comes to a stop near a collection of dusty chairs. Lowering his gun, he sighs with relief. “It’s clear.” He turns in your direction. “I’ll be keeping a lookout at the door. If anything happens, you come directly to me.”

“Got it,” you say with a mock salute.

Ben rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “And don’t drag those books along because I know you will. Leave them.”

You stare him down but Ben doesn’t budge, matching your stare with one of his own. “I mean it. If someone or something comes barreling through the front doors, you fucking run to me. Understood?”

“Sure. Got it. Understood.”

Ben checks his watch. “We have a few hours before we’re expected back at the meet point. Take your time.” He starts to walk away, and then abruptly pivots. “Wife packed a few sandwiches. Promise I’ll share.”

You snort and wave him off. “Bring me my wagon, Ben.”

“On it,” he calls over his shoulder.

As his footfalls recede, you linger in the quiet, dusty library, taking in the significance of the moment. Six years since you’ve stood inside an actual library. Five years since the world fell apart but a year before, third places were quickly disappearing. No one could spend money when wages were low and all the government’s resources were going toward the war effort. Libraries and free spaces shuttered first, losing all their funding.

This place is precious. Special. A rare opportunity.

Of all the books in your community’s collection, they’ve all come to you by the way of others, collected on routine trips and scavenging missions like today. Since stepping inside the walls you now call home, this is the first time you’ve left it. All the stories you receive of the outside world come from the mouths of those who witness it firsthand.

Like a jubilant child, you want to run around—to touch everything. The tips of your fingers buzz with an incessant itch. But you don’t dare remove anything from the shelves. Resisting is almost physically painful as you float through the aisles, taking it all in. To remove a book off the shelf, to open it up, the smell it and feel it would be paradise.

But you know better. You do.

Disturbing them without the right tools and care might cause damage or undo exposure. What you can do is look, to read the spines, and consider your options. Once you know what you want, you’ll drag your little wagon behind you and go about taking the books you want off the shelves.

Ben does leave you alone, and you’re left to wander.

Each step is light but purposeful as you move about the space. You think of everyone back home, of their likes and dislikes, of their needs and wants. More picture books would be helpful as well as some young adult novels. Some of the women have been asking for romance and few of the older folks would like some historical nonfiction.

“Where are you?” you mutter, digging around in your jacket pockets.

Crumpled paper brushes against your fingers. Withdrawing it, you smooth it out as best you can. Using the little light available to read your scribbled penmanship, you pull the wagon behind you, mentally reordering your notes by priority.

Sam wants dictionaries, and you need to grab a set of encyclopedias. Finding the “Reference” section, you survey all your options. Dictionaries and an encyclopedia set are a must, but you also consider the selections of atlases and then the thesaurus collection. The school could really use those resources, and your wagon is large enough to accommodate a few last-minute additions.

Kneeling, you admire the different editions of encyclopedias. Some appear a little worn but otherwise fine. Even though this place hasn’t had power or temperature control in five years, the place was sealed and untouched until you and Ben. It’s likely that everything inside is fine, and all you and Sam will need to do is a rebinding.

You’re completely absorbed, so focused on the tomes in front of you, that the whisper of your name has you spinning around and reaching for your gun.

Ben has his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. A snarky remark sizzles on your tongue. Ben brings a finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence. Whatever you were going to say dissolves, leaving behind an acrid aftertaste.

Slowly, you swivel your head from side to side but see nothing.

Ben shifts closer, leans in, a glint of fear in his eyes.

“There are people outside,” he whispers.

That’s when you hear it. Distantly, you hear a car door slam, and a muffled shout. The marrow in your bones becomes ice. There are people. There shouldn’t be people.

You swallow, mouth becoming dry. “How many?”

Ben shrugs. “Not sure. But there’s two groups.”

“Two—” You shake your head slightly as that’ll clear your racing thoughts. “What do you mean two groups?”

Ben’s mouth turns downward. It’s an I’m sorry but even that is loaded.

We’re not getting out of this.

There’s a distant hoot of laughter, and then the breaking of glass as if someone’s thrown a beer bottle. It’s still far enough away that you cling to that one comfort. But if they stick around, they might come sniffing. If that happens, you and Ben will be cornered.

Ben nods his head in the direction of the front of the library. Staying low, the two of creep toward the front of the building. There are two sets of double doors. The first set open up into the library and the secondary set of doors lead directly outside. Sandwiched between them is a small atrium. Above the doors are massive windows that bring in natural light.

Out front in the intersection are several beaten up trucks. From what you can see, it’s all men, at least a dozen or two in total. They look haggard. Mean.

“Is that them?” you ask softly.

Ben doesn’t look back at you as he answers. “Just the one. These guys came in loud.” Ben shifts slightly to glance over his shoulder at you. “Surprised you didn’t hear them.”

“Lost in my books.” Ben snorts, and returns his attention to the glass doors. “What about the second group?” you ask tentatively. “Our people?”

Ben eases back a bit. He sits down on the floor, checking over his rifle. “No. Not sure who they are.” He licks his lips, gaze focused on the gun. “They’re all in black. Militarized by the look of them. Organized.”

Two groups. Two different groups.

Ben removes the clip and checks the cartridge. “Only noticed them when one of these guys went around back.” He gestures toward the men directly outside the front doors. “Fucker came out of nowhere and knifed him. Dragged his body away too.”

“Who are they?”

Ben shrugs and rummages in his backpack for a new clip. “No fucking idea. The ones out front might be marauders or slavers or—”

He pauses, gaze growing distant.

“Or what, Ben?” you prompt.

He doesn’t answer, only readies the rifle. “All I know is we need to go.”

All this work, all this effort, suddenly gone.

Your shoulders sag as the reality of the situation sets in. “I have to leave the books. Don’t I?”

“Afraid so,” replies Ben. But he smiles, and though he’s trying, you see the strain. “Next time I’ll make sure to bring you and Sam some books.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he affirms. “Let’s go.”

At the back door, you withdraw your Glock, posting up beside Ben. He cracks it open. Pauses. Opens it a little wider. He carefully sticks a small hand mirror out the opening. He turns it left then right then back again.

“Clear” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

He exits slowly, and then gestures with his hand. You step outside, squinting slightly as your eyes adjust to the light. Ben starts to cross the parking lot, heading for the exit furthest from the intersection.

The voices of the men are louder out here. A tiny bubble of panic blooms. Then simmers. Then boils.

There is no one around. No one. And yet—

A loud crack splits the air. The wall next to Ben explodes, tiny fragments of debris bursting outward. Ben stumbles backward. He grabs for you. And tugs.

You’re yanked to the side, and then spun around.

Time seems to slow, and yet everything occurs so quickly you don’t entirely comprehend what’s happened until Ben shoves the two of you behind a nearby dumpster.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe. “Ben. We—”

Horror floods your lungs.

Blood.

Everything. Dripping from tiny holes in Ben’s body.

“Oh my god. Ben.”

You reach for him, but there are so many impact points. Too many.

“Go,” he gasps. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

As the words leave your mouth, a barrage of bullets bite into the wall directly over your head.

“Here,” he rasps, handing you the keys to the Jeep. “Leave me and fucking run. I’ll distract them.”

Shouting breaks out nearby followed by what seems like a never-ending deluge of gunfire.

Your eyes burn. “You promised me books.”

He smiles, and there’s more red than white. “You know I always deliver on my promises.”

With a groan that’s more a cry of pain, Ben stands and reloads with a new clip.

“Go,” he whispers just as he steps out from around the dumpster, gun firing.

You turn. Take off. Gunfire follows.

It comes from everywhere, but you don’t falter, don’t pause to check your surroundings. You’re not a raging bull or an agile cheetah. You are pure frenzy, pure panic, like a rabbit running from fox teeth.

“Fucking grab her!” someone yells. “Grab her!”

You don’t know if it’s the marauders or the men all in black, but there is little reason to consider who.

Survival is paramount. Survival is eternal.

In a world like this, survival is lifeblood.

It is everything.

With lungs burning and muscles screaming, you aim for the houses, knowing you can lose them if you scuttle through the overgrown backyards.

The blow comes out of nowhere.

You witness a brief taste of freedom.

And then it’s yanked right from under you.

A body barrels into you, knocking you sideways. The ground comes up fast. You throw up your arms to protect your head and face. It cushions but protects little else. You hit hard.

“Come here,” growls a male voice. Hands are on you. Grabbing. Twisting. “Let me get a good look at you.”

You kick out. Throw your fists in all directions.

“Stop your fussing.”

A quick blow to the face and you’re circling, everything becoming temporarily blurry as the person atop you brings your vision skyward.

“Look at you,” he laughs.

It’s one of the marauders. He smiles down at you, teeth brown and grey from decay.

“Pretty thing. Gonna look cute choking on my—”

His nefarious smile drops as the rest of him stiffens. You freeze, staring up in shock as you try to figure out what’s happened. It’s a slow unfolding. A trickle. Blood begins to pool in his mouth and then it drip drip drips onto your face.

With a soft cry, you wiggle out from under him as he tips over, falling into the grass. Scrambling backward, you start to push up onto your knees, muscles poised to keep moving.

“Don’t move.” A gun barrel presses into the back of your head. It’s still warm. “Get up.”

A pair of black boots come into view. Your gaze slowly ascends. Black boots give way to black pants to a black bullet proof vest to a black balaclava. The only part of him you can see are his eyes.

Someone grabs the back of your neck. It’s a harsh hold, and you’re yanked to your feet. You twist your neck and find another man, this one almost identical to the one in front of you. This is the other group Ben spotted, the ones tracking the marauders.

The one holding your neck squeezes and the other reaches for you. “Fucking move and I’ll shoot you.”

You remain perfectly still—perfectly silent as he pats you down. The knife in your boot is confiscated along with your Glock. When they snatch the Jeep keys, you instinctually reach to take them back.

“Told you not to fucking move.”

The man slaps your hand down and you feel the muzzle return to your head.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

He stares you down for a long moment. It gives you an opportunity to observe him, and his companion. They both wear identical all-black tactical even down to the patches attached to their biceps. The bottom one you recognize. Both American flags. The one above it is eerily similar but you can’t entirely place it. It’s an azimuthal projection of the earth but a top view from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches.

The stranger’s gaze shifts to just above you. He jerks his head, and then you’re shoved forward without warning. With each of them holding an arm, you’re half-dragged back to the intersection the marauders were at.

While their rusty trucks are still there, they aren’t alone. Four armored trucks are parked in a semi-circle around the marauders’ cars. More men in all-black tactical gear prowl the area. Of the first group to arrive, those that aren’t dead have been zip tied and lined up in a row on their stomachs, faces pressed into the asphalt.

When one of them moves, they’re kicked until they fall back into compliance.

“Found this one out by the houses,” says the man holding onto your left arm.

Soldiers. They have to be. This isn’t some ragtag group. They wear uniforms, all of which are perfectly maintained. Even the armored trucks are in decent condition.

A small trio of them standing nearby turn.

The centermost soldier speaks. “A woman?” His surprise is clear. And like the two men who hold you, this man too has an American flag.

He nods toward the group of facedown marauders. “These fuckers don’t let their breeders out of their sight.”

Breeders.

You almost snarl, bite back with an insult. But you keep your mouth shut. Their intentions are unclear, and you’re without a weapon. Entirely powerless.

Survival. Always survival.

He takes a few steps forward, approaching you, gaze assessing. Behind the balaclava, he gives you a once over. “Looks healthy,” he observers. Without warning, he grabs your face. You jerk back, and he clucks his tongue. “Stop moving.”

Turning your face to the left and then to the right, the middle of his brow creases. “Open your mouth.”

You glower, and don’t comply.

He grabs your nose, shutting off your air. You gasp, mouth opening.

“Has all her teeth,” he announces, dropping his hand. “Can’t be one of theirs.”

“We need to show the Lieutenant,” says the soldier to your right.

The man before you stares, and keeps staring. “Do we?”

You don’t like the implication.

“What’s this?”

A deep, masculine voice cuts through the air. It is accented. British. Every head turns, and the soldiers straighten, shoulders back and heads held high.

The man holding your left arm speaks up. “Found her running toward the houses, Lieutenant.”

All the soldiers wear plain black balaclavas. Simple. Straightforward. But the man who steps into view has a skull face stitched into his. A fucking skull.

Instead of an American flag, it’s a Union Jack.

His brown eyes behind the mask narrow. “They don’t bring their women out.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Are their numbers that low?”

“With how we’ve been picking them off I wouldn’t be surprised.”

They bicker back and forth, arguing about you but not actually talking to you.

“I’m not with them,” you say, and they all go silent.

Skull Face glowers. “You’re not?”

“I was running from them.” You glance between the soldiers who shot the man. “They’ll tell you. They’re the ones that shot him.”

Skull Face appears unmoved. “Doesn’t mean you’re not with them.”

You laugh, and it sounds a bit hysterical. “Why would I be fucking running if I were with them? Wouldn’t I be shooting back at you?”

“No,” he replies flatly. “If you were with them, you’d be bloody running from them. Not shooting at us.”

“She has to be with them. There’s no one else here.” The man who speaks up this time is directly to Skull Face’s right. The accent is different. Scottish.

“I came with one other. Those men shot at us.”

Ben. Oh. Sweet Ben.

“And where are they?” asks Skull Face.

You swallow, knowing the truth. “Behind the library. Parking lot. Near the dumpster.”

Skull Face locks gazes with another solider and nods. Two men break off, heading in that direction. He returns his attention to you. “Who are these men?”

“What?” you ask, perplexed.

“These men.” He points to the facedown marauders. “Who are they?”

These men are strangers to you. “Slavers?” When no one confirms or denies, you guess again. “Cannibals?”

“She’s playing dumb,” mutters the Scots.

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Skull Face. “Who are they? What name do they go by? It’s an easy question. Everyone knows it.”

You shake your head. “I—I don’t know.”

Lieutenant Skull Face leans in, lowering his voice. “If you don’t answer truthfully, you and I can have an extended chat in the back of one of these trucks.”

“She had these.” The Jeep keys are tossed, and he catches them without looking. “And this.” The Glock is presented.

Soap takes the Glock. He turns it over. “They don’t give their women weapons, Ghost.”

So, Skull Face is named Ghost. Fitting.

“No,” he agrees. “Makes it easier for them to fight back.”

The very idea sobers you.

“Who are they?” you ask, feeling safe enough to do so.

Ghost glances up from the car keys. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”

“Lieutenant!” The two men that left for the library return. Jogging forward, they speak in low voices.

Ben is not with them. Ben is—

Ghost nods and steps back. “We’re taking her with us.” The two men holding onto your arms let go and Ghost immediately grabs hold of your shoulder, pulling you forward.

“Pick three of these bastards at random,” he announces, gesturing toward the facedown men. “Put them in Delta truck. Shoot the rest.”

Ghost’s hand at your shoulder slides up, grasping the back of your neck. He leans in close—so close you can pick out the little flecks of gold in his brown irises.

“You’re riding with me.”

1K notes · View notes

flowersforbucky · 8 months ago

Text

devil's in the backseat

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3.7k

summary/prompt: a night at coney island with your friends turns out much differently than expected.

or getting fucked in front of a mirror

author's note: this is my first halloween fic!! this was so much fun to write. if you've read haunting adeline, then you know exactly what inspired the mirror maze scene! also disclaimer i have never been to coney island so if any of this is inaccurate then just pretend ok it's fiction :))

warnings/tags: smut, 18+ only content, sex in a public setting, mirror sex, oral (female receiving), unprotected p in v, friends to lovers, romanogers makes an appearance! kind of grumpy!reader, protective bucky, random men being creepy, language, reader is afab, she/her pronouns, reader pov, no use of y/n, porn with a little plot, fluff

my masterlist

“I can't fucking believe I let you talk me into wearing this.”

You tug the tight, cherry red colored velvet fabric of the babydoll dress in place for the dozenth time since arriving at Coney Island.

“What? You look hot. Plus, our costumes go great together.”

Natasha's costume mirrors your own - except hers is a pearlescent white and instead of a pitchfork and horns, she dons angel wings and a halo.

“I don't feel hot. I feel cold. It's fifty degrees and the sun hasn't even set yet.” If it wasn't for the black thigh high boots that cover the majority of your legs, you'd be shivering in the chilly late October weather.

“It's not my fault that you put off getting a costume until the last minute and had to pick through what little was left at Spirit Halloween,” she mumbles, passing you one of the cups of apple cider that the cashier hands to her. You gladly accept, sucking down the hot liquid in hopes that it will warm you from the inside.

Her phone dings as the two of you walk towards the rides. “It's Steve,” she informs you as she reads the text message. “They just got here,” she looks back up at you with a smirk on her face and a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Bucky decided to come with them.”

You roll your eyes, suddenly hating your borderline provocative costume even more.

“I thought he was leaving for a job in Denver this evening?”

It's not that you didn't want to see Bucky. It's that you didn't want to see Bucky dressed like this. As if you don't already get flustered around him when you're dressed in normal, everyday clothing. The hem of your dress barely conceals the curve of your ass and your tits are practically spilling over the low neckline.

“Guess it's been postponed,” she shrugs, nudging you with her shoulder.

The two of you turn to look in the opposite direction when a familiar voice calls your names. You see Steve, Sam, and Bucky walking towards you. Steve is dressed as a pirate, eyepatch and all. Sam wears a cowboy costume with an oversized hat, concealing the upper half of his face entirely.

And Bucky? Bucky wears jeans and a navy blue Henley.

Yeah, you're regretting any of your life choices that lead up to this moment.

“Well, well, well,” Sam drawls as he tips his hat back enough to take in yours and Natasha’s outfits. “Look what we have here. An angel and a devil. Have you two already entered the costume contest for best duo or should I go add your names?”

“You wouldn't dare,” you scold him. Natasha just laughs, falling into Steve’s embrace as he plants a kiss to her forehead.

“We should, you know,” Natasha agrees. “I think we'd have a pretty good shot at winning.”

“Yeah, right,” you retort, looking around at some of the more elaborate, creative costumes that many of the strangers around you are sporting. You notice a man and woman dressed as Beetlejuice and Lydia Deetz and know that you and Nat wouldn't stand a chance in a costume contest. “And what about you?” You acknowledge Bucky, your eyes skimming up and down his civilian clothes. “Didn't have time to pull together a costume?”

He smirks, his eyes trailing up your figure for a heated moment before he responds. “I'll have you know that I am in costume, actually.”

Steve and Sam both snort in laughter.

“Oh yeah? And what are you supposed to be, exactly?”

He tugs up the sleeve of his shirt, showing off the shiny vibranium that is his left arm.

“I'm the Winter Soldier,” he says with a smug grin. “Obviously.”

“How creative,” you praise sarcastically.

“Cut me some slack,” he feigns insult. “I was supposed to be halfway to Colorado right now. I didn't have time to pull together anything too cute.” His eyes flicker to your dress and boots at the word cute. If anyone else notices, they say nothing.

“What are we doing just standing around here?” Natasha exclaims, tugging Steve in the direction of the rides and games. “I want to ride every ride and eat funnel cake.”

They race ahead of the rest of you, with Sam close behind, leaving you and Bucky to fall into step beside each other.

“So, why did your mission get postponed?” You ask casually, trying to fight down the nerves that threaten to bubble over every time you're alone with him.

“Beats me,” he shrugs. “Fury didn't give much of an explanation. I got the text as I was loading my bags into the car to head out.”

“That's annoying,” you mumble, swallowing the remnants of your hot apple cider. “I'm sorry,” you tell him with a glance in his direction. “I'm sure it was for a good reason.”

He shrugs. “I'm here, so I can't be too mad about it.”

Before you can overthink exactly what he means by that, you're both brought to a halt when a jolly looking man in a Ghostbusters costume steps directly in front of you, blocking your path.

“This little devil looks like she needs a giant sloth!” He exclaims, gesturing towards the prizes hanging above the balloon darts station next to you.

“Oh, no,” you start. “That’s okay–”

“Come on!” The red-faced vendor insists, looking at Bucky. “Don't you want to win your girl a giant sloth? Perhaps a giant giraffe? If she was mine, I'd be winning her any prize she wants. I'll give you five throws for ten doll–”

“Fine, fine,” Bucky relents, digging into his back pocket for his wallet. You notice a faint hint of pink blooms along the apples of his cheeks, but he doesn't correct the man when he calls you his girl. “You've worn me down,” he sighs as he shoves a crumpled ten dollar bill into the man's hand.

The man accepts the money with a satisfied, toothy grin and hands Bucky five darts.

“If you get three out of the five throws, you can choose a prize from here,” the man gestures towards a section of smaller prizes. “And if you get all five throws, you can choose–”

The man is cut off by the sharp popping sound of a balloon, and then a second, and a third, until all five darts have been impaled on the board in a consecutive line in a matter of seconds.

“She'll take the bunny,” Bucky tells him before he can erase the stunned look off of his face. He points to a large, flop-eared purple bunny hanging from the upper row of prizes.

Unlike the vendor, you aren't shocked by his perfect aim at all. Anyone who knows Bucky would have known that he wouldn't miss a single shot. You are shocked, however, that he chose the bunny without even asking which prize you want.

The man in the Ghostbusters costume grabs the bunny and hands it to you, surprise still etched on his face. He mumbles a quick goodnight before he's moving onto the next people approaching the stand.

“How did you know I'd want the bunny?” You ask Bucky, trying to juggle the stuffed animal, your empty cup of cider, and your pitchfork all in your arms.

“You like bunnies, right? It was an educated guess.” He shrugs, moving through a thick crowd of people away from the game stations. “Here, let me carry it for you,” he offers when he notices the large stuffed animal is obstructing your vision. You hand it over to him and he tucks it underneath his metal arm.

“Thank you,” you tell him, your cheeks heating at the realization that he'd remembered such an inconsequential piece of information about you. You do like bunnies. The cold night air suddenly feels a lot more balmy.

“I'm - uh - I'm going to find a trash can real quick,” you say as you wiggle the empty cup in your hand. Truthfully, you just need a moment to collect yourself.

You begin walking in the opposite direction before he can reply, your eyes scanning the throng of people for a garbage can.

So what if he knows that you like bunnies? It's a pretty trivial fact that probably means nothing. You know that Natasha’s favorite animal is flamingos - because she's your friend. It's normal for friends to know things that their friends like.

Right? Right.

“I like that outfit a whole lot, baby. But I think you'd look even cuter in just the boots and those horns.”

You're so lost in your internal monologue that you don't even notice two men closing in on you as you toss the empty cup into a trash can. Unlike most of the people here tonight, neither of them are in costumes. They stand so close to you that you can smell booze on their breath.

“Oh, fuck off,” you groan as you attempt to walk away, but they've effectively blocked you between their bodies and the large garbage can behind you. Wicked grins grow on their faces as you realize that you can't get by them.

“Look, I don’t have the patience for this tonight. Get out of my fucking way.”

“Or what?” One of them taunts. “You'll use that little pitchfork on us? Jokes on you, because we're into that.”

“What if I used it on you?” A familiar voice comes from behind them. “Would you still like that?”

Before they can even turn around to identify the voice, Bucky is pulling him back by the hood of his sweatshirt and throwing him on the ground with little to no effort. The other one attempts to stumble away as Bucky turns his attention to him.

He still has your bunny clutched in his flesh hand - despite the seriousness of the situation, you have to bite your lip to keep from smirking at the sight. You don't know of anyone who could be quite as intimidating while holding a stuffed purple bunny.

“What about you?” Bucky asks, towering over the guy by half a foot. “You got anything you wanna say?”

“I - no - we didn't know she was with someone,” he half slurs, half stutters out. His gaze flickers to Bucky's vibranium hand. The man on the ground manages to stand back up, following after his friend.

“Now you know,” Bucky calls after them as they quickly hobble away.

“I had that handled, you know,” you tell Bucky with a nod towards your pitchfork. “But thank you, anyway. Really.”

He places a gentle but firm grasp on the top of your arms and begins to tug you in the opposite direction, guiding you through the small crowd that had stopped to witness the altercation.

“I have no doubt about that,” he sighs, releasing his grip on you when the two of you are a reasonable distance away. “But I also don't doubt that you handling it would have drawn even more attention.”

He's right. If he hadn't stepped in, your method of handling it would have been even more dramatic.

“They would have deserved it,” you mumble. “I knew I shouldn't have worn this stupid costume.”

“They definitely would have deserved it,” he agrees. “And your costume isn't stupid. You should be able to wear any costume you like without getting harassed by drunk assholes.”

The two of you approach the ferris wheel as it comes to a slow stop, a couple getting out of one of the cars. You and Bucky flash your wristbands to the operator, who offers to hold your pitchfork for you while you’re on the ride.

“Besides,” he continues as you sit down next to each other in the car, the operator locking the gate in place. “I happen to like your costume. A lot.” He turns his head to you, his gaze trailing from the tops of your thigh high boots and up to the felt horns that adorn your head.

There's a shift in energy as the ferris wheel suddenly comes to life, sending you sliding across the limited space of the metal bench seat and right up against him.

“Oh, yeah?” You tease with your face a few inches from his. Close enough to see your reflection in his irises. “Is that why two different people have implied that I'm yours tonight and you haven't corrected either of them?”

“Your costume had nothing to do with that. I wouldn't have corrected them even if you were dressed as a giant banana,” he says, his tone and face both serious. “Does it bother you that I didn't correct them?”

“No,” you answer automatically - eagerly. You should feel embarrassed, but with the way he's looking at you, and how good it feels to be pressed so snug against him, you can't find it within yourself to care. “I didn't correct them either,” you point out.

The ferris wheel comes to a stop to let new people get on when your cart reaches the peak.

“And why is that?” he asks lowly. If you weren't sitting so close to him, you wouldn't have been able to hear him over the obnoxiously loud carnival music that pours from speakers in between the ferris wheel's carts.

He wraps his metal arm around your shoulders, pulling you further into him.

“Because I liked the sound of it,” you answer honestly. Your voice quivers - from nerves, or from a gust of wind that sways the pod still perching at the top of the wheel.

“Is that right?” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand on the exposed skin of your thigh - just above the top of your boot and just under the hem of your dress. His fingertips rest near the crack between your thighs. Instinctively, you spread your legs apart - not much, but enough for him to smirk at your body's automatic response to his touch.

“You like the sound of being my girl?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I do. Is that okay with you?”

He chuckles, his fingers inching further up your thigh. You spread your legs open further, giving him the go ahead to go as high as he wants. He stops when he reaches the apex of your thighs, just an inch away from the cloth of your panties. He applies pressure with his fingertips, his short nails digging into the sensitive flesh and making you clench your legs around his hand.

“That depends,” he contemplates. “Are you my girl?”

You open your mouth to answer when the sensation of his index finger grazing the fabric that covers your cunt makes you forget how to speak. You sit there with your mouth agape as he hooks a finger into the cotton panties.

He eases a finger through your folds, lubricating it in your slick before adding a second finger and massaging the pads of them over your sensitive clit.

“Feels like you're my girl.”

You become vaguely aware of the fact that the ride is now in motion once more, heading back down to the ground, when Bucky places the stuffed bunny on your lap in an effort to conceal what is happening in the cart that you and him share.

He alternates between slow, languid circles and quick strokes against your clit as the ferris wheel makes its way down and then back up again. You can feel yourself soaking your underwear as the world dizzies around you. You hide your face in Bucky's neck to conceal the pleasure written across your face.

You're seconds away from coming against his fingers, the pressure in your belly building to a climax, when he pulls away and tugs your dress into place. Your gaze snaps up to his, shooting daggers, as the ride comes to a slow stop. He looks back at you with an amused smirk as the operator approaches the cart to unlock the gate.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart,” he tells you in a strained voice as he snatches the bunny back from you. “After you,” he motions with his head as the operator holds the gate open for you.

Stunned and speechless at what just happened, you stumble out of the cart and down the stairs to the ride's exit with Bucky behind you - both of you completely forgetting about your pitchfork. You can't help but snort a laugh at the position of the large stuffed animal - directly over Bucky’s crotch.

“Real discreet,” you tell him, glancing down at the bunny and then back up to the semi-pained expression on his face.

“I have to admit, right now this thing is worth every penny that I spent on it,” he sighs, and then removes one hand from the bunny to place it on your lower back. “Follow me,” he instructs with a smirk.

He guides you through the crowd and you follow him without question, just trying to ignore the wet ache between your legs.

You shoot him a quizzical look when you arrive at the house of mirrors. You haven't been in a mirror maze since you'd gotten lost in one at ten years old.

There's an attendant sitting in a chair outside of the entrance who unenthusiastically greets the two of you. Bucky reaches into his pocket, digging out his wallet for the second time that evening. He pulls out a hundred dollar bill and flashes it at the elderly man smoking a Pall Mall.

“Take this and don't let anyone else in until we come out,” Bucky tells him before dragging you into the attraction. You and the gray haired man both go wide eyed.

“What was that?” you cackle as the door slams to a close behind you. Bucky doesn't answer, just grabs one of your hands in his and begins guiding you through the maze of mirrors as if he's been here a hundred times.

The entire place is lit by bright, neon red lights that only aid in further confusing your sense of direction. Bucky doesn’t seem phased in the slightest, finally coming to a stop after a few minutes of maneuvering through the endless mirrors.

“You never answered me, you know,” he says as he drops your bunny to the floor. “When I asked if you're my girl.” He smirks at you, stepping closer to you and backing you against the mirror behind you.

“You just paid that man a hundred dollars to get me alone,” you jab as you pull him to you by the front of his Henley. “I think it's safe to say that I am.”

He smiles as you pull him down to you, crushing your lips to his. His hands trail down your back until they land where your thighs meet the curve of your ass cheeks. You release months worth of tension into the kiss, sweeping your tongue along the swell of his bottom lip before slipping it into his mouth the second that he parts his lips for you. He groans into the kiss, kneading the globes of your ass with his fingers. You can feel a prominent bulge through his jeans against your stomach.

Adrenaline begins to kick in when he pulls away, looking down at you with lust blown pupils. He sinks to the floor below you, kneeling in front of your cunt as he raises your dress around your waist and tugs your panties down your legs and over your boots. He slips them into his back pocket before hiking one of your legs across his shoulder.

You can already feel your juices leaking down your inner thighs before his mouth makes contact with you. When he does, you lean your head back against the glass behind you in pleasure.

He sucks your clit between his kiss-swollen lips with an obscene pop before running his tongue down your folds. He plunges his tongue inside you and you grind yourself against his face, chasing the release that you were seconds away from on the ferris wheel.

He moans at the taste of you and the vibration has your walls clenching around his tongue. You ride out your orgasm on his face, the neon red lights blurring and spinning around you.

Despite the fact that your legs feel like jelly, you pull him up to you as soon as you're able to form a coherent thought. You clumsily paw at the button of his pants and his zipper, and he shoves both his jeans and boxers down over his ass, just far enough to free his cock.

He places both of his hands just under your armpits and lifts you as you instinctively lock your legs around his hips.

The head of his cock nudges your wet folds, your juices coating his length before he nudges it inside you.

You feel full before he's even halfway in you. Your walls constrict around him and he digs his teeth into his bottom lip as he adjusts to the sensation of you.

“Fuck, that's tight. You're perfect,” he grunts as he sheaths the rest of his length into you. You let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a gasp.

He has total control as he cradles you between his body and the cold, hard mirror behind you. He sets a harsh pace, his head ramming against your cervix at the sweetest angle from his position beneath you.

He manages to support you with the strength of only his vibranium arm as he brings his flesh hand between your bodies, once again massaging your clit in rapid circles as he fucks up into you.

You cum around his length in a shockingly short amount of time, digging your teeth into the flesh of his neck as he follows after you, filling you up with hot ropes of his cum.

You stay in the same position after you've both reached your climax, panting against one another in the claustrophobic feeling space.

“We should probably go find our friends,” you say breathlessly with a kiss to the side of his face. “Sam's probably getting sick of being a third wheel.”

He pulls out of you, his cum running down your thighs and ass cheeks. He gently lowers you back down to the ground as he begins to tuck himself back into his pants.

He laughs, cupping your face in his hands as he pulls your lips to his once again.

“If he hates being a third wheel, just imagine how much he's going to hate being a fifth wheel.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes one-shot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #the winter soldier #halloween fic #bucky barnes x fem reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fluff

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artficlly · 3 months ago

Text

close quarters [one-shot]

fantasy marvel au bucky x reader when you're assigned a brooding escort for your journey north, the last thing you expect is to be sharing a cramped sleeper car with him.

Warnings: forced proximity, one bed (kinda), panic attacks, fear of dark, class difference, kissing, generous use of the petname princess, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, fluff, kinda sweet, protective bucky, mentions of steve, peggy, sam, dum dum dugan, fantasy elements, monsters, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: hello, i don't expect this to do well, kinda lost motivation near the end as you'll probably be able to tell. I've been working on this one and off the past two weeks but i'm so over it i just need to post it and be done with it. i've been sick and busy with uni so it's kinda mid so apologies but enjoy my flu induced insanity with this one. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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Your brother’s insistence that you needed an escort was, without a doubt, the most infuriating part of your journey north. A close second—conveniently tied to your initial frustrations—was the escort himself.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t exactly what you’d expected to find waiting at the train station. You had arrived at 8 p.m. sharp, as per your brother’s meticulous instructions. Bucky had the typical rugged, unapproachable look you associated with Flamewardens. There was a certain brooding intensity about him, dashed by a stoic, almost indifferent air. He had spotted you easily, looked you up and down with the barest hint of acknowledgement, and let out a quiet grunt.

That was the extent of your introduction.

Yet, for all his glowering, women seemed to flitter around him. You had watched as a group of younger women, likely around your age, whispered and giggled as they cast lingering glances down the platform at your sullen escort. To his credit, he didn’t react or even lift his gaze from the train tracks ahead.

You let your own eyes waver on his profile, dark hair, strong bone structure, straight nose, and eyes like an oncoming storm. Handsome. That was undeniable. Startlingly so, if you were being honest. But you refused to let his looks—or the broad, muscled frame beneath his heavy coat—distract you. Especially not as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unmistakable flask.

You shot him a scathing look as he tipped back the silver flask, his throat working with each swallow. Whatever was inside had to be strong. The slight wince as he lowered it from his lips gave that much away.

“Is that wise?” Your voice carried a pointed edge, skirting somewhere between disapproval and disgust.

Bucky chuckled, though the sound lacked any true amusement. His breath lingered in the evening air, curling into a thin mist before being carried away by the brisk breeze that serpentined through the exposed railway tracks. “Only way to stay warm, Miss. Only gonna get worse the further north we go.”

He tucked the flask back into his coat. The worn leather of his gloves creaked as he dragged a hand across his stubbled jaw as if brushing away the chill. You hated to admit he had a point. Spring had come late this year—if it had come at all. Even here, in the city, ice still clung stubbornly to the streets, and heavy grey clouds loomed overhead. The snow hadn't yet relented up north, where your brother was waiting.

In the safety of the larger cities, warmth was never a concern. The luxury of fire and heat was abundant. With proper protections and Firewardens employed, there was no fear of the light it produced, or more specifically, there was no fear of what the light might attract. Civilised folk no longer had to shiver in the dark. They had cast aside the weight of thick furs, the obscuring hoods, the need for constant vigilance. But where you were headed, where your brother waited keenly for your arrival, it was different. There, Ignivorae were far more frightening than the cold.

“I just hope you’re not a drunkard,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the empty tracks, the frostbitten metal beginning to hum with the distant approach of the train. You hadn’t meant for him to hear, but his trained ears caught every word.

He scoffed, the sound half jest, half feigned offence. “Why? You gonna rat me out to your brother?”

“You are under his employ,” you reminded him coolly.

Another scoff. “He wouldn’t care, Miss. Hell, if he were here, I bet he’d be doin’ the same as me.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, irritation flickering through your chest. You turned to him then, meeting his gaze directly for the first time. “You don’t know my brother well enough to make such a statement.”

Bucky inclined his head, unimpressed. “Two years is a long time, Princess. Feels even longer out North. I don’t think your brother is quite the same as when he left.”

You had little doubt he was right. Beyond the city limits, out in the rural farmlands, the world stretched isolated and desolate. This was the first time your brother had taken on such a venture alone, desperate to keep the family business alive even after the sudden loss of your parents. A part of you wondered if he had conducted the plan in a haze of grief, or if it was a means of proving himself to whatever invisible pressures he envisioned pressed upon his shoulders.

You sympathised with him, truly, even if he had abandoned you in his pursuit of imagined grandeur. A part of you had stopped expecting to see him again, had never anticipated his summons. But now, it seemed, he was finally ready to need you. Finally willing to accept your help.

The thought soured in your gut as you scowled at Bucky.

“Don’t call me that.” You snapped, refusing to let your voice be swallowed by the growing roar of the train.

“Call you what?”

“Princess.”

The train rushed past, a violent gust of wind pulling at your coat as the metal beast groaned to a stop, sparks flaring against the melting ice before flickering out.

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head as he adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “Where we’re goin’, you’ll prolly be the closest thing to a princess they’ve ever seen. You’re a proper-bred lady compared to the folk out there.”

“Does that distinction truly matter that much?”

You had never thought of yourself as well-bred. Privileged, maybe, but not delicate, not sheltered in the way Bucky seemed to imply. Your parents had been wealthy, yes, and you’d received an education few could afford. You had never gone hungry, never shivered through winter, never known true desperation. But your family’s fortune hadn’t come from lineage or titles. Your parents had carved it out themselves, built it from nothing with a mix of skill, relentless work, and a hell of a lot of luck.

It was a dangerous formula, one your brother was determined to replicate.

“To them, it will,” Bucky said, his tone carrying the weight of certainty. “Especially if you ain’t prepared to get your hands dirty.”

You gave a terse, humourless smile as you stepped toward the waiting train. “Well, good thing that is my brother’s job, not mine.”

Bucky huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, watching as you handed your ticket to the conductor. Then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he followed you aboard.

—

“This can’t be right. They’re expecting us to share a compartment—?”

By the time you reached your assigned sleeper car, the train was already rocking back into motion, the shrill whistle signalling your official departure north.

The train itself was plain but sturdy, built for endurance rather than luxury. The windows were fitted with metal shutters that could be pulled down from the inside—a feature you weren’t sure was meant for privacy or protection. You had passed through the lounge car, where Bucky had eyed the open bar with distinct interest and a dining car for breakfast, lunch and dinner service. However, your silent approval of your brother's transportation choice was promptly shattered when you caught sight of your assigned compartment.

The compartment was tight, with only a small walkway that had another space for you to stand. If you were generous enough in your observations, you could lie to yourself and say that it allowed the room for you to walk two paces in either direction. One side held a stiff leather bench, its upholstery worn but well-maintained, bolted against dark wooden panelling. Above it, a metal luggage rack with frayed fabric straps provided limited storage.

It was the other side that filled you with horror.

You wouldn’t have complained about the cramped space if it weren’t blatantly obvious you would have to share it with your hulking escort. Two bunks lined the opposite wall, the mattresses thin and stiff, large enough to accommodate one person each. A ladder at the end next to the window allowed easier access to the top bunk. You took one look at the lumpy pillows, dull green sheets and scratchy blanket that had been neatly folded by the feet end of the beds and turned around. You barely had time to process your own dismay before you were met with a wall of muscle as Bucky pressed in close, making way for other passengers filing through the narrow corridor. His chest was solid, his coat rough against your cheek, and you recoiled back.

Unfazed, he flicked his wrist, turning his ticket over to confirm the compartment number. “It’s what is on the tickets, Princess.”

You stepped back again, putting as much space between you as the cramped compartment would allow. “Don’t call me that, and this can’t be what my brother meant by ‘escort’—”

“His exact words,” Bucky interrupted, tucking his ticket back into his coat. “Keep my eyes on you. Keep you safe. Deliver you to Glenwyck.”

You exhaled sharply, glaring up at him. “So you’re going to watch over my every move? How am I supposed to get changed? Just rely on your gentlemanly instinct to turn a blind eye? Which might I mention, I have seen very little of—”

"There's a bathroom at the end of the train car." His tone was dry, as if he were already exhausted by this conversation. "You can use that for changin’. And whatever other business you think is necessary."

"How kind of you." You dropped your luggage onto the seat with a huff.

Bucky stepped further into the cramped compartment, either oblivious or determined to rile you up. The back of your knees pressed flush against the leather bench as he closed the distance, dipping his head so near that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost against your skin.

With effortless ease, he hoisted your luggage and swung it into the wire rack above. The movement and sway of the train forced your chests to brush. Just for a few seconds. Just enough to make you swallow hard and for a tinge of pink to dust your cheeks. But before you could shuffle away, he reached for his own bag, taking his sweet time as he secured it into place.

You clenched your jaw, irritation bubbling hotter with every second you spent trapped between his broad chest and the wooden panelling behind you. If he noticed, he didn’t care. Or worse—he enjoyed it.

“Now, tell me, Princess. Are you going to be picky about your bunk too?” Bucky hadn’t moved, lingering far too close, his broad frame crowding the already-cramped space. He was looking down at you with a rather lazy grin on his face as if he was particularly amused with the sour expression you regarded him with.

“No.”

“Wonderful.” He drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. You didn’t bite back, instead feeling your shoulders droop in relief as he finally backed up. With a grunt, he dropped onto the bottom bunk, stretching his legs out as if he’d already made himself at home. “I’ll take bottom, you take top.”

You stiffly nodded, trying not to linger on how ridiculous this arrangement was. Sharing a compartment was one thing, but a room barely large enough for the both of you, sleeping in bunks not even an arm’s length apart? You hesitated, debating whether to sit across from him and pretend he didn’t exist or escape to the relative privacy of your bed.

The choice was easy.

Without another word, you clambered up the narrow ladder, the mattress shifting beneath you as you settled in. At least up here, out of his immediate line of sight, you could pretend for a moment that you weren’t stuck sharing close quarters with a complete stranger. A man, at that.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the cream-coloured curve of the train’s ceiling as the steady rumble of the tracks beneath you filled the silence.

God, you hoped your brother had put his trust in the right man.

—

"At least open the window if you’re going to smoke in here," you muttered, tugging your bootlaces tight with a firm yank. You were perched on the edge of the stiff leather seat, dressing for breakfast, while the faint hum of the train carried on beneath you.

You’d slept well—surprisingly well. The rhythmic sway of the train had lulled you into a deep, dreamless rest, a rare reprieve from the constant churn of thought that had plagued you for weeks. For those few blissful hours, you weren’t fretting over your reunion with your brother, or what exactly waited for you up north. You certainly hadn’t been thinking about your frustrating, tight-lipped escort.

Bucky was posted by the window, one shoulder propped lazily against the frame, cigarette between his fingers. He hadn’t said a word to you since the night before, and you weren’t sure if he’d slept at all. You’d awoken to find him already awake, elbows braced on his knees, methodically rolling tobacco like it was the only thing keeping his hands busy.

Beyond him, the world outside had vanished into white. Snow blanketed the earth, smoothing the rough land into a quiet, endless plain. No houses. No fences. Just the distant silhouette of mountains breaking up the pale sky.

"I can open the window if you want, Princess," he said without looking at you, voice low and gravel-edged. "But all you’ll get is a cabin full’a coal smoke."

You shot him a glare, then rolled your eyes and stood, brushing the creases from your coat with a sigh of forced patience. You’d learned, albeit reluctantly, that pushing him got you nowhere—at least, not without a headache in return.

“I’m going to breakfast,” you said crisply, sliding the compartment door open and casting one last look over your shoulder.

He pushed off the windowsill and followed without a word. Of course, he did.

For all his witty remarks and infuriatingly smug demeanour, Bucky took his job seriously. Wherever you went, he was just a step behind—silent, watchful, and always armed with that barely concealed impatience. He even waited outside the women’s lavatory, arms crossed, like a guard dog forced to sit through etiquette lessons.

You had no doubt that, given the choice, he’d rather have spent the journey holed up in the bar car or asleep in a quiet corner. But duty clearly came first.

The train was scheduled to stop in Hollowpass by evening, a final pitstop before you boarded the next line toward Norcross. From there, you had two more days of travel—by carriage, no less—until you reached Glenwyck. Your brother’s outpost.

No train lines reached that far north. Too remote, too wild. Just frostbitten roads and vast stretches of wilderness. And Bucky Barnes, your less-than-charming, maddeningly handsome escort, to lead the way.

Wonderful.

You stumbled, the floor pitching beneath your boots just as a blur of motion came barreling down the narrow walkway. A firm hand caught the back of your collar and yanked you sharply backwards into the compartment right as a trolley clattered past, steered by a flustered cleaning woman who offered a breathless apology as she vanished down the corridor.

Your back landed squarely against Bucky’s chest, the breath knocked out of you more from the closeness than the pull. “Careful, Princess,” he murmured, voice low beside your ear before letting you go.

You gripped the doorframe to steady yourself, heart skipping for reasons you chose not to examine too closely.

“How are you gonna survive in Glenwyck,” he drawled, “if I can’t trust you not to get run over on a damn train?”

You twisted around with an irritated look, brushing your hands over your skirt to smooth it back into place. “You’re rather dramatic, you know that?”

He only shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just doing my job, Princess.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him into the corridor, leading the way.

The sleeper car stretched ahead of you, its narrow passage lined with compartments like the one you’d just vacated. The metal shutters had been slid open now it was morning, the orange glow of the sunrise casting a glow over the polished brass handles and dark wood panelling. You passed passengers still tucked into their compartments, some reading, others quietly sipping tea or peering out windows wrapped in thick scarves. You pressed on, following the distant tang of strong coffee.

When you finally reached the dining car, you were quick to find an empty table. The tables were arranged in neat rows along either side of the carriage, bolted securely to the floor with matching bench seats upholstered in deep green velvet. You slid into the booth nearest the window, the cushioning stiff beneath you. Bucky settled across from you with a grunt, his eyes swept the car.

You eyed your escort as you delicately draped one of the napkins across your lap. In the daylight, he looked younger than you had first assumed. The lines on his face seemed less carved by time and more etched by worry. His stubble had grown out further, darkening his jaw in a shadow.

“How long have you known my brother?” you asked, tone light, almost casual. However, your gaze didn’t waver from over the rim of your teacup.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, surprise flashing across his face like he hadn’t expected you to speak, let alone ask something personal. Until now, most of your time together had passed in silence. He kept to himself, either smoking, draining cup after cup of bitter black coffee, or nursing that damn flask of his. Always wound tight, like a viper coiled in wait.

“‘round two years,” he said finally, guarded. “I was workin’ as a Firewarden in the city. Your brother came through and convinced a bunch of us to sign on with him.”

You tilted your head. “How did he manage that?”

Bucky gave a short scoff and leaned back against the booth, his arm slung along the top of the velvet seating.“Hell if I know. One week I’m lazin’ around the city guardhouse, the next I’m freezing my ass off patrollin’ the edge of some nowhere, nobody town I ain’t ever heard of. Your brother talked like the place was already rebuilt. Like it’s a done deal. Gets in your head like that.”

You smiled faintly. “He gets that from our father. He was like that too. Good at leading people. Better at convincing them they wanted to be led.”

Bucky raised a brow, studying you. “How’d your family even get into this line of work?”

You hesitated, then set your cup down and rested your hands on the table. “My father grew up in the city. But he met my mother at one of those old debutante balls—they used to invite girls from rural towns and farmsteads to give them a shot at something different. She caught his eye. When he travelled north to meet her family, to ask for her hand… he was horrified.”

“Horrified?” Bucky echoed.

You nodded. “They were barely surviving. No access to reliable fire, which meant no protection. No fuel, no heat. Elders froze to death in their sleep. Crops dead. Livestock gone. And the Ignivorae…”

You shuddered, though the memory didn’t belong to you. Your mother had repeated it countless times until it had practically become your own. “Towns would light pyres and pray their tenders could keep them burning through the night. Others would go dark completely. No light, no sound. Just hoping the Ignivorae would pass them by.”

He was quiet for a beat.

“So your father stepped in.”

You nodded again. “He saw the problem for what it was. Cities survived because they had infrastructure. They had fire. Steady, managed fire. But out in the rural zones, people were alone. Busy farming, raising children, barely getting by. Staying up all night with a torch and a pitchfork wasn’t sustainable. And most of them couldn’t afford to hire proper wardens.”

You looked down, fingers idly toying with the corner of your napkin. “So my father hired them himself and paid for the fuel to burn too. They’d build firelines on the outskirts, massive pyres like the ones in the city to burn hot and long enough to lure the Ignivorae away from homes. If the flames didn’t kill the things outright, the wardens would. ”

Bucky was quiet, eyes drifting toward the window. The snow had deepened outside, smooth hills like frozen waves rolling across the plain. The sun peeked over the horizon in slivers of pale gold and silver, bouncing off the frost-bitten world in blinding flashes. Mountains loomed ahead like jagged teeth, their peaks lost in cloud.

“With protection in place, people could sleep again. And once that foundation was stable, once the fireline was holding… then my father would start investing. Building industry. Bringing in trade, tourism, and shipping routes when the rivers allowed for it. Giving the town something to build on.”

The dining car had filled slightly while you talked. The clinking of cutlery and low murmurs of conversation filled the space. A few other passengers sat at the other tables, most dressed in heavy coats and wool scarves. One man read a newspaper folded neatly in front of him, while a young woman stirred sugar into her tea.

“Then my mother stepped in. I did too, once I was old enough,” you went on. “She’d open little schoolhouses, sometimes just in empty sheds or old barns at first. We taught the adults first. Reading, writing, and arithmetic so they could manage their own businesses when they came. And then we taught the children, so the next generation didn’t grow up at the mercy of someone else’s charity.”

Bucky turned toward you again, his expression unreadable. That same brooding stare, heavy-lidded and cryptic, like he was always walking the line between irritation and interest.

“Didn’t peg you for the charitable type,” he said at last.

You gave him a dry look. “It’s not charity. It’s a foundation. If you want people to build something that lasts, you have to teach them how to keep it standing.”

He considered that, thumb tapping once against the edge of the table.

“And when the towns were strong enough to hire their own wardens and run their own schools?” he asked.

“We moved on,” you said simply. “All my father asked was one percent of their profits each year. Over time, it added up. He used that money to invest in the next place.”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just leaned back, eyes still on you. The sunrise spilt gold across his features, catching on the stubble along his jaw, casting shadows beneath his tired eyes.

“Sounds borderline predatory, Princess,” he said finally.

You gave a faint smile, one without warmth. “It’s business.”

A pause settled between you, brief but heavy.

“My brother trusts you enough to send you on this escort job, and you barely know anything about him?”

“Didn’t come up much in conversation, Princess,” he said, rolling a shoulder in a slow shrug. “Too busy not getting killed. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a sister until he handed me this job.”

You frowned, studying him. “You follow someone that blindly?”

“I follow people who get things done,” he said. “And if he says protectin’ you is part of the deal, then that’s what I’m doin’.”

—

The wind cut sharp through Hollowpass Station, knifing through coats and gloves, the chill carving you down to the bone. Beneath your boots, the platform creaked, salt to banish the ice crunching underfoot. The sun was long gone, leaving the world drained of colour, lit only by moonlight and fire.

Far beyond the edge of the town, a pyre roared like a heartbeat in the dark. Massive, constant and crackling. You watched it through the flurries of snow, that distant beacon where the Firewardens stood vigil. The Ignivorae circled in lazy, sweeping arcs above the flames, dark silhouettes, long-limbed and hungry. One would dive suddenly, vanishing into the fire with a hiss and a burst of embers. The swarm would follow, mindless, forever drawn to the searing light.

Bucky stood nearby, gloved hands jammed into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. A dusting of snow clung to his hair and the curve of his collar. He wasn’t watching the pyre, instead scanning the tracks as if willing the train into existence through sheer force of irritation.

You hesitated, teeth worrying your bottom lip, then stepped a little closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to share the heat from his body.

He didn’t move. Just gave a small, knowing smirk without looking at you. “You cold, Princess?”

You huffed lightly, eyes still on the horizon. “A little.”

“Gonna get a lot worse where we’re headed,” he said casually.

A low whistle echoed across the pass. You turned toward the sound, the relief unspoken. You would not be the only one on the platform anxious to be on board where it was warm and sheltered. Somewhere in the dark, gears shifted, and brakes hissed, metal groaning in protest as the train began to slow its approach.

“Do they ever break through?” you asked quietly, nodding toward the fire.

Bucky’s expression turned stony again. “Sometimes.”

“And if that happens while we are out here?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Then you better hope I’m as good as I say I am.”

The train emerged from the darkness like a beast of iron, the plume of smoke engulfing the falling snow. Around you, the waiting crowd stirred, boots shifting on the frost-glazed platform, murmured conversations fading into anticipation. A conductor stepped forward, shoulders hunkered against the cold and swung down the footstools with practised rhythm. Another man unlatched the station door, shouting over the chatter of passengers as mail and luggage were wheeled out.

You felt the press of people closing in, eager to board. A woman with a bundled baby stood just behind you, and further back, a pair of merchants argued softly over seating. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t even seem to notice the gathering heat of bodies around him. He kept his eyes on the tracks, one hand resting lightly on the strap of his pack.

You leaned slightly toward him. “You travel a lot, then? You seem very at ease with all this.”

“I get around.” He drawled, gaze still on the tracks. “You always this nosy?”

You caught his eye, refusing to let it go. The cold air curled around your cheeks, but the heat building in your chest was enough to thaw any frost.

“You’re a mystery to me,” you confessed, your voice barely above the noise around you. “Maybe I find that interesting.”

He turned to look at you then—really look at you. His pupils dilated, irises flicking across your face like he was mapping something he didn’t quite expect to find. Your teeth grazed your bottom lip, but you didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he murmured, just for you. “What exactly is it you’re hopin’ to figure out, Princess?”

“You haven’t told me anything about yourself,” you replied, letting the wind catch your words. “Other than that you used to be a Firewarden in the city and work for my brother now.”

He lifted his brows. “You never asked.”

“Well,” you said, leaning just a little closer as the platform shuddered with the weight of the train’s arrival, “I’m asking now.”

“Oh yeah?” He hummed, the shove of the crowd pulled him closer to you, his warm breath fanning across your chilled cheeks. “What do you want to know?”

You opened your mouth, but your words were lost as the train neared. The brakes shrieked against the frozen rails, a grinding howl that sent a cascade of bright sparks down the line. You flinched from the sound, blinking against the sudden burst of light.

For one breath, it was quiet as you blinked away the stars in your vision.

A scream rang out behind you.

Then another.

The platform erupted in chaos, boots scrambling, bags abandoned, a child crying as they were yanked backwards by the hand. Shouts rose, some in warning, others pure terror.

The Ignivorae hit the platform with a sickening crunch, its claws punching through the wooden planks like it was paper. A monstrous silhouette of twisted anatomy, the creature loomed in the firelight, half-moth, half-man. Its gangly limbs bent at the wrong angles, ending in hooked talons slick with frost. Translucent wings stretched wide behind it, tattered and powdered, like those of a colossal night moth.

Its face—if you could call it that—was a hideous blend of bone-white mandibles and jagged teeth, stretching unnaturally wide. Two bulbous eyes blinked out of sync, scanning the crowd.

You’d never seen an Ignivorae this close before, not mere paces away. You had seen them at a distance, grown up watching as they dived into the pyres at night. You’d heard descriptions. Your father or brother telling gruesome stories of the outskirts while your mother scolded and ushered you away—‘such stories are not appropriate for young ladies’. In all your years, you had wondered what you would do if faced with such a moment. What would you do if one broke free from the swarm, disregarded the Firewarden’s efforts, and came straight for you? Would you grab a weapon, fight, scream, run?

To your disappointment, all you found was that you froze, as if the ice from the platform had crept up your legs and locked you in place.

With one violent shudder, it threw its wings forward. A cloud of fine, shimmering dust exploded into the air, catching in the light like gold. The effect was anything but beautiful. Screams tore through the crowd as the dust landed on exposed skin, the powder causing instant stinging. Red welts rose in its wake like a poisonous plant’s touch. People scattered in a frenzy, tripping over luggage and each other to escape.

A shriek tore from its throat, shrill and distorted, like metal bending under strain.

You still stood rigid, breath caught in your throat.

Bucky shoved you back, hard enough that your shoulder slammed into a column. “Stay down!” he barked.

The Ignivorae’s milky eyes swung around and locked on Bucky.

He didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp motion, he pulled a hunting knife from inside his coat and rushed the creature. You had no idea where your escort had produced it from nor how long he had been so easily armed on this trip of yours. But rather than worry, you were rather grateful for his cunning. The Ignivorae lunged, jaws unhinging to reveal a mouth full of jagged, needle-like teeth. Bucky ducked beneath them, rolled forward, and drove the blade deep into its abdomen. Thick, black blood sprayed across the frozen platform in thick, oily ropes.

The creature shrieked and thrashed, claws tearing through the air. One struck his shoulder, ripping the fabric clean and exposing the skin beneath. Its wings flared again, dust bursting across him in a glittering veil.

Bucky hissed as the powder kissed his neck and collarbone, shoulder jerking back.

He yanked the blade free and, in one clean movement, rammed it up beneath the creature’s jaw, right into the base of its skull. The Ignivorae gave one final, horrible twitch, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs and curling wings.

You scrambled to your feet as Bucky staggered back, breath visible in the frigid air. The bloodied knife remained clenched in his grip. His chest heaved, and an angry rash had already bloomed across the bare skin of his throat and collarbone.

Without a word, he shook himself off, using his gloved hands to swipe the lingering powder from his coat and pants. He moved carefully, methodically, ensuring no dust remained on the fabric before lowering the knife.

Behind him, the platform was chaos. Passengers sprinted for the station, some rolling and shrieking in pain as the dust settled, others throwing themselves aboard with panicked shouts.

Bucky’s eyes met yours. His jaw was tight, temple flecked with black blood.

“Come on,” he growled. He gave his gloves one final shake, checked the backs of his hands, and then reached for you. His fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you toward the waiting train.

You stumbled after him, breath hitching, heart racing. “Bucky, are you okay? Are you hurt?” You couldn’t stop looking at the rash blooming angry red across his throat, the skin raw where the powder had settled. “Your skin—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, dragging you onto the train as the doors hissed open. He didn’t let go of your wrist until you were inside, pushing past confused passengers and frantic attendants. “It’s just the dust. Burns like hell.”

You followed him down the narrow corridor, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t have…God, you could’ve died—”

“I didn’t,” he said, leading you into your sleeper compartment and shutting the door behind you. The sounds of panic outside muffled instantly, replaced by the hum of the train and your uneven breath. “This is my job, Princess.”

The rash on his neck looked worse, creeping like vines toward his collarbone.

“You’re not fine,” you said, reaching for his shirt. “Let me see it—”

Bucky caught your wrist again, gentler this time. His eyes, still alert from the fight, softened just a little. “I’ll live.”

You were both breathing hard, the adrenaline still lingering in your limbs. The cabin was just like the last train, with tight quarters and iron fixtures with the same thin, cream-coloured walls and dark wood panelling. Leather seating with overhead luggage storage lined one side, while two narrow bunks lined the other, the lower mattress already creaking under Bucky as he sat down heavily, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Let me help you.” You argued, holding his gaze with a determination that, deep down, even surprised you.

He exhaled slowly, head tipping back against the wall.

“Check my bag. There’s a jar.” His voice was quieter now but steady. “There's a woman in Glenwyck, a healer. She makes ‘em up for the Wardens. Helps with the rash. This ain’t the first time I’ve been covered in that dust. Won’t be the last.”

You turned to the leather satchel he’d tossed carelessly on the seat opposite. The zipper resisted at first, stiff with cold, but inside was a mess of folded shirts, a canteen, a few loose rolling papers, and the jar he’d mentioned.

“How did the Ignivorae get past the Wardens? I thought we would’ve been safe so far away.” You muttered, mostly to yourself, as you fished the jar from his bag.

“Sometimes they get past, probably saw the sparks from the breaks and saw an easy target.” Bucky replied through grit teeth. You tossed a look over at him, noting how sweat misted his brow, wincing in pain as the train began to rumble to life once more. You unscrewed the jar lid, and sure enough, a pungent pine scent hit your nose, sharp and earthy, undercut with something vaguely medicinal.

Outside the window, the night blurred by in streaks of white snow and distant firelight. You moved toward him carefully, the jar in one hand.

“Collar,” you instructed, and he tugged the neck of his torn shirt loose without protest, baring the angry red rash that bloomed along his collarbone and crept up his throat.

When your fingers touched his skin, his eyes flicked up to yours.

You dipped your index finger into the salve and dragged it gently along the inflamed skin, spreading it in careful strokes, watching as it sank in with a faint sheen. The silence between you grew thicker with every slow motion. You tried not to notice how close you were now, standing between his knees, your breath shallow and uneven.

“How long does it take to kick in?” You questioned, voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers smoothed up his neck, muscle and tendons shifting under your touch. You swept a thumb across his jugular, and he swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“The pain fades first,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “Rash’ll stick around for a day or two.”

You were the first to look away.

You screwed the lid back on with a quiet click and stepped toward the bag resting on the seat. The train lurched under your feet, and you reached for the bunk rail to steady yourself—only to find Bucky already there, his hands catching your waist, steadying you like it was second nature.

His bag slid off the seat behind you, spilling its contents across the cabin floor.

You hid the flush rising to your cheeks, brushing his hands away gently as you crouched to the floor. “I’ve got it.”

“Princess—” he muttered, shifting like he might kneel down too.

“Sit still,” you cut in, already scooping up his belongings. He let out a sound—half a sigh, half a grumble—but obeyed, leaning back against the wall as you stuffed shirts and supplies back into the leather pack.

It was only as you blindly grasped a stack of thick paper that you hesitated, eyes glancing up. In your hand, you held a bundle of letters wrapped in twine. At least a dozen, maybe more, none of them opened. The edges were worn, some water-stained, others wrinkled from being carried too long. A few still had wax seals, cracked from travel but untouched.

“Bucky…” you said, turning them over slowly. “What are these?”

He didn’t look at you. “Letters.”

“I can see that.” You cut back, exasperated, peeking up at him. “You haven’t opened any of them.”

“I know.” He responded, and for a moment, you thought that was all he would give you. But after what appeared to be a lengthy internal deliberation, he sighed through his nose and offered you a further explanation. “They’re from my friend. Steve.”

“And you haven’t read them?” Your thumb ran down the corner of the stack, the paper flicking against your nail. “These must go back months.”

He didn’t answer immediately, just leaned back against the wall with a straight face. He was watching you with that same vigilant calm, like he was already bracing for whatever reaction he was worried you might give.

“I can’t read,” he confessed finally.

You stilled. “You can’t… what?”

Your voice caught in surprise as you turned toward him fully. “But you’ve been reading the tickets, the signs—why would your friend keep sending letters if—?”

“I can read a bit,” he interrupted.

“I know enough words to get by. Basics. Just not enough to keep up with letters like that.” His tone was slightly irritated as if he was unsure if your questions were mocking or genuine confusion. “The letters were for me and a friend, Sam. He could read. That’s why Steve would send ‘em.”

“Sam’s been dead about a year now, so…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on the dark panelling opposite. “I had no way to tell Steve. So I just… held onto the letters. I figured I’d read them eventually. Once I learned.”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

Your gaze dropped to the stack again, fingers gently brushing over one of the names penned in Steve’s neat, looping script. Sam must have died working in Glenwyck. You could blame your brother for drawing him to that place, but Glenwyck was no crueller than any other firepost. The Firewardens knew the risks. It didn’t make it any less tragic.

Bucky only grunted in response. From your place on the floor, you studied him quietly. Maybe you’d misread him. Maybe he wasn’t gruff for the sake of being difficult or to scare you. Maybe there really was a weight he carried, something heavy and damaged beneath the sharp edges. Had sorrow or bitterness carved itself into him after everything he’d seen?

And against your better judgment, you offered something small. “I could read them for you. Teach you how to read. If… if that’s something you’d want?”

His brows knit together, jaw tightening as he mulled over your words. Then it set hard. “I don’t want to be another one of your charity cases, Princess—”

You cut him off. “It’s not charity, remember? It’s foundation.”

He stared down at you, lips set in a fine line as he contemplated.

“...Okay.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself up onto the mattress beside him. He blinked at your sudden movement, instinctively leaning back as you settled next to him, letters in hand. For a moment, his guarded expression cracked, just long enough for surprise to flicker in his eyes.

Reading mystery letters for your sullen escort would be the perfect temporary distraction, and the bonus was that maybe you’d learn something new about him. Something he wouldn’t explicitly tell you himself unless sufficiently prompted.

You held up the bundle with a teasing smile. “Maybe, if you behave, I’ll even help you write back.”

He gave you a sidelong look, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smirk. “Now you’re pushin’ it.”

You laughed, light and genuine. “Worth a shot.”

—

A few hours had passed, marked only by the clack of wheels over frozen tracks and the steady glow of the oil lamp overhead. Letters were strewn across the bunk and spilt onto the floor like fallen leaves, pages soft and yellowing, ink curling in elegant loops. To your mild disappointment, you’d discovered that the mysterious ‘Steve’ wasn’t the author of those elegant words. It was his wife, Peggy, who had penned most of the letters in his stead while he worked the pyres. You were curled into the corner of the bottom bunk, your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s as you read another aloud.

“‘—and then Steve nearly broke his own nose trying to prove to Dugan that he could knock a pinecone off the fence post from thirty paces. It was like watching two puppies try to arm wrestle. I had to bribe the store clerk with liquorice just to get him to hand over an ice pack.’” You snorted a laugh, eyes dancing as you glanced up at Bucky.

He was grinning—really grinning—for the first time all day. “Dugan always gets him so wound up. It’s a miracle the two of them haven’t killed each other yet.”

“And Peggy bribed someone with liquorice for him?”

“Of course she did. They’ve been together for years, but she still acts like the exasperated schoolteacher, and he’s the scrappy kid with skinned knees and dirt on his chin.”

You smiled softly, letting the letter drift onto the growing pile between you.

“Why didn’t Steve and Peggy go with you and Sam to Glenwyck?” you asked, hesitantly glancing over at Bucky.

He shifted slightly, gaze distant. “He considered it. The pay was better, no doubt. But they’d just got married, and they were trying for a baby… didn’t want to raise a kid in that kind of place. It’s hard enough just surviving it.”

“I get it.” You hummed, selecting the next letter on the pile. You were about halfway through now, around six months deep. “Probably why my brother didn’t want me out there with him.”

“Did he write you much?” Bucky asked. “While he was out there?”

“No.” You replied, being careful not to meet his eye as you frowned. “I didn’t expect to hear from him ever again, to be honest.”

“You thought he abandoned you?” You could feel the heat of his gaze on your cheek as you refused to meet his eye.

“Kind of… I—” You were cut off as the door slid open with a rattling clang, and a uniformed attendant stepped into the frame. He peaked around the side, down to where you and Bucky sat on the bottom bunk, knees and shoulders touching.

“We’re entering blackout protocol,” he said briskly. “There’s been a report of a swarm of Ignivorae sighted along the pass ahead. All windows must be shut, and metal shutters secured. No lights. All lamps and candles extinguished until morning.”

You sat up straighter, a chill slicing through your earlier comfort.

“How long until we reach them?” Bucky asked, already rising to his feet.

“Twenty minutes, maybe less. Best to be ready.” The attendant gave a curt nod, then slid the door shut with a decisive snap.

Before you could fully register what was happening, Bucky moved. He crossed the compartment in two strides and dragged the heavy metal shutter down over the window with a grinding creak, locking it in place.

You remained on the bunk, gathering the scattered letters into your lap with slow, distracted movements. Your gaze drifted toward the sealed window, then the door. Already, your imagination filled in the silence, the scrape of claws against the glass, the dry whisper of wings brushing steel.

Bucky reached for the oil lamp mounted near the door.

“Wait—” you blurted, your voice small and unsure.

He hesitated, eyes finding yours. “It’s okay.”

And then, with a twist of his hand, the flame vanished.

Darkness swept in like a wave.

The only sound left was the soft rumble of the train, the occasional jostle of the carriage, and the muffled shuffle of other passengers beyond your door. You swallowed hard, trying not to let the fear sit too heavy in your chest.

The mattress shifted. You felt Bucky’s hand brush your arm gently, guiding, not pulling.

“You wanna head up top to sleep?” he asked quietly. “Best to get some rest before we hit Norcross. Won’t be much shuteye once we’re in the carriage.”

You didn’t move. Your knees locked, rooted in place as something old and cold took hold of your limbs. Without thinking, your fingers wrapped around his wrist, nails catching in the fabric of his sleeve.

“I don’t… I—”

Bucky stilled. “You alright, Princess?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.” The words came out in a rush, and Bucky paused. You could feel him hovering above, silence stretched between you. “I’m afraid—”

“Hell, Princess. After what you just heard, I think anyone would be—”

“No,” you cut him off. “Not of the Ignivorae.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m scared of the dark.”

A pause.

“…What?”

“See?” you muttered, already curling in on yourself. “I knew you’d laugh—”

“You hear me laughing?” Bucky said flatly. You heard the soft rustle of his collar. He was shaking his head. “I’m just tryin’ to understand. You’ve done blackouts before, haven’t you?”

“Not true blackouts,” you whispered. “I’ve always lived where there are Wardens. Never fully dark. There would always be the glow from the fires, even at night. I just got used to it, I suppose.”

“I get it. I do.” Bucky replied, though it was accompanied by a long sigh. “We can’t have any light, though, you understand?”

“I know, I just…”

“C’mere.”

You blinked as his arm eased around you, gently pulling you back. In the dark, it was a clumsy tangle of elbows and whispered apologies as he shifted onto the mattress beside you, legs stretched out. He found the wall and leaned against it, adjusting you with him until your side pressed to his, and his arm was warm and firm around your shoulders, guiding you into the curve of his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You let yourself settle there, head resting against the soft thrum of his heartbeat, the faint scent of pine and smoke on his shirt. His thumb brushed against your upper arm in slow, grounding circles.

“If there’s one thing I can promise, Princess,” Bucky murmured, voice low near your ear, “it never gets properly dark in Glenwyck. Wardens keep the pyres lit all through the night. You’ll feel right at home.”

You smiled faintly against his chest. Your eyes fluttered shut, letting yourself drift, allowing the tingling sparks in your spine and the butterflies in your stomach to drown out the shadow that had gripped you moments before.

“Thank you—” you began to whisper, but the words died on your lips as a loud bang cracked through the carriage.

It echoed like a thunderclap against hollow steel. Somewhere further down the train, a woman cried out. A muffled yelp, cut off just as quickly. You jolted upright, heart slamming into your throat.

“What was that?” you gasped, voice trembling.

Bucky’s hand found your waist again, pulling you back against him. “The start of the swarm.”

Your body stiffened. “There’s nothing we can do?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he finally answered, his voice was calm but firm. “No. Safest thing is to ride it out. We’re sealed in tight. Metals thick, train’s fast. They won’t get in.”

You tried to steady your breathing, but your head whipped toward him in the dark. Even with your faces just inches apart, you couldn’t see him—couldn’t see anything.

“Then what was that noise?”

"One of ‘em. Hit the side of the train. Likely died on impact." His voice was clear and deliberate like he was trying to anchor you with the certainty of it. As if he knew that if you could just understand, truly believe the train was too fast, too strong, too sealed for them to breach, you might be able to quiet the fear clawing its way up your chest.

But, as if summoned by his words, another bang, closer this time, rang out. Then another. A few passengers gasped. Someone down the car stifled a scream. The train rocked slightly under the force of the impacts. You clung to Bucky’s shirt now, the fabric balled in your fists.

The air felt too thin, like this train of death was suddenly headed up a steep mountain where your lungs could never truly be full.

The next strike was louder like something bigger had collided with the carriage. You flinched hard, pressing your face into Bucky’s shoulder. His arm tightened around you, his other hand bracing against the wall behind.

Then, the real storm began.

Bang—bang—bang!

A rapid succession of impacts, like hailstones the size of skulls, hammering against the train’s body. The metal groaned, wheels screeching beneath you as the train barreled forward, but the sounds of the Ignivorae overpowered everything else. The shrieks and shouts of other passengers mixed in, panicked, pleading, praying.

Something scraped along the roof.

You let out a choked sob, the noise strangled in your throat. You buried yourself deeper into Bucky’s chest, the darkness pressing in on all sides. You couldn’t see. You couldn’t breathe. Every bang sounded like the end.

The screams got louder.

The sound grew. Deafening. Hundreds of bodies, maybe more, slamming against the train, shrieking past the windows like banshees in flight. You were shaking violently now, your hands trembling as they clutched at him. A cry tore out of you, high-pitched and helpless, and you didn’t care anymore if anyone heard.

You were sobbing into his shirt, breath hitching uncontrollably as the sounds swelled into a relentless cacophony.

And still, Bucky held you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again and again, his voice the only thing not swallowed by the chaos. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Just hang on. Just hold onto me.”

And in the dark, with hell crashing against the walls around you, you did.

Your chest heaved in shallow bursts. The darkness felt thicker now—suffocating, alive. Each blow from outside rattled the walls and echoed through your bones like war drums. You couldn’t hear your own thoughts. Couldn’t think at all.

Your fingers clutched blindly at Bucky’s shirt, twisting the fabric so tight your knuckles ached, but it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t feel your hands. Couldn’t feel your face. The air wouldn’t stay in your lungs, too hot, too thin, too sharp.

“Hey…hey, Princess—”

His voice sounded far away like it was coming from underwater. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your whole body had turned to ice and fire at once. You shook your head wildly, gasping now, sobs hitching through clenched teeth.

“Princess.” Bucky’s hands framed your face now, gentle but firm, thumbs brushing just below your eyes. “You’re panickin’. I need you to listen to me, alright?”

Another bang rocked the train, louder than before. You flinched violently, trying to curl in on yourself, but Bucky didn’t let you. He held you steady, close.

“Look at me.” His voice was still soft, but it cut through the noise. “I’m right here. You’re safe. Just breathe. Just breathe with me.”

You were shaking so hard now your teeth chattered. You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t get enough air.

“In through your nose,” Bucky coached, his forehead pressing gently to yours, “out through your mouth. You don’t have to get it perfect. Just follow me.”

You tried.

Tried to match the rhythm of his voice, the slow inhale, the deliberate exhale. But your lungs wouldn’t cooperate. A strangled noise tore from your throat instead, a fresh wave of sobs threatening to overtake you.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again, voice unwavering even as the train screamed around you. “You’re right here with me. There’s nothin’ in this room ‘cept you and me. Hold onto that.”

You clung to his words, desperate.

And slowly, painfully, your breathing started to stutter into some kind of rhythm, still shaky, still uneven, but present. You could feel the heat of him against you, solid, real. His arms wrapped tighter around your back, his breath brushing your temple.

“That’s it. There you go. Just keep doing that. With me.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your body jolted, instinct still screaming, but Bucky was already grounding you again. His hands rubbed slow circles down your back. One of them moved to rest over your chest, right above your racing heart, like he could steady it with his palm alone.

“You’re doin’ good. I’ve got you.”

The shrieking from outside started to change. The tempo of the blows against the train shifted, less frequent, less violent, like the worst of the swarm was beginning to pass. The wails of the passengers faded, tapering off into soft whimpers and whispered prayers.

It was still dark, but the sounds were thinning.

Your breath, still ragged, wasn’t choking you anymore.

You pressed your forehead to Bucky’s collarbone and let the tears come, quieter this time, not from panic but from sheer exhaustion. He didn’t say anything, just kept holding you, hand never stopping its soothing rhythm across your back.

Eventually, the last of the banging faded into the distance, swallowed by the speed of the train. A tense silence settled over the carriage, broken only by the muted sobs of a child somewhere and the faint clatter of wheels against rail.

And in the black stillness of that bunk, pressed close to Bucky’s chest, you finally breathed in fully and let it out in a slow, trembling sigh.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held you until sleep finally took you.

—

You stirred slowly. Your cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. His arm was heavy over your back, warm and protective, like it had stayed there all night. You breathed in, taking the scent of him.

You didn’t move. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

“Mornin’,” came his voice, rough with sleep. You felt the vibration of it beneath your ear.

You hummed back softly, not quite trusting your voice yet.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, still tucked into his side. “Yeah… I think so.”

Your voice was quiet but true. You shifted a little, your hand brushing across his ribs, and tilted your head just enough to glance up at him.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He gave a lazy smile, one corner of his mouth pulling up in that charming, crooked way of his.

“We’re close to Norcross now,” he said, brushing your hair back from your face. “Train’s slowin’ already. You slept right through the breakfast call.”

You blinked, surprised. “I did?”

“Like the dead.” He grinned. “Figured you needed it.”

“I must’ve…” You hesitated, glancing around the bunk before finally, reluctantly, beginning to peel yourself away from him. Your limbs were stiff with sleep and the lingering tension of last night, but the moment was already slipping from you. Duty waited beyond the window.

Still, you paused.

Hovering just above him.

He looked up at you with those steel-blue eyes, unreadable as ever, though the corners had softened.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his cheek.

“Thank you,” you said again, with a faint smile this time.

He made a pleased sound, something deep and amused in his chest, and before you could shift away completely, his hand caught your waist.

“Not done,” he muttered.

And with that, he pulled you back in. His other hand came to the side of your face, and he kissed you—properly, this time. No hesitation. Just the soft crush of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his palm, the rough edge of stubble beneath your fingertips. You melted into it, your hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as the train swayed gently beneath you.

A knock at the door startled you both, you jerked back slightly as it slid open with a clatter.

“Passengers, we’re making our final approach to Norc—”

Bucky didn’t even look.

He reached out with one hand and slammed the door shut again.

A stunned silence followed outside the compartment, but Bucky was already turning back to you, eyes glinting with mischief as you giggled in disbelief.

“Now, where were we?” he murmured, hand sliding to the small of your back as he tugged you in again.

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #alpine #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel #fantasy au

806 notes · View notes

geminiwritten · 23 days ago

Text

masterlist

sorted a-z by fandom & a-z by character.

♡ means smut ५ means older writing

THE BOYS

billy butcher

untouched (one shot) ५ billy hasn’t touched you in months, so you decide to invest in some skimpy lingerie and see if he can resist

hold on (one shot) ५ you’re sick of butcher calling you ‘kid’ so you show him in more than one way that you’re definitely not a child

i’m yours (one shot) ५ you find out that butcher slept with maeve and decide that going m.i.a. and sleeping with a stranger is the right way to deal with those emotions, but butcher is less than impressed

undercover (one shot) ५ you have to go undercover as butcher’s wife to vought’s annual supe celebration

hot dream (one shot) ५ you fall asleep in butcher’s sweater and end up having a hot dream, not realising that the boys overhear you moaning butcher’s name

MARVEL

bob reynolds

soulmate (one shot) you’re engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one… and it’s not your fiancé

bucky barnes

jessie’s girl (one shot) ५ natasha encourages you to date one of the new recruits in the hopes that it might provoke bucky to confess his feelings for you

heatwave (one shot) ५ you’re not a huge fan of the hot weather until a certain super soldier finally gets his arse out of bed and gives you a reason to love it

flour (one shot) ५ sam kisses you to save your cover on a mission, and bucky punches him… but you still don’t believe he’s in love with you?

desperate measures (one shot) ५ in order to infiltrate an underground crime ring, bucky has to go undercover and seduce one of the kingpins’ daughters and you’re not happy about it

i want (one shot) ♡ ५ bucky protects you on an undercover assignment before taking you back to the compound and showing you exactly what he wants

joaquin torres

safehouse (one shot) sam needs your help on a mission but when things don’t go exactly to plan, you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín

STAR TREK

leonard ‘bones’ mccoy

a gift from god (one shot) ५ you run into bones in the middle of the night, completely naked, but he is more than willing to help you out

game night (one shot) ५ it’s game night aboard the enterprise and your favourite grumpy (and very jealous) doctor is not too impressed to find out about an injury you’re trying to hide

because why (one shot) ५ after five long years of pining and a month of bones acting a weirdly distant, your routine medical turns into a very revealing argument

dr. dreamy (one shot) ५ you’re frustrated and horny, and jim offers to help before realising that the mysterious ‘mr. dreamy�� you’ve been hung up on for years is actually the doctor

roomies (one shot) ५ there’s only one bed

this means war (one shot) ५ you reunite with the enterprise crew six months after leaving for a job at the academy because of a messy breakup

TOP GUN

bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw

could be me (one shot) you’ve been in love with rooster since you were a kid, but you’ve always dated ‘honourable’ assholes to keep your admiral father happy, until you just can’t do it anymore

emergency contact (one shot) rooster exploits having you as his emergency contact to get you away from hangman

karaoke friday (one shot) you’re a bartender at the hard deck with a huge crush on rooster, and rooster uses karaoke friday to confess his own feelings to you

cold showers (one shot) and they were roommates…

punishment (one shot) after performing an impressive but reckless stunt, you’re sent to be babysat by maverick, but hangman isn’t playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

playing games (one shot) you and rooster have been in love with each other for years, but he refuses to cross that line… until you accept some help from hangman and he takes it a little too far

jake ‘hangman’ seresin

baby sister (one shot) hangman has a huge crush on you, but it’s a little complicated seeing as rooster is your big brother

cowboy (one shot) the squad are sick of you and hangman pining over each other, so they set you up with the cowboy hat rule - ‘you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy’

at first sight (one shot) the squad challenge hangman to charm any girl in the bar, but you end up making more of an impression on him than he’s is expecting

from friends to forever (one shot) childhood friends to lovers - when hangman meets a guy you’re dating for the first time, everything you thought was unrequited becomes dangerously mutual

domestic fantasy (one shot) your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind, so hangman agrees to be your fake boyfriend

perfect storm (one shot) enemies to lovers - all hell breaks loose when you’re brought in as the newest member of maverick’s special detachment

dirty laundry (one) | dirty laundry (two) after a couple months of living together, you’re still completely oblivious to how you affect jake, and now he’s starting to feeling things

robert ‘bob’ floyd

the plan (one shot) you’re not convinced that bob likes you, so your friends hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

short skirt weather (one shot) you and bob are obviously into each other, but he’s hesitant to make a move until a whole lot of miscommunication and a training accident lands you in hospital

picture you (one shot) you've been in love with bob since the academy but never dared risk the friendship, and just when the timing might be right you overhear him say some things that have you questioning everything

TWISTERS

tyler owens

photos (one shot) you’re in a perpetually bad mood because you’re in love with tyler and he’s clueless, but what happens when you ‘accidentally’ send him some scandalous pictures?

all yours (one shot) after being best friends and chasing storms with tyler for years, one night changes everything… and now you’re staring at a pregnancy test with two pink lines

✧ updated twenty-third, june '25 ✧

#geminiwritten masterlist

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vunblr · 9 months ago

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Masterlist

Thanks for stopping by! Enjoy the journey through these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

The Weight of Choices (Slight angst. Smut.) Oneshot.

Summary: Torn between his instinct to protect his family and his desire to be a part of their lives, Bucky tries to deal with the reality of his ex-wife going on a date while he stays home caring for their son.

An Unfinished Goodbye (Slight Angst. Side-story of The Weight of Choices.) Oneshot

Summary: Bucky tells himself he’s only watching over his ex-wife and son for their safety. But when someone threatens to alter the status quo, his quiet vigilance falters.

What If?... (Fluff. Smut) Oneshot

Summary: Bucky navigates his insecurities and guilt from his past as he grows closer to his new neighbor, a nurse.

The Memory Remains (Fluff. Smut.) Oneshot

Summary: An unexpected encounter brings Bucky face-to-face with someone from his past, stirring memories he thought were long buried.

Wounds and Walls (Slight angst. Smut.) Oneshot

Summary: Bucky starts to walk into his new civilian life but struggles with his painful past, while slowly building a connection with someone who sees through his walls. As the relationship deepens, he must decide if he’s ready for something more, or if he’ll hide and push it all away.

Crumbs of Connection (Fluff.) Oneshot

Summary: When Bucky wanders into a quirky late-night bakery, he doesn’t expect the warmhearted owner to challenge his defenses.

Spells and Fangs (World of Warcraft AU) Oneshot

Summary: Bucky, a grumpy worgen warrior, and his sharp-tongued mage partner are sent on a relatively simple quest that quickly spirals into chaos.

Roots and Branches (Fluff. Smut. Lumberjack AU)

Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

A Heart in Hiding (Angst-Hurt/Comfort) Oneshot

Summary: Caught between the shadows of his past and an unexpected connection, Bucky wrestles with his demons and his growing feelings for a new Avenger.

To Mend a Soldier (Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff.) Oneshot

Summary: Pressed by a worried Sam, Bucky reluctantly agrees to try an alternative -and, if you ask him, weird- therapy program: rent-a-mom. What starts as an obligation soon turns into something far more meaningful than he ever expected.

Toy Soldier (Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Smut) Ended.

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

The Broken Waltz (Angst. Hurt. Sprinkles of comfort. Dark content.) Toy Soldier's Side-story. Oneshot

Fifteen Minutes (Angst. Hurt. Sprinkles of comfort. Dark content.)

Toy Soldier's Side-story. Oneshot

Summary: Before freedom, before choice, there was only function. A tool and a weapon, bound in a dance orchestrated by Hydra’s cruel hands. The tool was meant to mend, the weapon to destroy. That night, the tool got to witness the weapon's other purposes.

The Price of Silence (Blue-collar Bucky) Ongoing

Summary: Porn with a little plot. Cynical and disenchanted with the world Bucky finds a job at a construction site after the blip. Tasked with retrieving lunch from a local bakery, he never expects to fall into a fuck-buddies situation with the clerk.

A Hand in the Dark (Angst. Hurt/Comfort.) Ongoing

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Foundations (Slight Angst. Fluff) Ended

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Plump & Ripe (Fluff. Smut.) Oneshot

Summary: On a routine visit to the fruit shop, Bucky ends up with more than his usual goodies.

Lush (Fluff. Smut.) Oneshot

Summary: After Bucky is reminded by an offending shirt that his body isn't what it used to be, Sugarplum finds just the right way to get him out of his head.

Terms of Attraction (Fluff. Slight Comfort. Sexual Tension.) Oneshot

Summary: Long hours, sharp tongues, and unbreakable trust have defined Industrial Inputs CEO Bucky Barnes and his secretary’s dynamic, always walking a fine line. But some lines aren’t meant to be left uncrossed.

Tangled (Merman! Bucky. Fluff. Slight Angst. Teratophilia.) Ended

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Built to Last (Fluff) Oneshot

Summary: Bucky took up carpentry to keep himself busy, but didn't expect a hardware clerk to make him want more.

A Star Without a Sky (Slight Angst. Comfort. Fluff. Smut) Ongoing

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Behind Closed Doors (Slight angst. Mommy Kink) Oneshot

Summary: Most days, Bucky is a functional, dependable, and even deadly man. Others, when the noise in his head gets too loud, behind closed doors, he becomes Jamie.

The Trouble With Saturdays (Fluff) Oneshot

Summary: Life at the Thunderbolts Tower is loud, chaotic, and full of questionable moral choices. Bucky’s used to keeping to himself, until one night, after one of those questionable moral choices was made, the guys got him high.

Spasibo (Smut) Oneshot

Summary: She offered kindness where there should’ve been fear. Now it haunts her in silence, starved for warmth it can’t forget.

EVENTS MASTERLISTS

AA Bucky's 108th birthday Bingo

AA Kinky Bingo

Chains of Fate (Fluff. Smut.) Destroyer!Chris. Oneshot

Summary: A florist keeps having trouble with her bicycle, and Chris, her rugged mechanic neighbor, is always available to help. Or isn’t he?

Dividers by: @/cafekitsune

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pitlanepeach · 26 days ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Four

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — So, for reference, this fic is going to be "split-up" into sections of about 10 chapters per "era" of Oscar and Harper's lives. This is the Boarding School era. (YAY CONGRATS ON THE WIN OSCAR)

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

They sat cross-legged on the floor of Oscar's bedroom, backs pressed to the bed frame, the pregnancy test box torn open between them like the evidence of a crime. It felt different this time. Heavier. Too real. The plastic wrapper crackled in Harper's shaking hands, slick with sweat.

Oscar kept looking at her, barely blinking. His knees touched hers. His thumb made nervous little circles on his jeans, over and over like if he stopped, something bad might happen. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows — the arms she'd seen tense when he hauled his kart frame or when he wrapped them around her in the middle of the night, after nightmares.

"You sure you wanna do this right now?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"We have to," she said. Her throat was tight. "We need to know how pregnant I am, right?"

He shrugged a bit and then nodded.

She got up and disappeared into the en suite, the test clutched like a weapon. The door clicked shut.

Oscar sat perfectly still.

One minute.

Two.

She came out without looking at him and sat back down slowly. Placed the test between them.

A blinking hourglass stared back.

The room went dead quiet. No words, no breathing, just the faint hum of Oscar’s laptop still open behind them, some paused video of a race breakdown he didn’t care about anymore. They didn’t look at it.

They stared at the test like it was a bomb.

The blinking stopped.

The screen cleared.

Then the words appeared.

Pregnant | 3+ weeks

Harper made a noise — something between a gasp and a laugh and a sob — and sucked in a breath like she’d been drowning.

Oscar just stared. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. That little crease between his brows deepened and didn’t go away.

She spoke first, barely audible. “That’s... okay. So that’s more than a month. Before Christmas.”

He nodded slowly, numb. "Before it snowed, probably. I think that's how it works but...”

She turned her head toward him, her face pale, mouth trembling. “What the hell do we do now? I mean, we — we used protection. Every time. We were so careful.”

But she already knew.

Oscar looked like he’d been punched. He picked up the test with shaking fingers, held it too close, like maybe it would say something different. “Not… shit. No. Not every time.” He swallowed. “That one time. In the woods. When — when it was raining.”

She made a strangled sound and curled in on herself, pulling her knees up and hiding her face. “Oh my god. Oh my god. We’re so stupid. We’re so fucking stupid.”

He set the test down like it might burn him.

And then they just… sat there. Hearts pounding in the quiet. Sam was still down in the common room, watching the football, thankfully. They weren’t gonna be interrupted. Not yet.

Harper finally whispered, so soft he barely heard her. “What do we do now?”

Oscar wiped his palms on his thighs, blinking fast. “I think— I think we have to tell someone. My dad. My mum. Or— I don’t know. Mark? Someone older. Someone who knows what to do. Because I don’t. I have no clue what the hell we’re supposed to do.”

She nodded slowly, but her head kept bobbing like she couldn’t make it stop.

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t either.”

She slumped against him, and he caught her, arms stiff at first like he was scared to touch her. Then he pulled her tighter, and she let herself melt into him, like if she stayed still enough, she could disappear.

“My mum’s going to kill me,” she whispered into his chest. “The only reason she even let me come back to Haileybury was because the school in Switzerland didn’t appreciate my disastrous STEM grades. But now... now she’s definitely going to send me away. Some girls’ home or something. She won’t even look at me. And you—” her voice cracked, “you won’t even see me again.”

Oscar froze — then let out this breathy, shaky half-laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “No. No, she won’t.”

“She might,” she said, voice cracking. “She would. You don’t know her.”

“I won’t let her.” His voice was firm this time. Small but certain. “You’re not gonna be alone in this, okay? I swear.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t pull away.

And for now, that was enough.

—

They hadn’t planned to tell him first — Mark.

But something about the little meeting room — the scribbled race calendars on the whiteboard, the faint stink of oil and track mud on Oscar’s boots — made it feel like the moment was already happening.

Like they were mid-crash and couldn’t steer out of it.

Mark was talking logistics — camp dates, tuning sessions, Belgium travel — when he paused. His eyes flicked toward Harper, quiet in the corner.

She was usually mouthy. Annoying. Always poking at him with weird questions about tire compounds just to watch him groan.

Now she was silent. Her hands twitched on her pleated school skirt. Her face was way too pale.

Mark’s brow furrowed. “Everything alright, kid?”

Oscar hesitated.

Then Harper said, in this too-small voice, “We need to tell you something.”

Mark blinked.

Oscar turned to face him properly, his spine going straight like that would help, like he could fake being older than fifteen and three-quarters. “Harper’s pregnant.”

The silence hit like a gut punch. Not shock — Mark didn’t do shock — but something worse. Like the air got sucked out of the room and nothing had been put back yet.

Mark leaned back, slowly, eyes jumping between the two of them. “Right.” He rubbed his face, then let his hand fall. “How far along?”

"Three-plus weeks," Harper answered, quoting the test. She still didn't know exactly what that meant. Why couldn't the test just tell her exactly how pregnant she was? It was weird. "We took the test last week. I missed my period over Christmas. And, uh — I guess." She glanced at Oscar. "We don't know what to do." She admitted.

Mark nodded. He didn't yell. He didn't flinch. He just looked... gutted for them.

"Are you alright?" He asked Harper, his tone more serious than either of them had ever heard. "Have you talked to a doctor yet?"

She bit her lip and looked down at her lap with a shrug.

Oscar answered for her. “No. We haven’t talked to a doctor yet. That’s what we do next then, yeah?”

Mark nodded slower this time. “Alright. I won’t sugarcoat it. You’ve both fucked up. Big time. This is a huge deal.”

Harper looked down fast, blinking too hard, eyes glassy.

“I’ll help however I can.” He said, but there was something tense on his face.

Oscar’s voice was small. “We know we've messed up, okay? We know.”

“You’ve got to tell your parents. Both of you. You especially, Oscar. Do you have any idea how pissed they'll be if they find out I've kept this from them?”

Oscar winced.

“We will,” Harper whispered. “Just not today. Not yet. I’m... I’m really scared of telling my mum.”

Mark leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “Okay. Shit. I guess I'm glad that you at-least told me, then.”

Oscar exhaled.

Harper’s leg bounced like it had a motor of its own.

—

Harper ducked into the bathroom, saying something about needing a second.

The office door swung behind her.

Oscar fidgeted with the edge of a packet of race notes, fingers trembling.

Mark hadn’t moved. The silence had turned tight. Awkward.

Then Mark stood. Crossed the room. Closed the door fully with a soft click. When he turned back, his arms were folded and his face was hard.

“Oscar,” he said. Quiet. Sharp. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Oscar looked up slowly. “I obviously wasn’t.”

“No. You weren’t,” Mark said, voice still low but like it had claws now. “You’re fifteen. You’ve got the most important season of your life ahead of you. And meanwhile, you’re—”

“I know—”

“No, you don’t know,” Mark snapped. “You think this won’t affect your career? You think that this is just going to be all fun and dandy? This isn’t a movie, Oscar. This changes everything.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “It doesn’t change the fact that I can win races. That I want to be a world champion.”

“It changes how people see you,” Mark shot back, stepping in. “Sponsors. Teams. The press. You think the Red Bulljunior team is going to like this? You think Ferrari will look at you and not just see a teen dad?”

Oscar’s fists curled in his lap. “So what — I’m supposed to pretend it’s not happening? Tell her to— to get rid of it? Abandon her? Is that what you’re saying?”

Mark’s voice cut through him like a blade. “No. Don’t twist my words. I didn’t say walk away. I didn’t say abandon her. I’m saying wake the hell up. Because you’re not just going to be able to be a kart driver anymore. You’re a fifteen-year-old kid who’s about to be a dad.”

Oscar stared at the floor. His chest felt like it was full of wet concrete.

“I’m not leaving her to deal with this alone,” he said eventually. “I promised her that I'd stick by her, yeah?”

Mark paused, then sighed through his nose. “I know you’re not the kind of kid who'd do that. You’ve got a spine. But having a spine isn’t the same as knowing what you’re about to walk into.”

Oscar’s throat burned. “I love her.”

“I know,” Mark said, softer now. “And that’s why I’m so scared for you.”

Silence fell again.

“I’ll do both,” Oscar said. Quiet but solid. “If she keeps the baby. I’ll be present. And I’ll race. I’ll win.”

Mark just looked at him for a long time, eyes tired. “Then you’d better grow up fast, mate,” he said at last. “Because the second that test turned positive, you stopped being a kid.”

—

They sat on the floor again. Same spot as before — backs against Oscar’s bed frame, knees almost touching — but the silence was heavier now. Denser. Like the space between them was filled with invisible debris.

Outside, the sky was grey and close, clouds sagging low over the school grounds. It felt like the world was holding its breath — pressing down, waiting for them to crack.

Harper had one of Oscar’s karting hoodies on, her fingers buried deep in the sleeves. She stared at the wall like it might give her an answer if she waited long enough.

“So we have to tell one of our parents,” she murmured eventually.

Oscar looked over at her, then nodded. Slow, like the movement itself required effort. “Yeah.”

She didn’t look up. Just pulled her knees tighter to her chest and pressed her forehead to them. “I can’t tell my mum. Not yet.”

He didn’t push. He knew exactly what that meant — not just because of who her mother was, but because of what Harper became around her. Smaller. Quieter. Like she was always bracing for something that hadn’t happened yet. Like she lived half-flinched.

“I don’t even know what I want to do yet,” she whispered. “How can I tell her when I don’t even know what’s happening in my own head?”

Oscar’s voice was soft. “Okay. Fine. We don’t tell her.”

Her head lifted, eyes flicking to his in surprise. “Yeah?”

“I mean, you’ll have to eventually,” he added, a bit cautiously. “But I get it. I know why you don’t want to.”

She blinked slowly. “Right.”

He shrugged, staring down at his hands like they might tell him something. “So... I was thinking maybe I should tell my dad.”

Harper’s brows rose. “Really?”

Oscar nodded. “He’s solid. He won’t freak out. I think he already knows something’s off — I haven’t been calling as much.”

“Are you scared?”

There was a pause. A beat too long.

“Yeah,” he said. Quiet and real.

She reached out and squeezed his hand. Her fingers were cold. “I love you.”

“I know.”

Harper leaned into him, cheek resting against his shoulder. She didn’t say anything else for a moment, just breathed and listened to his heartbeat where her ear met his chest.

“We don’t have to do everything today,” she said eventually. “We only told Mark earlier.”

“No,” Oscar agreed. “I know. But I want to. I think I should.” He paused, then added with more urgency, “We have no idea what we’re doing, Harper. What if something’s wrong and we don’t know it? I don’t even know what kind of — like — appointments we need to make. Or what questions to ask. I tried Google, but it’s all medical and scary and confusing.”

Harper shut her eyes. “You’re right,” she admitted, her voice thread-thin. “You’re right. Okay. Call him. Tell him.”

—

Oscar paced the length of the empty common room, his phone clutched tight in one hand, thumb hovering over the contact that just read Dad.

Harper sat curled on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow like it was a shield. She was trying not to watch him too hard, but her eyes kept tracking him. Every step. Every pause.

“I hope he doesn’t get mad,” she said softly. “Just... be honest with him.”

Oscar nodded, jaw tight.

Then he hit call.

It rang twice.

Then — “Hey, mate.”

Oscar froze for half a second. Swallowed. “Hey, Dad. You busy?”

Chris’ voice came through the speaker, a little fuzzy with bad signal. “Bit of admin, nothing urgent. You alright?”

Oscar moved to the window, staring out across the rain-dark courtyard. “Um. Yeah. Kind of.”

A beat.

“You don’t sound alright.”

Oscar let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it cracked on the way out. “No, I’m... I need to tell you something. It’s — it’s a lot.”

There was silence on the line. Not confused. Just quiet. Just waiting.

Oscar inhaled, then forced the words out. “Harper’s pregnant.”

They hung there. Exposed. Like he’d cut something open.

He stared at the window so long that the reflection blurred.

The line stayed quiet.

One second. Two. Three.

Then Chris said, calmly, “I’m assuming the baby is yours?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said.

“Okay.”

Oscar blinked. “That’s it?”

“No. But that’s what I’ve got for now.”

Oscar turned from the window. Harper was sitting up straighter now, the pillow hugged tighter to her chest, chewing the inside of her lip.

Chris spoke again. “Is she alright?”

“She’s... scared. We both are.”

“You sure you’re alright, mate?”

“I think so.” It came out thin. Not very convincing.

There was another pause. Then Chris’ voice came firmer. “Right, then. I’m coming to England.”

Oscar’s head snapped up. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll book a flight tonight. Be there in a few days.”

A breath.

“This isn’t something you two need to be sorting out alone. You’re just kids. Bloody teenagers — and this is a hell of a thing for you to be dealing with on your own.”

Oscar closed his eyes. His chest stuttered. “Dad, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” Chris said. “Because I’m your dad. And you’re my son. And because this, Osc, this difficult, rotten-part? This is when it's my job to show up, okay?”

Oscar pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “Alright.” His voice broke. “Okay.”

“You make sure you’re looking after that girl, yeah?” Chris added, voice softer now. “I'll tell your mum; try my best to keep her calm, but expect a phone call, alright?”

Oscar turned to look at Harper.

She met his eyes, wide and searching.

“Okay. Thanks, Dad,” Oscar said, voice barely audible.

“I’ll call you when I land.”

The call ended.

Oscar let the phone drop to his side. He stood still, breath uneven.

Harper rose slowly and walked across the room to him.

“Well?” She asked, lip bitten red with anxiety.

“He’s coming,” Oscar said.

She exhaled — and then, for the first time all day, she smiled. Small. Tired. But real.

“Thank god,” she whispered, eyes wet and hands trembling slightly. “Was he mad?”

Oscar pulled her into a hug. “No,” he said into her hair. “Not mad. Just... disappointed.”

She winced. “That’s worse sometimes.”

“I know.”

He tightened his arms around her.

—

Jane lay sprawled on her back across Harper’s bed, legs dangling off the side, face still half-covered by yesterday’s makeup. Somewhere beneath the duvet, her phone buzzed—ignored.

Harper sat curled in her desk chair, knees tucked to her chest, chewing the inside of her cheek.

She’d been quiet too long.

Jane cracked one eye open.

“Okay,” she said slowly, sitting up. “What’s going on? You’ve been suspiciously unfun for the past few days.”

Harper exhaled like her lungs were collapsing. “Promise you won’t freak out?”

Jane narrowed her eyes. “That depends. Is this about a secret sibling? Did someone die? Are you getting expelled?”

Harper stayed silent.

Jane’s face shifted. “Wait. Is this about Oscar?”

A nod.

“Is he okay?”

Another nod.

“You okay?”

A smaller, less convincing nod.

Then Harper looked at her. Eyes too bright. Lips pressed tight.

“You remember the other day? When I freaked out about my period?”

Jane nodded, slowly.

Harper gave a wry smile. “Yeah. Well — I’m pregnant.”

Jane stared. Blinked once. Twice.

Then she said, “No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

A beat of silence.

Then Jane blurted, “What the actual fuck, Harper!”

And just like that, Harper laughed — wet, shaky, half-hysterical — and started crying at the same time.

Jane flew off the bed and dropped to her knees in front of her. “No, no, don’t cry—I didn’t mean it like that, I just—you?! I always thought if someone here got knocked up, it’d be someone named ‘Isobelle’ or ‘Jazmyne’ with a ‘y’.”

Harper choked on another laugh.

Jane grabbed her hands. “You’re like… the good one.”

“I was trying to be.”

Jane groaned, dramatically thudding her forehead against Harper’s knee. “You are literally the boarding school teen pregnancy stereotype. I feel like I’m in a Netflix original series.”

“Shut up,” Harper muttered, smiling through tears.

“I’m serious. You. The broody Aussie boy sneaking into the girls’ dorm. The secret makeout sessions on the astroturf. It was all leading here.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” Jane corrected, standing and wrapping her arms around her from behind. “And I love you. And we’re going to get through this. Even if I have to punch your mum in the face. Because I just know she’s going to be a cunt about it.”

Harper leaned back into her best friend and finally let herself breathe.

“Oscar’s dad—Chris—he knows. He was... I don't know. Calm. He’s flying to England tonight.”

Jane nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

“I don’t want to tell my mum.” She whispered.

Jane kissed the top of her head. “Yeah. We’ll save that one for when we’ve got riot shields and a legal team.”

They stood in the quiet, Harper’s hands finally still.

And even though nothing was fixed, she still had Jane.

—

The next morning, Oscar was waiting outside the girls’ dorm before breakfast. Hands in his blazer pockets, hair still damp like he’d barely slept.

Harper blinked at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m here.”

She didn’t argue. Just fell into step beside him, shoulder brushing his.

—

He walked her to every class.

Even the ones they didn’t share. Even the ones on the far side of campus, through ankle-deep slush and biting wind. He waited outside Chemistry like a silent sentinel, tie askew, eyes down.

“You didn’t have to wait,” she said quietly as they left.

“I wanted to.”

—

At lunch, they sat side by side instead of across from each other. Oscar barely touched his food, but his hand rested on Harper’s knee under the table—steady, warm.

Jane raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Sam joked, “Why are you so clingy today, man?”

Oscar shrugged. “Dunno.”

—

In English, they shared earbuds while working on essays. Some soft indie track played low enough not to distract—just enough to fill the spaces between thoughts.

Harper rested her fingers on his wrist. He let her trace the rope bracelet on his arm without question.

—

Between classes, they didn’t say much.

Oscar carried both their books.

Harper tugged at his blazer sleeve while they waited for the bell.

They didn’t kiss. Didn’t hold hands.

But every part of them seemed magnetised; shoulders brushing, pinkies bumping.

—

After last period, she looked at him and said, “You really don’t have to keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. Following me around.”

He gave a small, crooked smile. “I don’t really know what else I’m supposed to do.”

And that was the truth—neither of them did.

But for now, being near her was the only thing that made sense.

So he walked her to the girls dorms.

Waited until she stepped inside.

And only then did he let himself walk away.

—

Dinner was loud—trays clattering, voices echoing, and the sharp, mysterious scent of the school’s chicken surprise wafting from the kitchens.

Harper sat between Jane and Oscar at their usual spot at the end of the table. Across from them: Matt, Sam, and Alfie, already halfway through their meals, locked in an argument about whether a pigeon could realistically steal a car.

“You guys are morons,” Jane muttered.

“I’m just saying,” Sam insisted, “pigeons in London are jacked. They’ve got gangs. Wing muscles.”

Oscar grinned. “If I see a pigeon with biceps, I’ll give you a heads up to lock your car, yeah?”

Harper smiled faintly. Not fully tuned in, but grateful for the noise. For the normal.

She picked at her food. Not much appetite—just toast earlier, a few crackers at lunch—but now, surrounded by banter and noise, it was easier to eat a little.

Matt was telling a dramatic story about nearly being run over by a golf cart when Alfie leaned across the table and stage-whispered, “Harpy-girl. You’re unusually quiet. Finally realised you're dating the wrong guy?” He wiggled his dark eyebrows at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes and gave him a mighty kick under the table. “Shut up, Alfie.”

Harper played along, if only to wind-up her usual steady-headed boyfriend. “Yeah. You know...it’s been a lot to work through.”

The table cracked up.

“Babe,” Oscar said, frowning at her.

“Well,” she continued, “your hair when you first got here was a choice.”

Jane leaned in. “The mullet was honestly the most traumatic part of the year.”

“It was a phase,” Oscar muttered, grinning.

Harper let herself laugh.

Oscar glanced at her sideways, smile quiet.

Later, after trays were cleared and the boys snuck off to raid the staff kitchen, Harper lingered at the table.

Oscar stayed too, their knees touching under the bench.

She looked at him. “Thanks for today.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I’m always going to show up for you. I swear.”

Her eyes shimmered. But she nodded.

And he didn’t press.

Because sometimes, just sitting in the noise with your person was enough to keep the hard parts quiet.

For now.

—

They were leaving French when they saw him.

At first, Harper didn’t recognise him; tall, neat jacket, hands in his pockets, standing under the old oak near the science block like he didn’t quite belong.

But Oscar stopped cold beside her.

And Harper looked again.

Chris.

Her stomach flipped.

Oscar said nothing. Just started walking toward him, slow and sure, Harper tight beside him.

Chris looked up. His expression was unreadable—not angry, not cold. Just… quiet. His eyes moved between them.

“Hi, Dad,” Oscar said.

Chris gave a small smile. “Hey, mate.”

Harper shifted. Arms folded across her chest. Chris looked at her properly now, and something in his face softened.

She managed a tight, polite, “Hi, Mr. Piastri.”

Chris nodded. Looked at them both again.

Then said, “Right,” and pulled them into a hug.

Oscar was taller now, but Chris still held him like he was eight years old. Harper stood stiff for a moment, stunned—until Chris gently tugged her in too.

And then it was warm. Solid. Real. Arms around both of them. Tight, but not crushing.

No words. Just the kind of silence that grounded you.

Harper’s shoulders dropped. She hadn’t even realised how high they’d been. Her cheek pressed to Chris’s shoulder, and behind his back, she felt Oscar’s fingers brush hers.

Chris finally stepped back.

“You two must be scared shitless."

Oscar gave a crooked, breathy laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Chris nodded once, his eyes crinkling. “Right. Let me call your mum, tell her you're okay and that I'm here. Then we'll find somewhere to talk." He told them, and then wandered a few steps away.

For a second, they stood under the oak, wind tugging at Harper’s hair, the cold nipping at Oscar’s ears.

He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together without looking down. “You okay?” He asked softly.

Harper swallowed. “Not really.”

Oscar nodded like he understood completely. “Me neither.” A beat. Then, still not looking at her, he said, “But we’re going to be okay.”

She glanced sideways. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I think... if we stick together, and we let my dad handle the hard parts...”

Harper let out a breath. Not a laugh, not quite a sigh—something quieter, heavier.

He turned toward her then, gently squeezing her hand. “I don’t know what's supposed to happen now. But I’m not, like, going anywhere. Yeah? I promise.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, and for a second, she looked like she might cry again—but she didn’t. She just nodded.

Then, from a few metres away, Chris called out, “Alright, you two—come on. Let’s get somewhere warm before I freeze my arse off.”

Oscar gave her hand one more squeeze before they let go.

They started walking together across the frost-hardened grass.

NEXT CHAPTER

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winterarmyy · 1 year ago

Text

He Hates Me, Doesn't He?

A series of random Bucky Drabbles that I can't let go but don't have the brain to make the whole complete plot of.

Summary: You hurt Bucky's girl, and now he hates you.

Pairing: tfatws!bucky x female!reader

Words: 6.7k++

Warnings: angstyyyyyyyyy, but with happy ending because I cannot live in agony. miscommunication galore. 'I want to strangle bucky's girlfriend.' soft reader, cold/mean bucky. bucky should've grovel more. horrible attempt of writing verbal arguments. nothing much but pain.

Inspiration: I remember reading a bucky fic years ago and I like the pain that it caused me to feel. Idk why the pain suddenly came back to me lately. So, this is my take on the same idea. I haven't able to find it. But when I do, I'll reblog it in my another acc!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

y/n had always been a steady presence in the Avengers, known for her gentle demeanour and unwavering support. Her relationship with Bucky Barnes had blossomed from a quiet friendship into something deeper. When they first met, Bucky was reserved and hesitant, still grappling with his past as the Winter Soldier. y/n, with her gentle nature and patient understanding, slowly helped him come out of his shell.

She remembered the sleepless nights they spent together when they were on the run with Steve and Sam. They'd share stories, and sometimes just sit in silence, her quiet company offering solace to Bucky's restless mind. The unspoken bond growing stronger with each passing day. Bucky looked up to her, finding comfort in her presence, and in turn, he became fiercely protective of her. They'd watch each other's backs during missions, their synergy on the battlefield a testament to their deep connection.

And somewhere along the line, she fell for him. She had fallen for Bucky's resilience and vulnerability, though she never expected more, knowing that a relationship was not what he needed right now. At least, that's what she thought. Little did she know, Bucky had always loved her; ever since the day she offered him tea the first night they were on the run to Wakanda. Maybe she was just simply aloof, or maybe Bucky’s flirting skills weren’t translated the way he wanted, but they never crossed the line between friendship and ‘something more’.

Then when Jen came into the picture, it felt like things started to change. Jen was bold and confident, and it wasn't long before she caught Bucky's eye. Their relationship seemed to spring up overnight, and y/n, though hurt, tried to be happy for Bucky. Jen was supportive and caring, or so it seemed, and Bucky deserved happiness.

Now, as planned the team was instructed to moved into the Avenger compound for a few months to train new recruits. It had only been the first month but surely it was jam packed with endless of rigorous training sessions. The original team—y/n, Sam, Bucky, Jen, Clint, and his mentee Kate Bishop—were all assigned to train the new recruits, with additional of few agents from different branches coming in to help out.

y/n was heading to the training room; she knew it was way too early but she thought that if she didn’t get out of bed now, she might not even get up at all. To her surprise, she was not the first one. She saw a few new trainees were already on the way to the training room; some of them greeted her a good morning. She simply smiled at their enthusiasm.

The moment she entered the area, she overheard voices coming from the corner of the room. She paused, recognizing Jen's voice, which was raised and laced with contempt. Curiosity piqued, y/n stepped closer, staying just out of sight behind the white board. In hindsight, it might seem weird that she was sneaking around to eavesdrop on Jen, but she couldn't help it.

Initially, y/n liked Jen. She tried to welcome her into their tight-knit group and even supported her relationship with Bucky. However, as time went on, Jen began acting strange. The things she said about Bucky sometimes sounded condescending. She would make comments like, "It's amazing how well he's adjusted, considering his past," or, "It's great that he's trying so hard to be normal." The way she acted often differed from her words, with Jen giving Bucky disapproving glances or sighing heavily whenever he mentioned something from his troubled past.

She had noticed these discrepancies and started to feel uneasy around Jen. She couldn't shake the feeling that Jen’s support was just a facade. Now, standing behind the whiteboard, she strained to hear the conversation.

"…and honestly, I don’t understand how anyone can trust him," Jen was saying. "I mean, sure, he's got that whole 'reformed hero' thing going on now, but let’s be real. He was Hydra’s pet assassin for decades. The things he’s done? It’s unforgivable."

Her friend, another agent from a different branch, nodded hesitantly. "But you’re dating him, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean you trust him?"

Jen laughed, a cold, humourless sound. "Dating him? Please. I’m in it for the fame and the perks. Have you seen the way people look at us? Besides, he’s hot, I’ll give him that. But trust him? Never. People like him don’t change. They’re broken. He's a monster, and he always will be. It’s only a matter of time before he snaps again."

y/n felt a surge of anger rise within her. How dare Jen talk about Bucky like that?

Memories flooded her mind, flashing back to Bucky’s nightmare-plagued nights. She remembered the prominent dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look that never quite left his face. The silent pain he endured, adjusting to a modern world where he felt like an outsider, magnified when Steve left. She could still see the wary, suspicious glances people cast in his direction, the whispers behind his back when they first ventured out. Before the fame he acquired as he regained his reputation after the Flag-Smasher incident.

She had witnessed his hardships firsthand—the nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat, the moments of crippling doubt and self-loathing. But she had also seen his triumphs, the small victories that slowly built his confidence. The first time he laughed freely in her presence, the genuine smile that lit up his face when he finally allowed himself to relax. She cherished those moments, the sunshine that broke through the clouds of his tortured past.

All of this came rushing back, breaking the chains on the Pandora's box inside of her. The fury she felt wasn't just for the disrespect to Bucky; it was for every ounce of pain he had suffered, every moment of joy he had fought so hard to reclaim. Her eyes hardened with resolve as she stepped forward, her voice steady but cold. "Take that back," she demanded, her presence startling both Jen and her friend.

Jen turned slowly, a smirk spreading across her face as she saw y/n. She knew from the beginning about the cute little crush y/n had on Bucky. To be frank, everybody sort of knew about it, except for Bucky somehow.

"Or else what, y/n?" she replied with a mocking tone. "You’re quite pathetic aren’t you? You think that I can’t see how you’ve been eye-fucking my boyfriend all this time? Come on, now. Backing him up would not give you a leeway into his pants, y/n."

y/n’s face went through a range of emotions—shock, embarrassment, and then seething anger. Jen’s words were like poison, each one landing like a punch to the gut.

Jen continued, confidence oozing out of her cocky demeanor, "Besides, we all know that I can easily beat you in a fight, doll"

The use of doll—a nickname Bucky had given y/n from day one, when Steve had quite literally kidnapped Bucky from the government—made y/n blood boil. Hearing it from Jen felt like a personal attack, a deliberate attempt to undermine everything she shared with Bucky.

And it was true that Jen had graduated top of her batch from the Avengers program and had countless successful missions under her belt, but y/n knew this wasn't about accolades or abilities. This was about something deeper, something more personal.

y/n clenched her fists, taking a step closer. "You think this is about who can fight better?" she said, her voice shaking with restrained fury. "This is about respect. You don’t get to talk about Bucky like that."

Jen scoffed, a cruel smile on her lips. "Respect? For that monster? You’re delusional. He’s a ticking time bomb, a liability to the team. And deep down, everyone knows it."

y/n’s patience snapped. In one swift motion, she slapped Jen hard across the face, the sound echoing through the room. Jen stumbled and fell to the ground, shock and anger flashing across her features.

She stalks forward like a predator cornering its prey, "I’m just done with your lies and your insults. Bucky deserves better than you." Jen instinctively crawled backwards towards the centre of the room. Seeing that she got the attention of the few new recruits she regained her composure, smirked again, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "You’re pathetic, y/n," she taunted. "Defending a lost cause." her voice was loud enough for y/n to hear but quiet enough that the others might not be able to decipher her words.

At that moment, Bucky and Sam burst into the room, followed closely behind by a new recruit who alerted them of the incident. Bucky’s eyes widened as he took in the scene—Jen on the ground, y/n standing over her, shaking with rage. "What’s going on here?" His demand was completely ignored as y/n’s mind was hyper-focused on the wrath bubbling within her.

"Get up," y/n demanded, her voice shaking with wrath. Bucky’s momentarily froze as he watched the confrontation escalate before him. y/n, usually so composed, was now a whirlwind of rage, her eyes blazing as she stood over a trembling Jen. Bucky had always known her to be fierce in battle, but this was different—this was raw, unbridled anger. "I'm going to make you regret every word you said. So get on your fucking feet before I rip it off you.."

Jen, still on the ground, looked up at y/n with wide, teary eyes, playing the role of the victim to perfection. "Please, I didn't– I don’t know what you're…," she whimpered, casting a fearful glance at Bucky and Sam, who had just arrived on the scene.

Bucky's mind raced. Why was she doing this? He stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation. "y/n, hey!" he shouted, his voice a mix of confusion and anger. "What are you doing?"

Completely ignoring him, "Get up," y/n snarled, her eyes blazing with intensity. "Get up and fight me. I’ll show you who the real monster is." Jen looked up, her hand on her cheek, disbelief mingling with her fury. "You’re crazy," she spat, scrambling to her feet.

Her response was only a furious shout. "I said, get up!"

"y/n, are you crazy?!" Bucky yelled, moving quickly to intervene. He grabbed her wrist, his grip tight and unforgiving.

She turned her fierce gaze towards Bucky; her expression momentarily faltering at the hurt in his eyes. "Bucky, you don’t understand, she--" she began, but the words caught in her throat as she saw Jen's smirk flicker for just a second.

"There's nothing to understand," Bucky snapped. "You’re acting insane."

y/n looked at him, her eyes filled with hurt and frustration. "Bucky, you have to listen—"

But he cut her off, his expression hard. "I don’t care! You hurt her, y/n. You think I don’t see that bruise on her cheek?!" Bucky shouted, his face contorted with anger. His eyes, usually filled with a gentle warmth when he looked at y/n, were now blazing with fury. "This isn’t like you, y/n. I’ve noticed that you’ve never liked Jen, and I don’t know why. But this? This is just immature and reckless." His metal grip on y/n's wrist was tighter than he intended. She winced, her eyes watering not just from the pain but from the sting of his words.

y/n had never seen Bucky like this. His anger was palpable, radiating off him in waves. It was like being hit with a physical force, and she felt her heart breaking under the weight of it. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away, her anger flaring even hotter. "Bucky, you don’t understand," she tried to explain, but the words caught in her throat.

Bucky’s expression remained hard, the force on her wrist tightening painfully. "You need to grow up, y/n," he seethed, his disappointment evident in his tone. "You're always causing drama lately, and it needs to stop. Jen’s been there for me in ways you haven’t, and I won’t tolerate you attacking her like this."

The words cut through her like a knife. Her heart shattered at his harshness, at the realization that Bucky thought so little of her. She yanked her wrist free, feeling the sting of his grip lingering. "Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Believe what you want."

Without another word, she turned and stormed out, leaving Bucky standing there, torn between confusion and guilt.

A gnawing sense of remorse tugging at him, but he couldn't shake the confusion and anger clouding his mind. "Jen, are you okay?" he asked, helping her to her feet.

Jen, tucking herself to his side, managed to summon a few tears, looking up at Bucky with a feigned innocence. "I don’t know why she hates me so much," she murmured, playing her part perfectly.

Bucky fingers softly traces on her wounded cheek before his gaze switched to y/n’s retreating form, a knot tightening in his chest. He wasn’t sure why those mean words had spouted out of his lips. Was it because he saw Jen injured on the ground and his protective instincts kicked in? Or was it because Jen had been whispering doubts in his ear about y/n’s loyalty, making him question his longtime friend?

The truth was, Bucky had always relied on y/n’s unwavering support. She had been his rock through the toughest times, and seeing her so furious, so hurt, shook him to his core. Yet, in the heat of the moment, he had lashed out, unable to reconcile the image of Jen crying with the fierce anger that radiated from y/n.

As Bucky comforted Jen, his mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He couldn't shake the image of hurt on her face, nor could he ignore the nagging feeling that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

On the side, Sam was only able to watch the scene play out silently, a frown creasing his brow. He had a feeling there was more to this story, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

As weeks passed, the rift between Bucky and y/n deepened, fueled by Jen's cunning manipulation. In a private conversation, Jen planted seeds of doubt in Bucky's mind, suggesting that y/n harboured hidden resentments and intentions.

"I hate to say it, Bucky, but maybe she's not who we thought she was," Jen insinuated, her voice dripping with false concern. "Maybe she's been hiding her true feelings all along, waiting for the right moment to strike."

Bucky, already vulnerable and confused after the incident in the training room, absorbed Jen's words like poison, allowing them to fester and take root in his mind. He began to view y/n through a new lens, one tainted by suspicion and distrust. This single conversation, filled with subtle manipulations and insidious suggestions, was all it took to fracture the bond between Bucky and y/n, leaving Bucky cold and distant towards the one person who had always stood by his side.

Most days he would avoid eye contact with her during team meetings, barely acknowledging her presence when they were forced to interact. In training sessions, his instructions to her were curt and clipped, lacking the warmth and camaraderie they once shared. y/n felt each of these interactions like a stab to the heart.

She couldn't understand how quickly Bucky had turned against her, how easily he had accepted Jen's version of events without even giving her a chance to explain. The hurt festered inside her, eating away at her sense of self-worth.

Then one night, as y/n sat alone on the rooftop, staring out into the darkness, Sam found her there. He knew this was where she retreated when she needed space to think, to process her emotions. He approached her cautiously, sitting down beside her without a word.

"Why aren't you at dinner, y/n?" Sam finally asked, breaking the silence. He could see the emptiness in her eyes, the weight of her sorrow pressing down on her.

She shook her head, her voice hollow. "Lost my appetite," she muttered, her gaze still fixed on the horizon.

Sam gently prodded, knowing there was more to her withdrawal than just a lack of hunger. "Is it because of what happened the other day at the training room?" he asked softly.

Instantly, her demeanor shifted. Anger flared in her eyes, directed not just at Jen and Bucky, but at the entire situation. "I don't want to talk about it, Sam," she snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface. But Sam wasn't one to give up easily, especially when he knew how much y/n was hurting. "Come on, y/n," he urged, his voice gentle but insistent. "You can't keep bottling this up. Talk to me."

Her expression softened slightly at Sam's persistence, but the pain still lingered in her eyes. "Seriously, Sam, please just drop it," she pleaded, her voice wavering with emotion.

Sam could see the cracks forming in her facade, the vulnerability seeping through the tough exterior she usually projected. Without a word, he pulled her into a comforting embrace, letting her bury her face against his shoulder.

As she clung to him, her facade finally crumbled. Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "He hates me, doesn't he?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbreak. "Bucky hates me."

Sam held her tighter, offering silent comfort as she grappled with the weight of her sorrow. He knew there were no easy answers, no quick fixes to mend the shattered pieces of y/n's heart. But in that moment, all he could do was be there for her, a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions.

The dim glow of the kitchen's overhead light provided a faint sense of solace in the otherwise silent darkness of the compound. Bucky sat at the wooden table, his tired eyes staring blankly at the cup of untouched tea before him. It was a nightly ritual lately, this dance with sleeplessness and the haunting memories that lurked in the shadows of his mind yet again.

Footsteps broke the stillness, and Bucky's gaze shifted to the entrance of the kitchen. y/n stood hesitantly in the doorway, her presence casting a tentative aura over the room. There was a palpable tension between them, an unspoken weight that hung heavy in the air.

She cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Mind if I join you?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She was expecting Bucky to ignore her completely but he didn’t; Bucky simply shrugged nonchalantly, his guard seemed to flatter. "Suit yourself," he muttered.

As she quietly took a seat opposite him, a heavy silence settled between them. Bucky's thoughts churned with a whirlwind of emotions, each one vying for dominance over the others. His guard seemed to falter in the presence of her tentative yet comforting aura. The weight of his own vulnerability loomed large in his mind, drowning out the anger he had harboured towards her.

As the silence stretched between them, she felt a surge of compassion wash over her. She knew why he was awake at this time. She knew that the tea he brewed was to help him sleep. She was the one who planted that habit to him after all.

And despite everything that had transpired between them, she couldn't bear to see Bucky suffer alone. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, she decided to reach out to him, to offer what little comfort she could.

Without a word, y/n rose from her seat and moved to stand behind Bucky's chair. He stiffened at her touch, his muscles tense with apprehension. But as her gentle hands began to massage the tension from his neck, a wave of unexpected relief washed over him.

Her touch was soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the coldness he had grown accustomed to due to Jen’s unwillingness to acknowledge this side of him. She ran her fingers through his hair, coaxing him to relax, to let go of the burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders. For a brief moment, Bucky allowed himself to forget the walls he had built around his heart. In her presence, her voice, and her touch; he felt a glimmer of hope, a flicker of warmth that he had long since forgotten.

But then, like a sudden gust of wind extinguishing a fragile flame, the weight of Jen's words came crashing back down upon him. Anger flared within him, hot and fierce, directed not only at y/n but at himself for allowing his heart to yearn for her.

He pushed himself away from the table, his movements sharp and abrupt. "I don't need your pity, y/n," he spat, his words laced with bitterness. "Just leave me alone."

With that, he stormed out of the kitchen, leaving y/n alone in the suffocating silence.The disbelief that clouded her thoughts gave way to a searing agony that twisted in her chest. How could he say such things? How could he push her away so callously, after everything they had shared?

y/n buried her face in her hands, her body trembling with the force of her sobs. The weight of her shattered dreams pressed down on her, crushing her spirit beneath its merciless grip. She had never felt so alone, so utterly abandoned by the one person she had trusted above all others.

The pain of losing Bucky, of losing the love that had sustained her through the darkest of times, threatened to consume her whole. Each breath felt like a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder of the emptiness that now filled her soul.

In that moment of crushing despair, she couldn't help but believe that Bucky truly hated her. The thought tore through her like a knife, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound that no amount of time or distance could ever hope to heal.

As she sat alone in the suffocating silence of the kitchen, y/n felt the full weight of her heartbreak descend upon her like a tidal wave. She was lost in a sea of pain and sorrow, drowning in the agony of losing someone she had loved so deeply, so completely. And in that moment, she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever find her way back to the surface again.

Unbeknownst to her, Bucky lingered just out of sight, his heart heavy with guilt. He wanted to go back, to take back his harsh words and hold her close, to chase away the tears that stained her cheeks. But the poison in his mind was too strong, clouding his judgement and trapping him in a cycle of self-destructive despair. And so, with a heavy heart, he turned and walked away, leaving y/n to cry alone in the darkness.

The mission had already been tense enough, but as y/n found herself face to face with Jen in a location she wasn't supposed to be, the atmosphere crackled with an added layer of hostility. It was as if fate had conspired to place them in this confrontation, and her jaw clenched involuntarily as she braced herself for what was to come.

Jen's presence in that spot was no coincidence, and she knew it. Her suspicions were confirmed as Jen turned to face her, a smirk playing on her lips, a gleam of malice in her eyes. y/n's grip tightened on her weapon, her pulse quickening as she prepared for the verbal assault she knew was coming.

"How does it feel, knowing that Bucky hates you now?" Jen's words sliced through the air like a knife, each syllable carrying the weight of y/n’s deepest fears. It was a direct hit, striking at the core of her insecurities, and for a moment, she felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath her feet.

But she refused to let Jen see her falter. With a steely resolve, she squared her shoulders and met Jen's gaze head-on, her expression a mask of defiance. She may have been shaken by Jen's words, but she refused to let them break her.

Ignoring the taunts, she focused on the mission at hand, determined to prove her worth despite Jen's attempts to undermine her. But with each passing moment, the weight of Jen's words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over y/n’s every move.

It was a battle on two fronts – against the enemy they faced together, and against the doubts that threatened to consume her from within. But she refused to back down, drawing strength from the knowledge that she fought not just for herself, but for the team she believed in with all her heart.

But Jen's relentless barrage of insults made it difficult to concentrate, her words like daggers slicing through y/n’s defenses.

"Aww come on y/n, bet you’re reeling in the loss right now, aren’t you." Jen continued, her voice ice cold. "The Asset’s little lapdog, clinging to him like a lost puppy."

y/n’s temper flared at the insult, her grip tightening on her weapon as she fought to keep her emotions in check. But Jen's mocking laughter only fueled the fire burning within her, pushing her to the brink of her patience. "Shut your mouth, Jen," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Or I swear to God, I'll make sure that the team finds your body disassembled in one of these rooms."

Jen simply rolled her eyes, unfazed by her threat. "You love him that much, huh?" y/n had no intention to deny that fact; she does love him, "More than you ever could." her voice was firm and true. Jen’s smirk fell as she scoffed. "Ain't that cute, the Winter Soldier and his little psycho sweetheart."

Before y/n could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a knife, freezing her in place. It was Bucky, his expression dark and stormy as he stepped into view. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he took in the scene before him.

y/n’s heart sank as she realized that Bucky might have heard everything. She turned around to meet his eyes and his face confirmed her suspicion; he heard it. Bucky had heard everything – every taunt, every insult, every word exchanged between her and Jen; even the confession of her true feelings. She met his gaze; searching for some sign of understanding of his emotions and the little that she saw was: disappointment, betrayal and guilt, mirrored back at her in the depths of his stormy blue eyes.

In that moment, all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms, to pull him away from all the painful memories and hurtful words; so far away that he would forget he had ever been taunted, betrayed, or made to feel less than he was.

Before she could utter a word, let alone take a step towards him, Jen's voice broke through, but it lacked the usual confidence. "Bucky, it's not what you think," she stammered, her eyes darting nervously between Bucky and y/n. "I-I was just..."

y/n’s clenched her jaw, her patience wearing thin as Jen stumbled over her words, unable to come up with a coherent explanation. She could see the confusion and hurt in Bucky's eyes, a reflection of the turmoil raging within her own heart.

"I-I mean," Jen continued, her voice faltering. "I was...um...just trying to...uh..."

But her feeble attempts to justify her actions only served to further incense Bucky. His brow furrowed in anger, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

"Enough," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't want to hear any more lies."

y/n’s heart ached as she watched Bucky's expression darken with anger and disappointment. She wanted to explain, to tell him the truth about Jen's betrayal and her own misguided attempt to defend him. But the words caught in her throat, choked by the weight of her guilt and regret.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky turned away, his shoulders slumped with defeat. "Let's just finish the mission," he muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "We'll deal with this later."

As he was about to walk away, y/n noticed a red dot on his chest, the unmistakable mark of a sniper's laser sight. Without thinking twice, she leaped towards him, her body acting as a human shield. Time seemed to slow down as she collided with Bucky, pushing him out of the way.

"y/n, no!" Bucky shouted, his voice filled with panic as her body slumped against his chest.

In the chaos, Jen was nowhere to be seen. She had slipped away, taking shelter and ultimately fleeing the area as she heard multiple footsteps approaching.

Bucky tried to pull up his gun, but it was too late. An array of bullets rained down on them. He felt the searing pain of a few shots piercing his own flesh, but it was nothing compared to the sight of y/n’s body being riddled with bullets. She was hit in the shoulder, wrist, thighs, and other places Bucky couldn't even register.

Rage surged through Bucky like an inferno, obliterating any semblance of restraint. He moved with a deadly precision, his eyes blazing with fury as he unleashed a storm of bullets on the enemy. His movements were swift and unforgiving, every shot finding its mark with brutal accuracy. The enemy fell one by one, their bodies collapsing in lifeless heaps. The air was filled with the deafening sound of gunfire and the acrid smell of gunpowder, but Bucky's focus was unyielding.

Within moments, the room was cleared, the enemies wiped out in a flurry of rage-fueled vengeance.

The adrenaline ebbed away, leaving Bucky standing amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. He turned, and his eyes fell on y/n's crumpled form. The sight of her lying in a pool of her own blood shattered his rage, replacing it with a crushing wave of worry and panic.

"Hang in there. Please," Bucky hastily spoke, his voice trembling. He activated his com line, desperation seeping into his tone. "Guys, we need help. y/n... she's... she's been shot. We need to get out of here right now!" Panic coursed through him as he turned his attention back to y/n, frantically trying to stop the bleeding on her stomach. "y/n, doll…please" he pleaded, watching her hazy gaze. "Don't you dare give up on me now. Come on."

"babydoll, stay with me!" Bucky cried, his voice breaking as he cradled her in his arms. Blood soaked through her clothes, staining his hands. "Please, hang on, you can’t leave yet. I haven't told you... I haven't—"

Her eyes fluttered open, her breathing shallow and ragged. "It's okay, Bucky," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. "It's okay. Don't cry." Her shaking hands struggled to move, and with great effort, she managed to cup Bucky's cheek. The gesture was weak but filled with tenderness. "It's okay," she repeated, her fingers trembling against his skin.

"Don't talk like that," Bucky choked out, his own tears mingling with the blood on his face. "You can't.. I haven't told you...please doll..." His voice wavered with the weight of unspoken words and unconfessed feelings. He hadn't told her how much he truly cared for her, how every moment spent away from her felt like an eternity. He hadn't begged for forgiveness for his coldness, his mistakes, and for letting Jen's poison taint his actions. The guilt gnawed at him, each heartbeat a reminder of the words he hadn't said, the emotions he hadn't expressed.

He pressed her hand harder against his cheek, feeling the warmth of her touch anchoring him in the moment.Her hand weakly brushing against his cheek. "I know, sweetheart," she murmured. "I know."

Bucky's heart shattered as he clung to her, feeling her life slipping away. "No, no, no," he muttered desperately. "You can't leave me. Please, y/n. Please."

She smiled faintly, her eyes closing. "I'm here, Bucky. I'm right here."

With a final, shuddering breath, y/n’s consciousness slipped away. Bucky felt a surge of panic, but he knew he had to move. He lifted her limp body, cradling her against his chest as he ran towards the quinjet. Each step was agony, his own injuries slowing him down, but he didn't care. All that mattered was getting y/n to safety.

"Hang on, y/n," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Hang on. I won't let you go."

In the sterile environment of the medical bay, y/n lay unconscious, her body hooked up to various machines that monitored her vital signs. Bucky sat by her bedside, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Every beep of the monitor seemed to echo through the silence, a haunting reminder of her fragile state. He held her hand, his thumb gently caressing her bandaged wrist.

Memories of their time together flooded Bucky's mind, each one a bittersweet reminder of the connection they shared. He remembered the laughter they had shared, the late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning. He remembered the gentle touch of her hand, the warmth of her smile that never failed to chase away the darkness.

But amidst the memories, there was also pain – the pain of their last conversation, the words left unsaid and the choices left unmade. Bucky's throat tightened as he recalled the day he had walked away from Jen, the air thick with tension and unspoken truths.

His voice was cold and final. "You almost got her killed, Jen," he had said, his eyes blazing with anger. "Stay away from us. Stay away from me."

Jen's eyes had flashed with anger, her words cutting like knives as she lashed out in frustration. "And what, you think you'll find someone better than me?" she had spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Good luck with that, Bucky. You'll never find anyone who would put up with your baggage."

But Bucky had remained resolute, his decision fueled by a sense of longing and regret that threatened to consume him whole. "Maybe not," he had admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'd rather be alone than with someone who doesn't truly care about me."

Now, as Bucky sat by y/n’s bedside, the weight of his decision bore down on him like a crushing weight. Tears welled in his eyes as he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers trembling with emotion.

"I'm so sorry, babydoll," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I never meant for any of this to happen. So, please, wake up. I need you."

But y/n remained unconscious, her breathing shallow and weak as she lay before him. And as Bucky watched over her, his heart heavy with worry and regret, he vowed to do whatever it took to bring her back to him, to keep her safe from harm for all eternity.

For in that moment, Bucky realized that he couldn't bear to lose her – not now, not ever. She was his rock, his anchor in a world of uncertainty and pain. And as he held her hand tightly in his own, he prayed with all his heart that she would find her way back to him, to the love and light that had always guided them through the darkness.

The soft hum of machines filled the air as y/n stirred awake, her senses slowly coming back to her. She blinked, disoriented at first, until her gaze fell upon Bucky, who was sleeping soundly in the chair beside her bed. His hands were clasped tightly around hers, his face peaceful in slumber, but she couldn't help but notice the tear stains on his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines etched into his forehead.

"How long has it been since?" she wondered to herself, her heart aching at the sight of Bucky's exhausted form. She carefully sat up, trying not to disturb him as she lovingly examined his sleeping face. She couldn't help but smile as she gently ran her fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping through her fingertips.

Bucky groaned as his sleep was interrupted, muttering something about Sam needs to leave him be; before he abruptly sat up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Hi there," y/n greeted softly, her eyes sparkling with affection as she watched Bucky's reaction.

For a moment, Bucky seemed unable to comprehend that she was finally awake. His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape. But then the realization hit him, and he threw himself at her, wrapping her in a tight embrace as if she were the most precious thing in the world .Despite the pain that shot through her body, she managed to let out a soft chuckle, returning his embrace with equal fervor. The warmth of his embrace chased away the lingering chill of unconsciousness, and for a moment, everything felt right.

"y/n..." Bucky breathed into her neck, his voice trembling with emotion. She hummed in response, her heart swelling for him. "Hmmm?"

Not wanting to let go of her, Bucky called her name once again, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "y/n-..." She paused, her lips curving into a tender smile as she whispered in his ear, "Yes, Bucky?"

Bucky tightened his grip, his breath hitching in his throat as he buried his face in her shoulder. y/n gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "I'm here, sweetheart." The scent of her hair, the feel of her warmth against him—it all felt overwhelming. Emotions churned inside him like a tempest. Relief, guilt, love, and fear battled for dominance, leaving him raw and exposed.

She gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "Bucky, I'm not going anywhere.

Bucky's mind raced, images of the past few weeks flashing before his eyes. He remembered the coldness with which he'd treated her, the cruel words that had slipped from his lips, fueled by Jen's poison. He thought of the sleepless nights, the nightmares that had gripped him, and the aching void he'd felt every time he saw y/n’s hurt expression.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "For everything. For not believing you. For pushing you away."

Reluctantly, she pulled away, but not before wiping the tears from Bucky's cheeks and fighting the urge to place a tender kiss on his forehead. As she looked into his eyes, she could see the depth of his love and the pain he had endured for her sake. And in that moment, she knew that she had found her home in his arms. Bucky took her hands in his own, his eyes closed as he pressed a kiss to her wounded wrists. "This will never happen again. Ever," he vowed, his voice filled with determination.

Moved by his words, y/n felt her heart flutter with emotion. She realized in that moment that she could never stay angry at him, no matter what had transpired between them. She understood now that they were both at fault, both victims of circumstance and misunderstanding.

With a surge of courage, she reached out and pulled Bucky into a kiss. Her lips met his in a slow, passionate embrace, pouring all of her love and forgiveness into the tender gesture. It was a moment of connection, of healing, of reaffirming their bond despite the trials they had faced.

The taste of Bucky's lips was like a soothing salve to her soul; it was intoxicating. It felt as if the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them entwined in each other's arms. When they finally broke apart, Bucky whispered those three words that y/n had longed to hear, "I love you."

Her heart soared with joy, and she couldn't help but tease him, "Took you long enough." her teasing words met with a cheeky grin from Bucky. "I love you too, Bucky" she blinked slowly. As he whispered softly under his breath, "Come here," he pulled her back into the kiss, their lips meeting in a tender embrace that spoke volumes of their unspoken love. And in that moment, amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their world, they found solace in each other's arms, knowing that together, they could weather any storm.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: I just needed to let this out lmao. It's been stuck in my head for several weeks. Thank you for spending your time reading this crap... honestly. Love you so much 🤍

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #tfatws!bucky #bucky angst #bucky fluff

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myfictionaldreams · 1 month ago

Note

Hiiiiii

Hope you are doing well🥺 ✨🦎

Sooo I thought about this one:

Natasha and Sam are helping the reader to defend herself with some weapons like a gun and a knife…

But Steve and Bucky don’t know this until she has to use those new skills…

Probably the hottest thing they have seen?

Their girl manhandling someone who hurts HER boys? Hell yeah

~ 🦎

⁀➷ Sweet & Armed // Mafia!Stucky x F!Reader

Summary: In a world of danger and dominance, she’s the soft center — until the day she proves she can bite just as hard as they bark.

Requested by: 🦎 -- Thank you for your request! I've also mixed this with your first request for the reader to do something nice for the boys. I hope you like it!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, threesome, attempted kidnapping, violence, mild injury (bruised hand), protective stucky, domestic fluff, poly, dom/sub, double penetration, anal, praise kink, sir kink

Words: 4.5k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The morning was peacefully quiet in the Rogers-Barnes estate—calm in the way only highly protected, 24-hour security could buy. Somewhere out of sight, a small army of guards monitored every inch of the surroundings.

But inside the homely kitchen, nothing stirred except for the soft hum of an old Sinatra vinyl playing low in the background, and the occasional bark from Dodger as he chased shadows across the polished floors.

You were barefoot, wearing only one of Steve’s soft white Henleys that dragged below your thighs, and a smile that only deepened each time the smell of cinnamon and warm sugar drifted from the oven. A few days ago, the recipe book you found had been shoved behind a row of aged Scotch bottles. The corners of the pages curving with age, handwritten notes smothering the recipes, add to the original recipes.

You’d found the jackpot with these books—the margins were filled with directions from Sarah Rogers and Winifred Barnes.

A surprise you were jumping on the spot to tell.

The dough under your fingers was sticky as you prepared another batch of treats. One tray was baking, and the other was already cooling. The boys would be up soon from the creaking of slow steps on the floor above your head.

As you were licking cinnamon sugar off your fingers, you turned, only to jump slightly as a low voice drawled from the doorway.

“Well, ain’t this a damn sight, Sweet Mama.”

Bucky Barnes stood shirtless in grey joggers, his hair a smidge longer than his usual buzz cut, facial hair freshly trimmed. He leaned against the doorframe, blinking sleepily, and still somehow looked like a sin.

You gave him a sheepish smile, hand on your chest, “You scared me.”

His blue eyes dragged down your legs, over the flour dusting your thighs. “My bad, doll. Didn’t realise angels made breakfast too.”

Before you could roll your eyes, he was behind you, wrapping both arms securely around your waist, his flesh hand warm and his vibranium one cool against your stomach. He nuzzled into your neck with a pleased groan.

“You cooking rugelach? My mom used to make this exact recipe. Damn near forot the smell.”

“I found an old book, I think it was hers.”

Bucky went still.

“You did?”

You nodded, wiping your hands on a towel and pulling it from the counter to show him. He stared down at the page and fading writing, then looked back at you with an emotion that didn’t often cross his handsome face.

“This…” he cleared his throat. “This means a lot, sweetheart. More than you know.”

Before you could reply, Dodger trotted into the kitchen, his wet nose nudging against Bucky’s leg, begging for scratches. “Good morning to you, too, Dodge. Have you been helping Mama bake?”

Just then, Steve’s heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs. Moments later, he was filling the doorway. “Something smells good.”

Bucky steps aside as Steve enters, tall, golden, and freshly showered. He pauses mid-stride, eyes landing on you standing barefoot surrounded by pastries, and his entire expression softens.

“Jesus, are you trying to kill us?”

You blinked. “What?”

He crossed the room, cupping your face in his warm palms, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You. Looking like this. Making my ma’s cookies.” Steve turned briefly to Bucky. “You see this? This is wife behaviour.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Bucky smirks, stepping closer until you’re sandwiched between their bodies. Sighing into their hold, you spend a moment just breathing them in, thankful for moments like this where even simple actions could have so much appreciation from your boyfriends.

“Are we still on for that picnic later? I thought I could bring some of these treats along.”

Bucky’s the first to move away from the hug, moving over to the sink to fill a glass with water. “Yeah, Sam and Nat will be here around noon to load the car.”

“Dibs, I’m taking the bike”, Steve adds.

“Like hell, I own the bike, Steve,” Bucky snaps back, nearly choking on his water.

“Yeah? I ride it better.”

Dodger barked once, as if to cast his vote.

The argument might’ve gone on forever, if not for the moment you walked past them hours later, your sundress fluttering just enough to reveal the curve of your thighs as you bent to pick up your bag. You didn’t mean to do it. But you felt their eyes snap to you like magnets.

Steve’s voice dropped. “Forget the bike.”

“Yep, forget the bike, I’m riding with her.”

Bucky practically tackled Steve out of the way to the car to hold the door open for you, a move that had the blonde rolling his eyes and swearing under his breath for not thinking of it first. This was all after 10 minutes of arguing who would sit next to you, just to decide that there was plenty of room in the back seats for them to be on either side of you.

So there you were, with warm sunlight beaming through the tinted windows, the hum of the radio lowly playing in the background, and the subtle crackle of a secured radio line in the front seat where Natasha and Sam kept one ear tuned into security updates.

Steve and Bucky’s shoulders and thighs pressed firmly against yours, each had a hand resting possessively on your bare thigh, having pushed the flimsy material up slightly to be skin to skin.

“You smell like cinnamon. Are you sure you want to go outside today? I kind of want you all to myself. I don’t know how Buck’s feeling.”

Bucky's hand gently squeezes your thigh, smirking, “I’m trying to be a team player, Wilson’s been begging like a little princess for this for months.”

Sam, who was driving you all, calmly lifted his little finger towards his boss and best friend, causing a laugh from all three of you.

“You’re all ridiculous,” you say softly, leaning your head against Steve’s shoulder.

“Insanely in love with you. Not the same thing,” Steve corrects, kissing your temple for a couple of long seconds.

The car bumped gently as they pulled off the main road into a hidden field surrounded by tall forest and protected by surveillance drones overhead. You knew the place well. It was one of the few safe zones that hadn’t been compromised, a place where they could let their guards down just enough to breathe.

Blankets were spread across the trimmed grass, and the warm scent of late spring was in the air. Sam unpacked the drinks while Natasha laid out sandwiches and extra ammo clips with equal ease.

“Sometimes I forget how equipped you are. Where do you even hide these things?” you ask, nodding to the assortment of weapons.

Natasha smirks, flipping her red hair over one shoulder, “You say that like I didn’t grow up doing tactical training in sunflower fields.

Sam hands you a bottle of lemonade. “Enjoy the moment, boss lady. Days like this don’t come often.”

You nod thoughtfully.

For a while, everything is right. Bucy sat behind you with his arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders, tracing slow circles on your stomach as Steve fed Dodger bits of jerky and talked shit to Sam about his choice in baseball teams. Natasha laughed in a way you rarely heard, leaning in occasionally to give teasing digs to all the boys, but never you, she was always a girl's girl.

You were about to reach for another cookie when a football thudded into the blanket near your hand. Steve grins, “C’mon, baby. You ever tossed one of these?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you throw people.”

“Sam motion,” Steve shrugs, stretching. “Less screaming.”

You stand, wiping crumbs off your dress. “Okay. But if you make me run, you can walk home.”

That earned a while from Sam. “Boss lady’s got jokes now, huh?”

You return Sam’s earlier gesture with a middle finger, laughing whilst walking across the field. Each person had an exaggerated stance. Bucky was cocky, steve overly technical, and sam too smooth for his good. Natasha opted to watch from the blanket with her shades on, though you knew she wasn’t really relaxing; her eyes never stopped scanning the treeline.

Everything was perfect, until Bucky started with a ridiculous overhead throw, the ball whizzing past your head and landing a significant distance away in the field.

“Sorry, Doll!” but from his shit eating grin you knew he wasn’t that sorry.

With a deep sigh, you walked to the ball and, with more energy than necessary, threw the ball to Sam, which only landed halfway because everyone was so far away now.

Eventually, it was back to Bucky, who grinned and threw the ball past where you were standing, past even the field and into the edge of the forest.

Turning with a huff at your boyfriend's antics of showing off his physical skills, you disappear between the trees. Sunlight breaks into thin beams as the sounds of laughter fade behind you. The ball wasn’t too far away, easily spotted, and tangled in a bed of wildflowers and fallen branches.

You reached for it. And froze. The hairs on your neck lifted a second before instinct kicked in.

A presence behind you- too close, too quiet. Your fingers curled around the ball, but you didn’t turn just yet. Instead, you took a steadying breath, tucking it to your chest and walking quickly back toward the clearing.

And that’s when the air changed. Just as your foot broke the tree line, the sun's heat smoothing your face, you just knew.

There was someone behind you. Before you could fully react, an arm hooked toward your waist. You dropped the football and twisted hard, driven more by instinct than thought.

From the field, everything happened at once.

Steve;s gun was drawn, cock. “Drop her-NOW!”

Bucky was already moving, low and fast across the field, but you’d somehow managed to be so far away from the others with the little ball throwing that it would still take him more time than necessary to get to your side.

And what’s worse is that you were directly in front of the attacker, and there was no clean shot.

“Don’t move!” Natasha barked, her voice sharp, her gun drawn and pointed. “Sugar, pivot! Use your elbow! Disarm!”

The man’s grip tightened, but your training kicked in, Natasha’s orders reminding your shocked body to move. You ducked low, slamming your heel into his shin, and drove your elbow back into his ribs. As he flinched, you spun, knocking the gun from his hand, and delivered a clean, closed-fist punch to his jaw, just like Sam and Nat had drilled into you.

Pain burst through your knuckles, but you followed through. The man dropped, stunned, his nose gushing with blood, eyes dazed.

Your chest heaved as you staggered back, knuckles throbbing.

The unknown man groaned on the ground at your feet.

Natasha let out a low whistle from across the field. “Hell of a takedown!”

Bucky is suddenly there, hands cradling your injured hand whilst easily able to kick out his leg, booting the man straight in the head, knocking him unconscious. “You okay? Talk to me, Doll.”

You nodded, heart still racing.” I’m fine. I-he grabbed me, but I just moved, I don’t know what just happened.” You say a little out of it, the adrenaline thumping through your veins.

“You moved like someone trained by a fucking assassin.” Steve’s now at your side, checking the rest of your body, sounding both impressed and furious as he makes sure also to kick the man in the ribs, earning a wheeze. “You tell us everything, right fucking now.”

Sam and Nat appear on either side of you. “She’s been training with Nat and me for six months.”

Steve’s head whips around. “What?!”

“She asked. We said yes. Don’t act shocked, it’s saved her life, hasn’t it?”

“Holy shit,” bucky said, breathing hard as he stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time. “You- goddamn, hot mama.”

Steve lifts your hand, inspecting the angry swelling along your knuckle, checking each finger for movement. “You’re still hurt.”

“It’s just a bruise,” you try to justify, a little nervous that they’d found out about your training. It wasn’t like you were doing it for any specific reason other than safety. I hoped it wouldn’t get to a point where you’d have to use it, but with the type of jobs your boyfriends had, it was better to be safe than sorry.

“You punched someone, I mean, actually punched someone with those soft little hands-”, Bucky murmurs affectionately.

“And she won,” Natasha added, amused. “Flawless technique. You should see her with a blade.”

Steve looked like he needed to sit down. Or bend you over a table.

Instead, he kissed your throbbing palm reverently. “We’re gonna fix this. And then we’re gonna talk. And then…”

The blueness of his eyes darkened with the lowering of his eyelids, but it was Bucky who finished his sentence for him: “...we’re going to show you exactly how proud we are.”

The ride back was quiet. It was not cold but heavy, like the air was thick with unsaid things. You remained sitting between Steve and Bucky, your bruised hand resting on your lap, bandaged lightly from the first aid kit.

The clean-up team arrived just before you’d all left. The man was presumably taken back to the office and held there until Steve and Bucky began questioning him until they were satisfied with his answers.

Bucky hadn’t let go of your other hand. Steve’s fist was so tightly holding onto the door handle that you’re actually worried about it snapping off.

You’d been the one attacked, the one who fought back, but they were the ones unravelling.

No radio was playing, just the road humming beneath the tires, and the sound of Steve exhaling too often through his nose.

Glancing at Bucky, staring contemplatively out of the window, you nudge your shoulder against his to get his attention. “I’m really okay. It’s just a bruise.”

He didn’t answer at first, then quietly, “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Something low in your stomach tugs.

“I should have seen him,” Steve demands. I shouldn’t—Jesus, I'm trained to notice shadows moving wrong, and I let you walk into the woods alone.”

“Steve-”

He shook his head, jaw flexing, the door handle groaning as his grip tightened. “I swore to protect you, that's all I ever wanted. I dont give a damn about the name, or the territory, or the money. Just you and Bucky.”

“You do protect me. Both of you do, all the time,” you say softly, trying to sound reassuring.

His eyes darted to your injury, “You had to protect yourself.”

“I'm glad I could.”

Bucky interrupts as his fingers graze your chin, turning your face towards his, “That's not the point, Doll.”

You reach out, cupping Bucky’s jaw with your uninjured hand. “I love that you want to keep me safe. I love it so much, but it scares me sometimes. But I can't sit in a tower and wait to be reduced every time.”

The car rolls to a stop directly outside your home. Bucky opens your door, helping you out, his hand gentle on the small of your back. Inside, it is quiet. Even Dodger is tamer than usual, seemingly sensing the tension. Natasha and Sam have stayed behind to brief the others, leaving just the three of you—well, four, including Dodger.

Steve had his hands on his hips, staring down at the kitchen table where you’d once baked. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed.

Bucky moved towards the kitchen cupboard, returning with another first aid kit.

“Sit, baby. Let us clean you up properly.”

You perched on the edge of the counter as Bucky gently unwrapped the makeshift bandage, revealing the swollen skin of your knuckles. Steve hovered beside him, unable to stop touching you from your shoulder, your thigh, and the back of your neck. He needed to reassure himself that you were here, breathing and warm.

Bucky applied a cold compress, so delicately you barely felt it, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Was it Sam who taught you that follow-through technique?”

You nod, “Nat taught me how to use a knife, but I just didn’t have one today.”

It was meant to be a joke, but Steve’s hand curled tighter on your waist. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“But you didn’t freeze. You didn’t falter. You fought.” Bucky meets your eyes, his voice low and full of emotion.

You nod slowly, staring down at your hands. “I just knew what to do.”

Bucky kisses the inside of your wrist. That part of you? That fire? It's ours too. Don’t ever be ashamed of it.”

Steve took your face in both hands, brushing his thumbs under your eyes. “We were wrong. You’re not fragile, you’re so fucking strong, baby girl. But you shouldn’t have to be.”

Your voice cracked, and your eyes tingled with fresh tears. " I don't want to be strong all the time. I just don't want to be helpless either.”

“You’re not. You never were,” Bucky reassures, his hands now resting against the outside of your thighs.

Steve’s forehead carefully rests against yours. “Let us take care of you now. Let us make it right.”

Your lips parted. You could feel the tension changing, twisting into something deeper, darker. Something ravenous and entirely earned.

You swallowed, breath shallow. “Please.”

They didn’t need another word.

Steve kissed you first. Right there in the kitchen, with your bruised hand still bandaged and Bucky pressing cold packs against the bruising. Steve dipped his head and took your mouth like it belonged to him, which, truthfully, it always had.

It was tender at first, filled with warmth and able to speak every emotion running through the man's head. But his control snapped when your other hand curled into his shirt, and a whine slipped from your lips.

“You just have no idea what you do to us,” he muttered, sliding his mouth down your neck, tasting your skin. “Seeing you like that, owning that bastard. God, baby. You don't even know.”

Bucky's fingers brushed your sensitive inner thigh as he stepped between your legs. His voiceis more guttural. “You don’t get it, do you? You flipped that switch, sweetheart. We’re fucking gone for you now.”

You were dizzy with the way they looked at you, as if you were something they worshipped.

“Bedroom. Now,” Steve demands with a gruffness to his voice, eyes stormy with hunger.

Bucky effortlessly swings your body into his arms without hesitation, and you squeak in surprise, gripping his broad shoulders. Your response has Dodger barking in the background. “I can walk, you know!”

“Too slow,” Bucky grins, kissing your cheek. “You took down a grown man with a gun, but this is our domain, doll.”

They laid you on the bed like something sacred. The curtains were drawn, and the dim evening light cast golden halos around them both. Steve stripped first, pulling his shirt off over his head, then Bucky followed. Their muscles flexed under old scars, symbols of the life they’d led, the war they'd found and the kingdom they ruled.

“Allow me”, Bucky smirked, reaching for your dress and ripping it down the middle, leaving you in just your bra and panties. “Been wanting to do that all day.”

“Hey, I liked that dress!”

“Yeah? I’ll buy you 20 more. Now, I want to make you feel so good that you forget you ever had to use that hand for anything other than holding on to us.”

You shiver, nipples hardening beneath the material of your bra.

“Colour?” Steve asks softly, removing the last item of clothing on his body—his boxers.

Whilst staring at his hard, throbbing cock that pointed in your direction you responded, “green. So fucking green.”

Steve grins, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “Good girl.”

That praise shot straight through you, warmth flooding between your thighs. Bucky joined him, his metal hand cool against your stomach as he slid it lower, spreading your legs apart.

“So wet for us already, doll. I can see that wet patch through your panties. Just from hearing we’re proud of you?” he questions, gently teasing your inner thighs as your hips move towards him.

You whimper, “always wanna be good for you.”

“You are,” Steve breathed, kissing down your chest, his facial hair rough against your sternum as he squeezes your breast through your bra. “You’re our good girl. Always. “

With a simplicity that was to show off his strength, Steve tore through the centre of your bra, your breasts slipping free, your underwear following the same response until you’re naked beneath them.

Steve covers your chest, his thumb and finger rolling one nipple whilst his tongue flattens against the other. With his big, bulky body covering your torso, you’re unable to keep an eye on Bucky, but you can feel him, especially the way his body now squeezes down between your thighs, legs resting over his shoulders.

You felt buckys tongue first, slow, flat licks up your slit, savouring you like a reward. His fingers held your hips down as you squirmed, moaning softly as your fingers grip Steve’s biceps, just for something to hold onto.

Bucky’s moan is your underdoing, just the raw, grunt of the tone, and the vibrations adding just enough pressure against your clit as his mouth circled it. He was moaning like you were the weetest thing he’d ever tasted. “She’s dripping, Steve. Every moan and word, she's squeezing around nothing. Our girl here tastes so fucking good.”

“Hmm, how about we wreck her, Bucky?” Steve's voice is ragged as he watches your body tremble and react to the man between your legs. “I want to see her fall apart, just for us.”

Hearing them talk about you like this, whilst you’re pressed down into the mattress, taking the pleasure is enough to have your eyes rolling back, your pussy tightening before wave after wave of your orgasm pulses deep in your core.

“That’s it, baby girl, you’re doing so well for Bucky, coming all over his face like that. You look so beautiful letting go,” Steve encouraged, his fingers continuing to tweak your nipple, only adding to the heightened stimulation of Bucky’s tongue.

“Sir-oh my god, sir!” you cry out, body trying to arch into the touches but unable to with their hulking forms holding you down.

“Say it again,” Steve’s eyes flare, widening as he licks his lips.

“Sir!”

“Fuck, Doll,” Bucky chants, groaning as he sucks on your clit hard, coaxing another whimper from you.

“Come here.”

You’re not even in control of your body anymore with the after orgasm glow, but thankfully, Steve is moving you for you. With ease, he’s turning you over as he slips underneath your body, so you’re now straddling his waist. Your thighs are shaking, trying to hold up your weight, so you slump chest to chest against Steve, leaning into his warmth as his hands soothingly stroke up your spine.

“Colour?”

“Green”, you say without hesitation.

“What do you say now, baby? You want both of us? Want to be filled front and back?”

Your whimper is pathetic as you nod repeatedly, shifting your hips back until the tip of his cock is captured between your bodies as you grind down against it.

Cool metallic fingers press into your arse cheeks, massaging the muscles as you continue to rub yourself against Steve. “Gotta go slow, yeah?” Bucky’s voice drifts from behind you as he kneels further down the bed between Steve’s legs. “Gotta stretch you open first, make sure you are nice and ready for us, Doll.”

You hear Bucky reaching into the bedside drawer, followed quickly by cold lube squirted onto your tight hole. Slicking up his fingers, he starts with one, working it up to the knuckle before pulling out. Each time he slowly enters, you can feel your arse trying to relax before tightening as another wave of arousal bursts through you.

“Please, sir, I can take it! I need you inside me,” you beg, kissing over Steve’s pecs.

“Just wait, baby. I don’t want to hurt you,” Bucky encouraged you, adding another finger as you’re grinding down onto him.

A third finger is inside you, and you’re reaching back to Bucky, trying to pull him closer.

Thankfully, he does as he eases his fingers out of you. “Shh, you’ve got to take Steve first, okay?”

“Yes, sir”.

Bucky reaches between your bodies, gripping Steve’s cock and manouvers hislength until you’re able to slide back onto it. Your cries of pleasure are nearly drowned out by Steve’s as his hands hold onto your hips, controlling your movements, keeping you still as his dick throbs inside your cunt.

Then Bucky is there, laterhing his cock in more lube and pressing his hips against yours. Slowly and deeply, he inches himself in. The stretch is perfect; you can feel it everywhere. So much, but never too much.

“Doing so good, baby girl. So perfect taking both of us. Breathe. You can take it. You were meant to take us,” Steve’s voice is gentle but authoritative, keeping you calm as you didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath.

Their movements were so fucking slow, perfectly slow to begin with, letting your body adjust to being full. Then you’re taking over, rolling your hips, their cocks inching in and out.

“Fuck, this tight little hole feels so good, always so good for us. You’re milking us both,” Bucky gasps, his fingers flexing on your hips where his fingers are linked with Steve’s.

Your mouth is hanging open, a constant string of explicits and cries as all you can do and want to do is lie there and take their cocks, being as close to them as you can get.

“That’s it, I can feel you squeezing us, Doll. Come for us,” Steve encouraged, rocking his hips into you with firmer strokes.

The orgasm hit like lightning, a burning tingle starting between your legs and spreading through your limbs. It doesn’t slow down either. The pulsing of your cunt goes on and on as Steve and Bucky just keep on fucking you.

“Please-” you whisper into Steve’s chest, body limp and beautifully sated.

“You want our come, baby?” Steve asks, already knowing the answer as he grunts with another thrust of his hips up into you.

“Yes, sir. Please!”

“Good girl, take it all,” Bucky shouts, his hips speeding up until he’s as deep as he can go, pausing and trembling, heat seeping into your insides as he cums. Steve, holding tightly to your waist, thrusts and thrusts until he, too, holds still.

They held you there, bodies pressed tight to yours, still buried deep but with their come mixing with your juices.

And then they were gentle again. Bucky cleaned between your thighs with a warm towel, drying the area afterwards to ensure you weren’t too sore.

Kissing your bruised knuckles, Steve makes sure you’re mentally well, that you aren’t feeling too spaced out, but you’re perfectly present and happy.

“We’ve got you now.”

“You’re ours, baby.”

#mafia!stucky #mafia au #mafia stucky #stucky x reader #stucky #stucky smut #steve rogers #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #bucky barnes smut #mine*

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veltana · 9 months ago

Text

Breaking point

✦ Pairing: Roommate!Bucky Barnes/Fem!Reader

✦ Word count: ~2,5k

✦ Rating: Explicit

✦ Warnings/tags: Dub-con (proceed with caution if this might trigger you), pwp, smut and a bit of fluff at the end, possessive/protective!bucky, degredation (slut, fuck doll, cum-bucket), grinding, choking, spitting, pussy slapping, fingering, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie, pet name (sweetheart).

✦ Summary: Bucky is done with you going out with losers.

✦ Note: This used to be called I will kill them if they touch you but I never liked that title so I renamed it! Also, you guys didn't know what you were voting for, but it was the banner for this story! Please reblog and comment! Asks are always welcome 💚

Masterlist | AO3

"Please don't scare this one away as you did last time," you beg and look at Bucky's reflection in the bathroom mirror. He makes a face where he's leaning against the door frame behind you and then sighs when you give him a look. "He wasn't worth shit if he didn't wanna fight for you," he points out.

Now it's your turn to sigh and you cross your arms, glaring at him. "He isn't supposed to fight for me on a first date. We're supposed to have a good time and hopefully fuck." Bucky's mouth hardens, and he looks away. He doesn’t like that, at all.

Ever since you became roommates he's been very protective of you, helping you with the smallest things, driving you everywhere you need to go, even if you can drive yourself. Sometimes it's overbearing but most of the time it's nice to have someone care for you like that.

Unfortunately, recently he's picked up a habit of intimidating the people you go on dates with. He stands behind you when they come to pick you up, and his large frame and cold stare make many of them cower. A few have turned around right away, others have asked if that's your boyfriend or something, thinking it was some type of open relationship/cuckold situation.

"Don't say shit like that," Bucky says through gritted teeth. "I don't wanna think about you fucking other people." You can't help the teasing smile that cracks your face. "Makes you jealous?" With a huff, Bucky pushes off and leaves you to continue.

Two hours later your makeup is done and your hair fixed to perfection. You sit on the couch in shorts and a t-shirt, with a glass of wine, waiting until the last minute to put on the skin-tight dress. While scrolling on your phone, Bucky sits beside you with a beer. "So where's the loser taking you?" "Don't care,” you shrug. “Honestly, my priority tonight is to get laid. The previous ones were a little too… bland. But he seems promising." "What do you mean, bland?"

Putting your phone down you look at him, "You don't wanna hear this anyway, you'll just get mad," you point out. "I don't get mad," he defends. "Pfff, you're such a liar, I can see it in your eyes whenever I mention another guy." "Because you deserve the best and all I've seen is trash."

Irritated, you put your glass down too. "Why don't you pick for me then? Who would James Bucky Barnes deem worthy of fucking me?"

The grip on his beer is so hard his knuckles whiten and his lips are a thin line. When he doesn't answer you lean back and start to count people off.

"Well, Steve seems a bit too sweet for my taste but I mean I would not mind trying a slice of that all-American beefcake," you muse. "Sam is so charming and funny! That quick tongue would probably work wonders, if you know what I mean," you wink and watch as Bucky's eye twitch, his jaw clenched hard.

"Tony," you continue. "Well, he seems a little self-absorbed but maybe he's a really selfless lover. Won't hurt to check!" "Loki is so handsome," you bite your lip. "I would surrender my body to him in a heartbeat! But I've heard that he leaves people high and dry and that would be awful."

Tilting your head, you say, "Do you think Thor and Jane would be up for a threesome? I can just imagine eating her out while he fucks me from behind and then we could-"

With a slam he puts the bottle on the table and grabs your face with his hand forcefully, silencing your tirade of words and squeezing your cheeks so that your lips pucker.

The grip is close to bruising and it's an instant pull in your lower stomach. His eyes are black with anger, something you've never seen directed at you before. "No one," he hisses. "Not one of them is fucking you, I will kill them if they touch you."

His hand releases you and grabs your neck instead. You're shocked, and instantly so horny it hurts. Opening your mouth to speak he squeezes harder, making a wheezing sound come out.

"I'll give you a chance to stop this. Tell me right now you don't want this and we'll act as if nothing happened. Otherwise, I'm fucking you into this couch until you can't remember your goddamn name." When he finishes his grip lightens. The rush of blood makes you euphoric and boneless. You want to give yourself to him, let him do whatever he wants. "Fuck me," you whisper.

The kiss is more teeth than lips and the hold around your throat hardens again. You try to keep up with him but it's impossible as he pushes his tongue into your mouth, claiming every inch, making you lightheaded with the lack of oxygen. You gasp for air as he pulls away, releasing you. His gaze is brimming with lust and want now, all signs of anger gone. Then he pushes you down onto the couch.

"You're a kinky little slut, aren't you sweetheart?" he mocks and leans in over you, spreading your legs with his. All you can do is nod and try to wiggle close so you can press your center against his clothed cock. It's clearly outlined in his sweatpants and you hope it's as big as it seems. "If I put my hand down your pants, are you gonna be wet for me?" "Yes Bucky," you whine.

The throbbing is almost unbearable and his smirk is downright sinful. "Come on, rub yourself on me, show me how much you want it." With another whine, you brace yourself against the couch and lift your hips. He doesn't move a muscle to help as you struggle to find the right position.

"That's disappointing," Bucky smacks his lips and frowns. "Thought you wanted this." "I do Bucky, I do, please I'm trying," you tell him desperately. With effort, you get into a good enough position to grind your cunt on his cock through the layers of clothing. It's not nearly enough to curb the ache.

"Useless," Bucky sighs and grabs your legs. "Do I have to do everything?" He pushes your knees up towards your chest, folding you in half and pushing his cock right into your core.

"Sorry," you moan. His mean words have only made you needier and you move yourself against him with abandon. Bucky is motionless above you, not making a sound or saying a word, just staring at you chasing your high. Your movements turn unsteady when you start to come close.

If you were of sound mind you would notice the glint in his eyes but instead, you’re barreling towards your climax. Until he suddenly moves away.

Gawking you stare at him and he just smiles wickedly in return. "Take off your clothes, spread your legs" he instructs and you quickly pull your pants off and discard your t-shirt and underwear, spreading your legs as best you can on the couch. Bucky takes in your bare body, moving his hands slowly down your thighs until his palms frame your pussy.

"Fucking shaved for him too,” he notes with a snarl. You're not sure why that upset him. "Sorry!" you say, just to be safe.

"I don't need your hair curled, your make-up done or your whole body shaved. I will fuck you anyway, sweetheart, no matter what you look like because you belong to me," he growls before he spits on your cunt, sending a rush through you, making you moan and spread your legs even more.

For the first time, he touches you properly, letting his fingers spread the spit all over your pussy before shoving two of them into your soaked core. He pistons them in and out, putting his thumb against your clit and making colors burst before you.

"You want to come on my fingers, you fucking slut?" When you nod frantically he instructs, "Open your mouth, stick out your tongue." A second after you do spit lands on your tongue and droplets on your face. It nearly tips you over.

"Swallow it," he orders and watches you as you do, some form of approval shining in his eyes for the first time. "Who do you belong to?"

The question is too complicated to understand, you can't focus on what he wants. "I don't…" is all that comes out.

"Wrong answer," he says and removes his fingers, making you shout in disappointment. Sharp slaps land on your wet cunt and you instinctively try to move away from it, but he grabs your legs, pulling you back. "Don't you fucking run from me."

"I'm sorry," you cry, looking pleadingly at him. "I'm- I'm yours James, yours to do what you want with. Please, please, please let me come!"

With a huff he pushes his fingers back in, pressing the tips into your g-spot and getting his thumb back on your clit. His unbothered state makes you feel so small and insignificant, heightening the pleasure coursing through you.

As it climbs, your body shakes, your legs trembling from being held open. "I'm- I'm- don't stop!" you beg. Closing your eyes you focus on the feeling of him, his other hand still gripping your thigh hard. You hope it bruises.

"I can feel you, slut!" Bucky's voice is the cherry on top of everything. "Come on my fingers, do it, come for me!" he commands and of course, you do as he wants. With a scream you convulse, almost pushing him out with the sensation flooding you. Bucky is talking above you but you're not sure what he's saying because all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears.

A hard tap against your cheek makes you open your eyes. "Don't pass out on me, I'm not done with you yet." "Wouldn't dream of it," you smile dumbly, and it earns you a smile in return. But it quickly passes as he pulls off his tank top and pushes down his pants. The cock is just as big as you hoped.

He rubs the head against your soaked center, sending overwhelming sparks through you, making you twitch. When he notches the head of his dick at your opening your blood freezes. "C-condom?" you stutter.

Cocking his head he asks. "Do you really want that? Doesn't a slut like you want to be filled up with cum?" "Y-yes, but, Bucky…" you gnaw your lip.

"I want to fuck my little cum-bucket raw, make sure you feel me running out of you for days," he gives a light thrust, almost pushing inside, giving you a taste of heaven. For a second you look at each other and Bucky presses in just a little bit more. It decides it for you. "Please fill me with your cum Bucky, I need it so bad!" you whine and he chuckles before shoving his fat cock into you without mercy.

Quickly you wrap your legs around his hips, meeting his hard thrusts that are sending your body into overdrive. "Feel so fucking good sweetheart, your cunt was made for me, wasn't it?" he groans. "Yes it was," you answer breathlessly.

He grabs your face. "Those other losers are never going to satisfy you." "No, Bucky, only you!" "That's right, you're my fuckdoll now, sweetheart," he says before he leans down to kiss you. It's much sweeter this time and you grab his head, carding your fingers through his hair, feeling your chest fill with another type of warmth.

When he pulls back he says, "Beg me not to come in you." Your cunt clenches and your second orgasm is suddenly a lot closer. "Bucky, please don't… I can't get pregnant," you make your voice small and frail.

In response his laugh is cruel. "Yes you will, your purpose in life is to be bred. I'm going to cum in you every day til it sticks and then everyone will know who you belong to." "Please, pull out," you beg and reach down to rub your clit, feeling the climax shimmering underneath your skin.

"Such a bad liar, sweetheart," he chuckles. "Are you going to come on my cock? Are you gonna claim me just as I claim you?" "Yes! I just need- harder!" you pant. "Fucking hell," Bucky grunts and does as you demand.

The climax rips through you with little regard for your sanity. The sound leaving your throat makes it raw and a second later Bucky moans your name loud enough for the neighbors to hear. It's almost good enough to feel him finish inside you that you come again, but you’re too spent to do more than shudder.

Then he kisses you again, sweetly, caringly, and pushes his arms in under your body to hug you close to him. "So perfect," he whispers against your mouth. The cums start to trickle out onto the couch but neither of you care, too caught up in each other's lips.

"How are you doing sweetheart?" he asks when he comes up for a breath. "I feel a little high," you confess. "Haven't been fucked that good in a long time."

There is something in his gaze that shifts and he leans his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry. I just… I couldn't take it anymore… I like you so much." "Lucky for you I get off on that stuff," you smile. "And if I had said stop I trust you would have."

He hugs you so hard you can hardly breathe. "Of course, I fucking would." "You can make it up to me by going tender the next time," you smile. "Next time?" "As many times as you’ll have me." He laughs into your skin. "I don't think you're ready for that!"

Suddenly the sound of the doorbell jerks the two of you apart. You stare at Bucky with wide eyes. "My date," you whisper, horrified.

With a smirk, he raises himself on his arms. "I should make you go on that date with my cum running out of you, maybe even let him get as far as spreading your legs just to see that you’re already claimed."

With a groan, you cover your face with your hands. "Don't tempt me," you tell him before wiggling out from under him, finding your clothes, and hastily pulling them on.

Opening the door just a crack, you understand you look a mess by the way your date eyes you. "Sorry," your voice is small. "I wasn't feeling great and then I fell asleep on the couch." "Yeah, you look terrible," the guy notes before handing you one of the ugliest bouquets you've ever seen. Quickly stepping away he says, "I'll call you." but you know he won't. "Great, I'll see you around," you respond before closing the door.

Bucky takes the flowers from you and shoves them in the trash before grabbing you around the waist and kissing you again. "Didn't you say he was promising?" "I have no clue what you're talking about," you answer with a completely straight face but then start to giggle as he swoops you up and carries you to his bedroom.

#veltana writes #bucky barnes #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #posessive!bucky barnes #bucky x reader #possessive!bucky #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fic #bucky fanfic

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iamthatonefangirl · 1 month ago

Note

Hii, I wanted to ask for some "boys being boys" kind of one-shot. The setting is: Sam, Tony, Bucky and Bruce were arguing about how they could make the Winter Soldier some safety protocol for Bucky's gf since she's also a fighter and go with them in the missions (All of this happening while they were drunk, so OF COURSE IT DOESN'T SEEM LIKE A BAD IDEA.) Bucky also doesn't know that the WS knows gf and is already very protective of gf, so when Steve and Reader (who is Bucky's gf and some kind of Steve's little sis) appear, things get a little… weird with WS being a possessive bf.

(Can I be annon ✨🐍/sparkilin snake?)

~✨🐍

bad luck - nsfw bucky barnes/winter soldier

hey anon I love the emoji combo omg. I went a slightly different direction from your ask but this is my interpretation of it :)

disclaimer: mentions of homicide, bucky turns into the winter soldier obviously, fully consensual smut by both parties although not explicitly stated.

for those of you who follow my winter soldier fics - I will list this in my winter soldier masterlist and my bucky masterlist. this will NOT be correlated with my pre-existing winter soldier series.

part 2

~~~

you'd only seen the winter soldier emerge twice, so far.

one time in a hydra base on a mission.

a second time in an ambush he wasn't prepared for.

~~~

you were with him the first time it happened.

in the case anything had gone wrong and somehow it happened, you'd been briefed ahead of time to make a run for it, not to engage the soldier. they would be able to find Bucky later and subdue him.

Bucky gave you a different set of instructions.

if somehow he turned, he instructed you to shoot him on sight. don't hesitate, don't wait. do what you had to in order to stay alive.

"goddamnit, Bucky, I'm not going to fucking kill you," you hissed at him, wishing you could just smack him upside the head. "there's a million other options before that."

"listen to me," he pled with you, "if it comes down to it, you shoot me. you do not hesitate. do you understand me?"

you were appalled.

"I'm not going to-"

"no," he interrupted you, voice stern. "either you promise me you'll do this, or I'm telling Steve to send someone else with me."

you almost felt like crying.

you thought about it. you thought about saying hell no, have him send someone else.

but you didn't trust anyone else to not shoot him if it came down to it.

so you lied.

"I'll kill you if I have to."

~~~

you didn't think it would actually happen. no way in hell.

you were roaming the base, trying to find the information you'd been sent for. you separated from Bucky in the attempts of getting in and out quicker.

after a few minutes, you heard a stark cry of your name from the distance, and your heart fell to your stomach.

you ran as fast as you can, hoping to stop it, do anything at all-

you run up to him, grabbing his arms and shaking him.

"Bucky? goddamnit, Bucky, look at me!" you yell at him.

you're met with those cold, dead eyes that you were told meant run for your goddamn life.

you're too late.

so you began to back up, following the orders you'd been given, trying to run. they could save Bucky, they could, but you had to get the hell out of there. you started to back away, ready to turn and bolt.

it was just your luck that you tripped and fell flat on your ass, all while the soldier was stalking towards you ominously.

you didn't have time to get up.

so you unholstered your gun, pointing it at him, tears coming to your eyes. you held it shakily, trying to make the split second decision,

what do I do? what do I do?

this was not supposed to fucking happen. you weren't about to kill the love of your life.

you were met with the greatest surprise of your life when he didn't rip your arm off, or reach out to choke you to death with his bare hands, or anything of the like.

he grabbed the gun from your hand with ease, and threw it to the side, then reaching for your hand and hauling you to your feet.

you stood there, face to face with him, wondering what the hell was going on. why didn't he immediately attack you?

the sound of gunshots filled the room. someone knew you were there, whoever was left of hydra, surely operating under the assumption that the soldier would kill you and then they could take back their precious asset.

you scrambled for your gun, but he picked it up first, pushing you behind him while he easily decimated the agents running at you.

you were stunned. Bucky never killed anyone, he wouldn't do it. but you had just watched him, not him, kill a dozen people without a second thought.

you prepared for him to turn around and shoot you, but he didn't. he looked you up and down for injuries, saw none, and his face relaxed.

you scrambled for what to do next. "the team, they'll come running at the sound of gunshots. you have to go, they can't know you're..."

you trailed off. your thoughts were a mess.

"I have to go."

he let you make a run for the exit.

~~~

obviously, you lied.

you told everyone that you never saw him. all you saw was the mess of dead, bloodied bodies, and no Bucky. which pointed to the obvious: he turned.

no way in hell were you going to admit anything.

a few sleepless nights passed without Bucky by your side, and with each passing day, you worried more and more that you'd never get him back. that by lying, you'd somehow messed up, and that it was somehow your fault you'd never see him again.

when your apartment window opened in the middle of the night a few days after the incident, you grabbed your gun and watched as the dark figure made its way into your apartment.

Bucky, finally.

"fuck, oh my god, you're okay," you say, running towards him, putting down the gun. you bring your hands to his shoulders, taking in his disheveled appearance.

"you've got to be starving," you comment, but then you look back up at his face.

it's not Bucky.

he's staring at you, looking into your eyes so intensely you'd think it's all he knew how to do.

"are you hungry?" you ask tensely, unsure what else to say. he says nothing in response, but reaches out to you for the second time, this time gripping your waist tightly in both hands as though he owns you.

"mine," he growls.

your breaths become shallow, and you debate your options.

he didn't hurt you last time, he protected you. he let you go. he hasn't hurt you this time.

mine?

you don't fight him when he pulls you into his arms and hauls you to your bed.

you would never admit to a single soul that you were eager, that you were excited when he started to yank at your clothes and began to suck at the skin of your neck.

"no marks!" you exclaim in a panic. you can't have Bucky see it, he'll freak. you're most certainly not sure how you're supposed to explain this to him, but you will.

eventually.

clearly, your request pisses him off, but he lets up on his ministrations, running his mouth across your chest without leaving a single bruise in his wake.

his hands are more firm on your skin than Bucky's. he's not giving, he's taking. he's going to do what he wants.

you moan at the realization.

his hands yank your sweatpants off, not wasting any time as he shoves his hands in your underwear, only to find you absolutely dripping for him.

you hear him grunt at the discovery, quickly pulling his own pants out of the way, not wanting to wait another minute to fuck you.

you've taken Bucky a million times, only a few of them this quickly, with this little prep.

you don't let yourself think about the fact that you've never gotten this wet this quickly before.

he tolds you tightly by the waist underneath him, pinning you to the bed, taking what he wants. he's careful not to leave any marks, just as you asked.

"mine," is all he says, over and over again, the whole time he fucks you.

all the while, you're sobbing out with how fucking good it is, prepared for the neighbors to bang down your door the next day and demand you shut the fuck up.

you don't care. right now, all that's on your mind is that you're his.

~~~

when you wake up the next morning, you're not sure what to expect. you see him laying there next to you, dead asleep. at some point, you both must have stripped off the rest of your clothes to sleep.

you slip out of bed, pulling on your pajamas, telling yourself to not think about how you're going to explain this to him until after you've had coffee.

you're looking out the window above the sink, sipping your beverage, when you hear a familiar voice say your name from behind you.

you whip around, lukewarm coffee sloshing over the sides of the mug, to see him standing there.

"Bucky," you say in relief and run to him.

when he begins to ask questions, you lie. you shouldn't lie to him, but now isn't the time to tell him. you have to wait until he's come to terms with the fact that he was turned again.

you'll tell him when he's ready.

you feed him the same story you fed the rest of the team. you never saw the winter soldier, you only saw the mess he left. when he came in the window last night, you were asleep.

you never saw the winter soldier.

and that's what you told everyone when you brought Bucky in to show everyone that he was alive and himself again. that's the story you stuck to when everyone began arguing over what they were supposed to do, how they were supposed to deal with this. they fought over how to keep you safe going forward, assuming that you would be the first person on the winter soldier's kill list.

you bit your tongue as the anxiety of keeping the secret broiled in your stomach.

~~~

the second time it happened, you weren't there to stop it.

he was only a few blocks from the compound, going for a run around the city, when the ambush happened.

another handful of rogue agents grabbed him, this time intending to set him loose on everyone in the compound. surely they could prevent what happened last time, that they could direct him to kill whoever they pleased.

they were wrong. in the same fashion as the time before, he killed them all without hesitation, the only thought in his mind: you.

you were alone in the fifth floor kitchen, thinking about how it was long past time for you to tell him. it'd been weeks, and he deserved to know.

you just hoped he wouldn't leave you when you told him, that he wouldn't try to convince himself you were better off without him, safer without him.

suddenly, you hear the door slam.

you turn towards the noise, having scared the living daylights out of you, when you see Bucky walking in.

"fucking hell, don't do that, you scared me," you say, tending to your food on the stove, building up the courage to bring up the subject weighing heavy on your mind. "I made lunch. I was hoping we could talk."

he doesn't say anything in response, walking up behind you and wrapping his hands around your waist in the same manner as the time before.

"mine," he whispers in your ear, and you freeze.

not Bucky.

you barely flick the stove off before he's grabbing you all over, a metal hand running up your shirt and his other hand dipping into your pants.

"fuck, how did you-" you begin to ask him, but you know he won't answer you. he probably won't even know the answer.

you lean back against him, letting him carry your whole body weight as he gropes at the flesh of your breast and begins to rub circles over your clit.

"mine."

you almost wonder if it's the only word he knows with how much he repeats it to you.

"yes. yours," you affirm, spurring him on.

this time, he leaves a mark on your neck.

"yours, fuck, I'm yours," you whine as you come too quickly, giving yourself over to him willingly.

"you belong to me," he growls in your ear, wrapping a metal hand around your throat and gently squeezing. the unspoken implication of "not him" is not lost on you.

you don't have it in you to disagree.

~~~

do we want an angsty part 2?

edit: part 2

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