#......someone come melt my brains in dms it's not hard I promise just start teasing me for being all easy and cute and compliment me

[lucyvaleheart]

it's a crime that I'm at work and not being some girls plaything getting my mind absolutely melted and turned off. im so much prettier when I'm whimpering and melting

[kpopchangedme]

Sun-drenched [M] - Youngjae

Every time you opened your mouth something outrageous came out but unfortunately, your new dorky step-brother seemed to be immune. You couldn’t tell if Youngjae was actually that clueless or if your reputation preceded you. 

Protagonists: Choi Youngjae & You

Word Count: 4.6k

Genre: NSFW - Cringe Fest - Smut - slight exhibitionism - f*ckgirl - Stepbrother!au || [One Shot]

[The Pleasure Chest: A Cringe Fest]

GOT7 | M.list

Your mother was doing that thing with her hair again, slightly shaking her head every time her new beau spoke. Every single bob invariably made her blonde curls spring. How disgusting. You had asked to be bleached once, a few years ago, and she had the audacity to claim it would look cheap on you. So unfair. 

She hadn't met her fourth husband for more than 6 months before she did just that. She thought it made her look younger, but Miami-midlife-crisis was more like it. It wasn't pretty wheat blonde, it was white yellow-ish banana buttercream. On-sale daffodil... Much like the sad ones Youngnam had gotten her from the convenience store yesterday.  They were now awaiting certain death in a crystal vase husband-number-two had gotten her for God knows what occasion.

You rolled your eyes when your latest stepfather started going over safety rules again. At your dad's there was never a need for them and if you correctly remembered the last time you had lived with your mom... You smiled, imagining how Dr. Top Surgeon would react if he found out his perfect church-going wife used to pop pills like candy and store a very impressive bong in the third drawer of her kitchen.

That would make for a fun scene. 

The goodbyes seemed to stretch half an eternity in the living room, after which you got dragged to the hall where the speech began all over again. Your mom gave you a short hug, more of a shoulder squeeze, then she pulled back and frowned with intent as much as her botox allowed. You shrugged off her silent don't-screw-this-up warning, already waving goodbye to her husband. Shoo shoo, you thought, sending the adults off to a far far away location. 

As soon as the door shut behind, you squealed in excitement. 

Summer had officially begun! 

Moving half across the country to fake “house sit” their new place while they honeymooned in Boca wasn't exactly what you had scheduled for your vacations. But when Youngnam accidentally let the words infinity pool and cars – as in with an S – slip out during the weekly video call, not even the dread on your mother’s face could’ve deterred you from flying over. 

As it turns out, Dr. Choi was loaded. 

Something you probably would’ve figured out earlier if you’d bothered showing up for the ceremony at all. Unfortunately, the wedding hadn't matched your Spring Break’ schedule and you decided having been present to the many previous ceremonies should be considered enough daughterly care for a lifetime. 

As you bent to the freezer for a celebratory parent-free popsicle, you felt the eyes of that gift-that-came-with-the-house glued to your ass. He briefly glanced down at the flash of your stomach’s skin when you jumped to sit on the counter. 

Surprisingly enough, your mother’s many rings had never once come with a step-brother before...

Usually, she went for the bachelor or womanizer types and those had the decency to never have baggage. Dr. Choi was a break of pattern and the news came with complete horror on your part.

For as long as you could, you had made a duty of never meeting his son, pretended he didn't even exist. So when the bubbly blended trio came to pick you up at the airport yesterday, you had been shocked.

They had said soloist of the local Choir and you’d heard; loser. Piano lessons? Dork. All-boys school graduate? Stuck-up. Computer Science Major? Nerd alert.

No one had talked about… That.

As a matter of fact, Choi Youngjae himself had not spoken much either, but he was certainly looking... 

And there were few things you enjoyed more than having a man's undivided attention.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen in all his glory, your new step-brother was staring, as usual, watching intently as you sucked your popsicle. You made sure to make a show of it.

“So… What about lunch?” He finally asked even though it was barely 9. Just to rattle him you hummed on the sugary treat as a reply. Mission accomplished. “S-Should I order pizza?”

“Don't worry, I’m easy...” Youngjae’s gaze fluttered down to your belly ring again. Boy, if he liked that one he had a few things coming. “I’ll eat anything if it's on you.”

Gaze widening, he pretended to look at something over in the living room and walked away.

Wait no, the poor guy literally bolted out of the kitchen to escape to safety. So fast one could wonder if this whole first exchange was the fruit of your devious imagination.

Oh no, you had just traumatized your babyish step-bro.

It made sense, you were one scary bitch.

All-boys school graduate? Virgin, you mentally took note. 

Or perhaps your mom had said something about you devouring the souls of poor innocent men. They said the apple never fell far from the tree. Grinning like a shark, you discarded the melting popsicle in the trash.

This promised to be one Hell of a summer break. 

______________________

“It’s been more than 10 minutes...” Chimlin flipped the phone over to yell unintelligibly at her demonic baby twin sisters. Despite the protection, you winced. “No DMs.”

“Then he hasn’t seen it yet.” Artlessly reporting for BFF’ duty was a lot more fun face to face, but for a few months, video calls would have to do. “Trust me.”

“I don't know,” she whined, going on all over again about how her boyfriend hadn’t picked up the phone since their nightly routine fight of yesterday. 

Sometimes you wondered if you’d even follow her back on Insta if you met this current sad version of herself. Kinda hard to tell, but she used to be the coolest baddest chick on campus. Then she was partnered with that Italian exchange student for a Statistic class, disgustingly dripping pheromones, cash and European pizzazz. Yes, Statistics. The most boring course ever, let's be real. But Chimlin was a genius, the deadly hot kind. No matter how shit-faced she was, that girl could track the B-52s and Gin Tonics’ calorie count of each respective member of your girl squad, not that she'd ever had to care herself.

Then Massimo came. At first, he was just a casual hook-up, but he managed to worm his way into her brain and grew there like a tumour. By the end of last semester, they were full-on steady-going together like in cringy 90s rom-coms. He was always stuck to her like a parasite.

Gone was your favourite 4 feet 11 party animal.

“Do you have any idea how many bitches Mas could meet this summer?”

You snorted, “Not even close to the number of dicks you could have in Pattaya if you wanted to.”

“Phatthaya,” she corrected automatically with a dramatic eye-roll. “That’s the thing, I don't want to. I only want one dick and he's miles away.” She waved her hand to brush it off right as your mouth opened in protest.

Her Italian barnacle did want to remain with her on campus for summer, but Chimlin thought she had better plans that involved a lot more beaches and fruity drinks. She simply couldn't live with her own poor life choices now and you were just about to tell her so when a flash of skin on the screen distracted you.  

“What else have you been hiding?” You sing-sang, impressed by the view. 

She glanced over her shoulder, “That's my uncle. Like... He’s literally my mom’s lil’ brother. Gross.”

“I know what an uncle is and that's a very hot one if I’ve ever seen one. You can look.”

“We’re not all depraved sluts like you.” She only half-teased with a sharp laugh. “How's the cute new brother doing, by the way?”

“No idea.” You flipped the camera and zoomed on Youngjae's bedroom window like to prove a point. The curtains were drawn, concealing anything worth mentioning from view. You were lounging by the pool on one of those fancy long chairs, much as you had been for the past week. Margarita, sunscreen, repeat. If this boring routine went on, you’d be so tanned by the end of summer no one on campus would recognize you. Sometimes you did think Youngjae's curtains were wobbling, maybe he was spying on you but it could all be your imagination. “Typical. He's been in hiding from me since day one.”

“I don't blame him.”

“Don't blame me for wanting him either. He's a good boy in a bad boy’s body.”

“I don't even know what that means...”

“No one does. But he's not cute, he's hot. I need him all over me and I've been telling him so, but he's strangely elusive. I think he hits the gym above the grocery store on the corner, I should join.”

“Stalker.”

“I don’t stalk, I live in his house.”

“No wonder the poor guy doesn't go out of that room, I bet he picked up on all your slutty energy.” In the rectangle screen, Chimlin switched to tan the other side and you did the same, laying on your back.

“Ha ha. He'd have to be moronic not to,” you were holding the phone above, casting a partial shadow on your face.

“Your legend precedes you. He's scared you're gonna trap and fuck him.”

“What else am I supposed to do when you've abandoned me and flew to the other side of the world? You know I need a summer project.”

“And of course, it had to be a guy.”

You were so glad she stopped whining about Mas for a minute that you let that one slide. “Well, I am not a needlepoint kind-of-girl.”

“Right, hey maybe it isn’t the incest that’s creeping your brother out. Maybe he's gay.”

Someone snorted out loud at that – not you – and you sat up in alarm.

Two guys were standing by the edge of the pool.

“No, he's not,” said the one on the left, a smile in his voice. They were directly in your sun, so you had trouble making out their features. One silhouette was slightly slumped, the other tall and all limbs. You suddenly felt very exposed, dropping Chimlin to fasten your bikini top in a hurry. This show wasn't for strangers to enjoy.

“Who are you?” The second man asked, clearly lost.

“She's it,” the other echoed.

“Who are you? I live here.”

“We're your brother's social life,” the frisky one smiled largely, kind of in a dangerous way that you immediately recognized for your own. Friends, they were Youngjae's friends and they very clearly overheard your embarrassing banter with Chimlin.

Flushing – a rare occurrence – you brought a hand to shield your eyes from the sun while you corrected; “Step-br–”

A sharp voice cut in, “She's not my sister.”

Behind, Youngjae was standing awkwardly by the patio door, a stern look on his face. He didn't seem surprised his people were there. He didn't even glance in your direction before disappearing back as you blankly stared after him. 

“Well, thank fuck,” the you-guy turned to wink, following him inside. “Good luck with your summer project! I’ll root for you!”

In a daze, you picked your phone back up. Chimlin was still there, waiting dilligently to be briefed on what just transpired. You puffed your cheeks, mentally preparing for what was to come.

______________________

Swear to God, Youngjae had not come out of that room for two days.

Two.

Fricking.

Days.

Maybe he had a fridge in there.

Maybe he only came to life after midnight like a vampire to avoid the whore squatting his dad’s house. 

Whatever his annoying friends told him had certainly made a lasting impression. You just hoped he wasn't the type to go cry to parents whenever something happened. You had no intention of going back to your tiny dorm all alone and sad for the summer just because you hurt his feelings by finding him bangable. Or worse, at your father's.

What was he even thinking?

You had not done anything wrong. Pushed a bad joke a little bit too far perhaps, nothing to get all worked up about. No reason to get shunned out of your mother's life again. 

Youngjae's reaction, or lack thereof, was way out of line.

It's not like you had actually done anything to him. He was such a prude. A prude that eye-fucked you all the time!

Church baby boys were the worst.

What an ass.

.

.

.

Three days?!

Three days of an overly empty house. The atmosphere had gotten so heavy, the air so tense you couldn't even think about anything else. There was nothing left to do. Just sit on the couch inside or by that dumb infinity pool, starring at the drawn curtains of your step-brother's bedroom. They weren't wobbling anymore.

Which was what you were actively doing this afternoon, ruminating your dark thoughts for hours. You didn't even notice you were getting dangerously warmer. When your timer went off, announcing it was sunscreen time again you nearly fell from your chair. 

Doing the legs was the easiest part, your favourite to be honest. They were one hell of an asset of yours. You were massaging the thick lotion on your right calf when something at the corner of your eye caught your attention. 

For a heartbeat or two, you thought you were hallucinating. 

Youngjae had finally reappeared. 

He was standing at the end of the pool, a knapsack thrown over his shoulders. His thumbs were hooked in the straps, hands dangling to his sides like dead weights. If he looked like a young boy at first glance, the heated look on his face was one of a man.

Frozen still, you gulped. True to form, he kept staring for a long moment before turning to the house and you thought he was about to go into hiding again – but oh no, fuck – he was actually pacing towards you. 

“I’m back.” Youngjae blurted out awkwardly, mouth twisted. 

Yours was opened in a mix of disbelief and shock. He was actually addressing you. “Back?” From where the corner store?

“Yes,” his eyes ghosted over your poor excuse of a bikini before anchoring themself back to safety in yours. Again, horny eyes. If you were warm earlier, now you were burning up. “I thought it'd be better if I stayed away at Bam's for a few days…”

Right? No one could actually stay between four walls so dilligently. It made sense. You were so dumb.

Apparently, your confusion was evident. “Didn’t you notice I was gone?” No, you had not. So your step-brother was so freaked out being around you that he actually moved out for a few days. Had you gotten that bad? Jesus. “Anyway, I’m back home with you now.” 

Youngjae took a step closer, kindly getting in your light so you'd stop squinting at him. He looked even hotter in the bright light of day, sweat pearled between your breasts. He frowned and bit his lower lip waiting for a reaction. The things you'd do to that perfectly proper mouth. 

Of course, what came out of yours at the moment was less than appropriate. He was right to be scared, you weren't safe at all.

“Wanna do me?”

Yes, you were that bad. Terrible indeed.

“Do I-I,” he gasped for air – oops, “w-what?”

“My back,” you clarified smiling like a prisoner that hadn't been fed a good meal in days, “sunscreen.” The poor man should've stayed far far away from you. 

You weren’t crazy or desperate, but you couldn't resist. You had been patient and unusually upright so far. You deserved a treat. You were hungry and you knew your step-brother wanted you too, he wouldn't have felt the need to hide away otherwise. Youngjae had an interesting duality, shamelessly thirsting over you one minute and getting flustered and embarrassed the next. He must have been deeply unsettled by your open invitation because before you could flip over, he had claimed possession of the bottle. 

Or maybe he just didn't need to be asked twice this time. He knew. He wanted to give in to temptation. Why would he even come back here otherwise? 

Laying down, you reached to undo the bikini strings, pressing your loosely covered chest against the rough towel on the chair. You waited.

“You must really hate tan lines,” Youngjae said in your back, sounding tormented, “it seems you're never properly wearing clothes.” He sat down in slow motion like an obedient little boy as you grinned. 

“Are you ever gonna put your hands on me?” You teased once more, it was like a string was tugging up your insides through that dirty mouth of yours. You wanted to keep pushing him, wanted to find out what it'd take to make him break. And just fuck you really. It was fighting the inevitable by now. 

Every guy you met wanted to have you.

Usually, you didn't have to beg.

“I'm trying not to,” he admitted the obvious. “I promised I would never touch you,” Youngjae grumbled and you jerked in surprise when lotion spurted on your lower back. “Promised my father I’d treat you well.”

It made sense, a good boy would never disobey and do his dirty step-sister. If your legend preceded you, his golden son’s reputation certainly did too. Honestly, this promise made the taunting easier and even more tempting. It made for a funnier challenge and the spark in Youngjae's eyes when he looked at you hinted you could break him if you really tried.

You were about to defy his ethics again when words went back down your throat, letting way to a sharp sigh. He had suddenly fully committed to applying your sunscreen, fingers exploring your skin. You asked to be touched and he had risen to the occasion, firmly rubbing the lotion on your naked back. 

Earlier you had every intention of teasing him further by enjoying this a little too much, but you weren’t sure it was entirely voluntary when the first moan escaped. If he wanted to keep it PG, he probably should’ve stopped right there, but it didn't seem to deter your step-brother. He kept going, massaging you along the way. His thumbs traced circles up your spine until one of his palms cupped your nape. 

Perhaps this is what an erotic massage was supposed to feel like, heaven. Every stroke was totally appropriate, very perfect boy-ish, but still, your toes were curling. After a few minutes, Youngjae's breathing was heavy, he was enjoying this impromptu contact just as much.

You both had made yourselves obvious these past weeks; him with the eye-fucking, you with the open-truths. Clearly, the forbidden nature of your desires would make for an even more intense experience. You couldn't even imagine how it'd feel to take it further now. 

“I've never had a step-brother before,” you mewled, mentally following the downwards path of his hands.

“I bet you love messing with me,” he replied, barely audible. 

His pianist’s fingers were now haltingly sliding up your ribcage. He wasn't rubbing in anything anymore, just caressing all he could reach. 

He was right, but you wanted more. That was the sexiest thing that happened to you in forever. Having a guy want you bad enough he had to hide away to resit, and now having his hands on you. You wanted him everywhere, all over. You didn’t care; step-brother promises or not.

Giving in to temptation, you turned around, resting on your elbow. Your untied bikini had not followed so you watched as his face fell in realization. Youngjae's mouth opened in awe, eyes glued to your bare perky breasts. At the moment, there was absolutely nothing going on in that male brain of his. He didn’t move; you helped.

As soon as you put one of his hands on your chest, he came back to life. 

“Jesusfuck,” he breathed out, completely winded.

Wow.

Church baby boys were the best.

Entertained, you reached for the sunscreen, pouring lotion on yourself again. “You aren't done.”

“I…” Youngjae swallowed back his protests, cupping your boobs with both hands. He couldn't even look up anymore, enthralled by your nakedness.

No matter what their intentions were, it seemed good guys were still guys after all. If you had known he was this easy to overwhelm, you would’ve walked around topless sooner.

“The neighbours will see us...”

He didn't seem to mind that much, seeing as his thumbs were stroking your pierced nipples relentlessly. If those middle-aged housewives you only caught glimpses off looked over the edge now, they’d have a pretty impressive show. 

“Let them,” sitting, you snaked a hand to his dramatic bulge. Your mouths got so close you felt his breath ghost over. Beaten by your expertise, his shorts’ button came undone first, his fly was even more compliant. 

The moment of truth.

Youngjae's whole body shook when you took his cock in your palm. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Fuck, he was so hard and flushed for you. He pinched your erected nipples in response and you felt a familiar vivid jolt of pleasure and pain down to your toes. Not a virgin, after all, no doubt he would handle you just fine. 

You pressed your mouth to his neck and sucked, right where his Adam's apple bobbed.

That's it, all for you. You were so going to eat up that good boy.

“Mmmm, I’ll tell daddy you’re treating me so fucking well...”

Of all the filthy things you had said so far, this was the one that got the strongest reaction. The wrong one. Youngjae jerked up to his feet, tugging at his shorts in panic. He swore a dozen of times, out of his mind as you stood there, frozen still.

“Sorry,” he offered at last, pitiful before running for his life to the house. 

Fuck.

No.

Surely you were feverish. 

Having a heatstroke.

You had imagined the whole thing.

You had not just being left out cold by a man.

This type of shit never happened to girls like you. 

It took a few minutes to gather back your thoughts and when you did, you decided this wasn't even close to completion.

Without wasting a second more you stormed inside the house, almost flying upstairs to that mythical off-limits bedroom of his. You didn't bother banging, he was in such a hurry he forgot to lock behind, so the door flew open. 

Like a scene straight up from a bad porno, Youngjae spun on his computer chair, a hand still wrapped around his fully erected dick. You couldn't believe your eyes.

“Are you jerking off?” He was already pulling up his shorts again to cover himself, caught red-handed, blushing as though you hadn't been doing it yourself a moment ago.

“I’m sorry, I don't think you–”

“Please don't stop on my behalf,” you waltzed in, confident, and sat on his well-made good boy's bed.

“W-What?” Youngjae blinked, even more, rattled by the sight. 

He didn't leave because he didn't want you, he clearly did. He probably only left because of his father and that dumb promise he mentioned.

“Is this how you've been dealing all along?” You laid back on the comforter, smirking and remembering all those afternoons by the pool you’d thought you’d seen his curtains fall. He certainly enjoyed spying so it gave you an idea. He could try to resist you all he wanted, you'd still made him cave. “You don't want to touch me, right?” Your step-brother nodded, spellbound. “Because you're the perfect son.”

He swallowed hard, “But you keep… Saying those things, sunbathing… And to my friends...”

“Yes, you’re right... So let's start over.” You sighed in fake contrition, “I'm sorry, I've made this so hard for you. I’ll be good too from now on.”

Youngjae scoffed in disbelief, “You are sitting topless on my bed.”

“Oh,” looking down at yourself, you cupped your breasts. “I thought you liked the looking.” His cock was standing up, glorious testimony to this mess. “Don't worry, I get it. I promise I won’t let you touch me...” Throwing your head back without breaking eye contact, you moaned and lightly twisted one of your pierced nipples. “But I’ll make you watch...” Out of his mind, Youngjae did just that as you caressed your own chest for him. Somehow his eyes on you now burned even better than his hands earlier. 

You were so turned on, so worked up by all the days of teasing and loneliness. Your hips started swaying on his bed, craving some fiction and release. 

“You're crazy,” his voice was laboured but he had yet to escape again. This time you wouldn't have followed.

“I-I'm so wet, Youngjae...” Giving in, your right hand fell to your sex, rubbing your last piece of clothing. He was captivated. 

“Fuck it,” he immediately breathed out in surrender, hand wrapping around his dick. That was it, you finally had him. He was all in, playing along with your new favourite family game.

No touching, just innovative teamwork.

You had to establish ground rules, but pushing them was what fun was all about.

“I want you so bad...” You mewled, slipping your middle finger inside your bikini bottom.

Stroking himself, Youngjae groaned, “So you’ve been saying baby, but now you have to show me.”

Oh shit. You were going to come so fast if the golden son had other surprises like that. In a hurry, you wormed out of your panties before he could change his mind once more. In front of his fully clothed self, you laid back, touching your damp slit while he observed intently. The whole experience was surreal, your mind was buzzing, overwhelmed by the wrongness of it all.

It felt so amazing though.

Touching yourself for your step-brother was the sexiest thing you’d ever experienced, and you were very accomplished. You would’ve done anything he'd asked of you, and Youngjae knew that but he abided by his dumb rules. Standing up he came closer, boxer messily shoved down from his earlier haste, one hand was in his hair, the other working hard. You kept rubbing your clit repeatedly letting him see, hastening the pace until you were numb all over, panting. 

“Youngj-jae, I-I–”

Moaning, you broke faster than you had ever with someone, then again no one knew how to make you reach your own high better than yourself. Paroxysm made your thighs jerked as the pleasure waved through you, annihilating all sense of your surroundings.

When you came back, your step-brother was giving up too, bursting in thick spurts of hot cum all over your body and chest. His eyes were wide opened in black elation, intense, not missing a second of the show as he came on you. His whitish-gray seed painted your bareness in ribbons until he was completely emptied.

In silence, Youngjae dropped next to you on the bed, hands covering his face as you both caught your breaths. His now softening dick was still protruding out of his shorts and underwear for the world to see. It probably made for quite a view; your naked body covered in semen right by your respectable step-brother’s way more humble cock.

If your parents came home early, they would both have a stroke.

Youngjae sort of kept his word though... For today at least. 

Because now that you had him all over, you knew you were going to crave him under you.

And no man had ever resisted your charms before.

Step-brother or not.

[The Pleasure Chest: A Cringe Fest]

GOT7 | M.list

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (8)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. A brief flash of sexy times and angsty intrigue.

A/N: Several people messaged reminding me that adding links kill searches (Tumblr is utterly ridiculous), so I’ve taken those out. If you want to access the full ALTNL Masterlist, just click the MASTERLIST header on my blog.

That last chapter murdered my heart, I hope it destroyed all of you as well! This week, Bucky gets cockblocked and the mysterious circumstances that brought him back to her take a strange turn. 

Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

Previously...

The poets say when your heart breaks, the world will grind to a halt.

The poets are wrong, she thinks.

When your heart breaks, the world will in fact keep moving. The stars will still shine, the sun will still rise. You will go on living, despite having nothing to live for. The world doesn’t stop for trivial things like grief. It lumbers on, drags you forward kicking and screaming, forcing you to keep breathing, until you’re nothing more than a ghost of who you were.

*****

MISSION REPORT

SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT ESTABLISHED. AWAITING RESULTS.

He thinks to himself.

What will he do when he sees the whites of her eyes?

He grinds his teeth, breathing hard through his nose.

What will he do?

*****

After he came back, Bucky’s therapist encouraged him to ask questions. Anything and everything, the more the merrier. Nothing was off limits. At first, it felt strange, asking someone else to share the basic tenets of his life, but he grudgingly persevered. It was the only way he knew how to get the answers he needed.

The very first time they sat down, Bucky flipped his notepad open to reveal 27 pages, front to back, loaded with questions.

Some were simple.

“What was my favorite color? How did I take my coffee? When did I have my first kiss? What was my favorite book? Who was my favorite ball player?”

One after another, he fired the questions and Steve answered every single one, down to the most boring, insignificant detail. With every response, Bucky turned the words over in his head, testing them on his tongue and repeating them back. Committing them to memory so he could sketch out the simple outline of who he used to be.

Some here harder.

“Why’d I get drafted instead of signing up for the war? Why didn’t I get along with my father? Was I very religious? Why not?”

Those answers were thorny, not always nice and, but Steve replied with full and frank honesty, because there was no one else in the world knew Bucky Barnes as well as Steve Rogers.

It became a common sight, Bucky clutching the bright pink notepad Natasha gave him, carefully writing answers while Steve spoke; Steve was always willing to drop everything to talk.

Now, he recalls one question where Steve stumbled a bit more than usual.

“Did I want to get married?”

An oddly devastated sadness had rearranged Steve’s features, before he offered a vague answer.

“When we were younger, no. During the war, you changed your mind.”

“Why’d I do that?”

“It happens.”

“People usually have a reason. What happened?”

“War happened. And you know, stuff.”

“Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird, I’m just - look, you, um, you met - someone.”

“Who -“

But before he could dig further, the conversation came to a screeching halt. Bells started ringing, lights flashing, an Irish voice coming through the ceiling as FRIDAY announced they were summoned for a mission. Snapping his mouth shut, Bucky tucked the notepad in the waistband of his jeans and leapt to his feet, the question forgotten.

Later, Steve tried to bring it up again, casually mentioning Bucky’s girl and some letters she wrote to him, but by then it was too late. The mission had gone horribly wrong, and Bucky was exhausted and frustrated and close to tears, and he had no desire to remember someone else he’d let down.

Hurtled back to the present, Bucky sits up in the dim light of her bedroom and throws a knee across her hips, boxing her in beneath him. Palms anchored to the bed beside her head, he looks down at her face. Anxious fear flashes through her, something he can’t reconcile. All he knows in this moment, is a desire to smooth it away.

“I don’t - why didn’t you say something sooner?” Bucky whispers. “Why - “

But he stops. He stops, because he knows why.

“Oh,” he says softly, disappointment filling his throat. “No, okay. It’s okay. I get it.”

She watches him glance at the metal arm, his shoulders sagging as he tries to pull away. Her hands fly up, gripping his arms tight, keeping him in place.

“No. You listen to me Bucky Barnes - this was not about you or anything you think you’ve done.” Bucky stares hard, clearly desperate to believe her. “I wanted to tell you, I just - couldn’t hold you to a promise we made seventy years ago. We were different people then, I know that. You have a whole other life now. I don’t expect anything, I don’t - expect you to still want that.”

The sharp ache that hits him whenever he sees her sadness tightens his chest. The words come easily, and he answers without a second thought.

Because really, he doesn’t need to think. They’re the most honest thing he knows.

“Darlin, you listen to me - I said it then, I’ll say it again. This kind of love, it never leaves. I meant that. Even if I don’t remember saying it, I know I meant it. I know I did.”

Hope fills her eyes at his insistence, that fragile kind he could smash with a single word.

Which he never plans to do, as long as he lives.

“Really?” she whispers, brushing her knuckles over his fuzzy cheek and he turns, pressing his lips to them.

“Really,” he says hoarsely.

Curling her fingers behind his neck, she pulls his mouth down and her kiss is soft and sweet and everything he’s been missing his entire godforsaken life. Bucky lets himself drown in her for a brief moment, before breaking the kiss.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears, pulling back. “We were gonna get married and I just fuckin’ left you. I left you. God dammit, I’m - fuck, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she says immediately. “It wasn’t your fault, Bucky. None of it was your fault.”

Those magic words, he’s heard them a million times, in a million variations, since the day he came back. They’ve always meant nothing, hollow assurances he actively scorned. He knew better. But now, lying here with her while the dim light of a fresh mountain morning begins to flood the room - he finally lets them soak in.

Maybe he even believes them.

“We were gonna get married,” he says instead, wonder filling his voice. “You were gonna marry me.”

“I was,” she says, and her tentative smile is like the sun. “And you were going to marry me.”

Bucky considers her for a moment before he surges forward. Nothing about the move is coordinated, it’s a messy tangle of tongues and teeth clacking together, a kiss bubbling over with frantic need, as though the world is ending and this is the only way to prevent its demise.

His kiss is frantic and passionate and so utterly Bucky, she can barely breath. Everything he does to her, it kicks her heart into a crazy tailspin and she kisses him back ferociously, drinking up the tiny sounds he makes, the way his lips fit perfectly with hers. It’s enough for forever, the way he spills over so full of life and happiness and love.

And she knows, it’s all for her.

When his hands squeeze her ribcage, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt, his lips move up to her ear with the question she’s been waiting for, and she shivers.

“Can I?”

“Yes, please,” she breathes, and Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself.

Slipping his hands beneath her shirt, twin sighs of relief come at the feel of skin on skin. For the first time in decades, that feeling of absolute and total desire crackles through her and she arches into his touch. Sliding his right hand up, gently cupping her breast, he kisses her again and she moans into his lips when he thumbs over her nipple. His left hand hesitates on her belly, hard and cold, but then she grips his wrist firmly and tugs his hand up, placing it on her other breast and hooking her ankle behind his thigh.

Rocking himself against her, Bucky kisses every inch of skin he can find; that smooth space behind her ear, the delicate tendon down her neck, the sharp collarbone above her sleep shirt, his hands teasing relentlessly until she’s breathing fast and hard, pushing herself back against him.

Swallowing his nerves, his fingers drift down. Finding the waistband of her shorts, circling the edge, working up the courage to dip his fingers inside, he takes a deep breath and -

His phone buzzes. Loudly.

“Shit,” he rasps, jerking back. Reaching over to the bright screen flashing on the nightstand, his lust-addled brain fumbles repeatedly and he hits the ignore button three times before it goes silent. The spell is momentarily broken, the room quiet. Breathing hard, he gives her a crooked little grin and kisses the tip of her nose. “Sorry. Way to kill the mood, huh? Where were we?”

“Right here,” she murmurs, pulling his face back to hers and slipping her tongue between his lips. Bucky melts into the touch, feels himself growing painfully hard against her, feels her fingers stroking down the hard planes of his stomach, sliding dangerously close to his -

His phone buzzes. Again.

“Motherfucker,” he growls. Snatching it up, he flips the phone to silent again and throws it across the room for good measure. It lands with a soft thump in the corner and he dives back in for a kiss, feeling her shake with silent laughter.

The laughter turns to a breathless whine when he tugs up her shirt, his mouth finding the soft skin of her belly, sucking and kissing a path higher and higher, licking at the swell of her breast, so close, and god he wants to -

He wants to understand why life can’t just go his fucking way for once, that’s what he wants.

His phone buzzes. Again.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Bucky announces, sitting up on his knees. There’s only one person who has the ability to bypass the silent mode he’s put it on and he’s gonna thoroughly enjoy strangling him next time he sees his stupid face.

Bouncing off the bed, he stomps over to the corner and picks up his phone, pressing the answer button so hard he’s surprised the screen doesn’t shatter.

“What, Steve?” he snaps, frustrated desire turning his voice into a snarl. “What could you possibly fucking need right now?”

“Morning sunshine. Sorry to bother, but we need to talk.”

“I’m incredibly busy at the moment,” Bucky grits out. Watching her snuggle deeper into the blankets, she gives him a lazy smile and he slams his eyes shut so he can focus. “I’ll call you later.”

He tries to hang up, but Steve’s voice is calling out “Wait!”

Bucky vows then and there to steal Steve’s shield when he gets back and brain him with it.

“Jesus Christ fuckin’ fuck. Hang on,” he growls. Stamping down the irritation, he shoots her a look of exasperated apology. “Give me two minutes, okay?”

“It’s okay. I’ll go make coffee,” she replies, crawling out of bed and Bucky feels the overwhelming desire to tackle her and make her to stay put. A whine of dissent slips out and she bites back a smile at his frustration. “Come downstairs when you’re done, maybe we can finish this.”

And then she winks and tiptoes out of the bedroom.

Bucky forces himself not to bolt after her. Instead, he irritably adjusts the situation between his legs and waits until she’s out of earshot before flipping the screen to video. Steve’s semi-apologetic face comes into view.

“This better be real fuckin’ good,” Bucky sighs.

“It’s that signal, up at the Hydra base. It’s gone off again.”

Anger evaporating, Bucky’s eyes narrow. “It’s what?”

“It went off again,” Steve repeats. “I thought you disabled it?”

“I did,” Bucky says slowly. “You’re sure?”

“Tony triple-checked it.” His face morphs into serious Captain mode. “Real talk. Do I need to come out? Is it possible there’s something else happening?”

Bucky thinks back, recalling the layers of dust, the cottony white spiderwebs, the echoes of ancient violence stuffed in that cavernous base. Once upon a time, it contained nightmares, sure. But there was nothing there now. He’s sure.

“No, there was nothing there. I’m sure. Stay home.”

Sky blue eyes scrutinize him through the small screen. “If you’re sure.”

“Positive.”

“Fine.” Steve pauses. “Anything else you want to talk about?”

“Nope,” Bucky answers promptly.

“Sure?”

Exhaling a long-suffering sigh, Bucky gives him a pointed look. “Actually yes. You’re a nosy little shit. Why is that?”

The stoic expression fades and Steve grins. “Probably ‘cause I’m used to your dumbass needing my help all the fuckin’ time.”

Shooting him a mocking glare, Bucky shakes his head. “Fucking hell. What’s the press gonna say when they hear Captain America has such a fuckin’ potty mouth?”

“Expect they’ll blame it on you. Just like my Ma did.”

Bucky snorts. “Touché. I’ll go check it out. Call you later. Dick.”

Steve gives him a goofy, open-mouthed smile and a thumbs up. Bucky presses the end call button hard. Silence blankets the room, and he rubs the heel of his hand in his eye, pushing down a sudden wave of tiredness.

Someday, maybe, just maybe - he’ll be done with this shit.

*****

Rifling through the tidy pile of his clothes folded in the corner of her closet, Bucky dresses quickly, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt, a vest, his white tac pants. Pulling his semi-clean, but still slightly bloody, white coat from a hanger, he shrugs into it. Looking into the mirror, he fingers the two bullet holes in the chest, twitching at the memory of them punching through his flesh.

Opening his backpack, he pulls out his cache of weapons. Chooses his favorite Glock, the old Sig Sauer, his second favorite Glock, his third favorite Glock, tucking them all into their designated holsters. Sheathing a couple knives comfortably in his boots, he ties his snarly hair back and fits the white balaclava over his head.

Standing in front of her mirror, he fixes his mouth into that trademark smirk that normally accompanies a mission outfit and tries to psyche himself up. Clear his mind. Sharpen his nerves.

It sort of works. Except that miserable slump of his shoulders - that refuses to change. Grimacing at the visual, he gives up.

Was he always this tired?

Steeling himself, he heads downstairs, clearing his throat and treading loudly to announce his presence. He doesn’t want to scare the shit out of her, stomping around like the abominable snow monster with weapons coming out his ass.

Standing in the kitchen, she wears her silky cotton sleep shorts and a loose t-shirt. The sight of her pouring two steaming cups of coffee, while the sun begins to fill the cozy little cabin, is almost enough to break him. Say fuck it and tell Steve to come do it himself.

But of course, he won’t. He never does. Because here comes Bucky Barnes. He always makes the shot. He always saves the day.

He sighs.

When she looks up, her budding smile instantly fades. She goes still, the only movement the tight clench of her jaw. She sets the coffee pot down with a quiet click.

“Before you ask,” Bucky starts, “I’m not leaving. Steve called, I gotta go back up to the base. That fuckin’ signal’s going haywire again.”

A spasm of alarm floods her face and she grips the edge of the counter. “Someone’s there?”

“We don’t think anyone’s there,” Bucky assures her. “There’s nothing to indicate that, we think it’s just the tech. Guess I didn’t finish the job last time, so I need to go fix it.”

Considering him for a fleeting moment, she bites her lip and thinks; appearing to make a decision she nods and walks toward him, heading for the stairs.

“I’ll get dressed.”

“No,” Bucky says quickly, catching her arm. “You won’t. It’s nothing to worry about. I don’t want you anywhere near that place. Please.”

Squaring her shoulders, she tugs her arm gently from his nervous fingers and Bucky braces for an argument. But then she simply traces the bullet holes in his jacket, examining the torn edges of white fabric. Contemplating his comment. She meets his eyes and gives him a small smile.

“If it’s nothing to worry about, then it doesn’t matter if I come. Unless you’re saying goodbye for good, I’m not letting you go alone. Is it goodbye for good?”

Even the thought of leaving her makes his breath catch.

“No,” he breathes. “Never.”

Reaching up, she tucks an errant strand of dark hair into the balaclava. Cradles his hot, scruffy cheeks in her cool palms, and kisses his lips.

“Then I’m coming with you.”

Should he argue? Probably. Will he? Probably not. Because having someone love him like this - it just feels too nice.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Get dressed.”

*****

Any roads leading to the base have long since grown over. The only way up is an overgrown trail, accessed through a steep hike. Parking her old, now slightly blood-stained truck to edge of the path, they start to climb. Bucky takes it slow at first, until he realizes she’s waiting patiently for him to go faster.

“Altitude sucks,” he pants, pausing to put his hands on his head. “Think you might be in better shape than me.”

“No,” she replies, offering a hand to pull him up. “I’m definitely in better shape than you.”

Barking out a surprised laugh, he squeezes her fingers.

Ninety minutes later, the entrance appears. Grey on grey, the door blends seamlessly into the mountain rock, it’s curved handle set flush against the heavy metal. On his first visit, it was rusted shut, wind and weather and age an effective deterrent; it had taken him nearly an hour to bust through.

Before they enter, Bucky turns to her and unlatches his favorite Glock from the side holster.

“Guess I don’t need to tell you how to use it, since you’ve already saved my ass,” he watches her tuck her gloves into her coat and take the handle of the gun, double-checking the safety. The fluid gesture twists his gut. Looking up, she gives him a wane smile.

“No. All good.”

It bothers him. Clearly, she knows how to protect herself - he wasn’t there to do it, she had to learn - but he despises the fact that violence has touched her. That he’s tainted her with it himself. He doesn’t want that part of his life to be something they share.

Then and there, he makes himself a promise. If he gets a future with her, he’ll do everything in his power to build her a life free from the sadness that seems so adamant to cling to her. Loving her that way, forever and always - it’s the least he can do.

Pulling off the balaclava, he welcomes the bite of cold air against his sweat damp neck. Reaching into the depths of his white coat, he produces two small flashlights, handing one to her and clicking the other to life, and with a shouldered shove, he opens the door. It swings easily, clean and oiled from his last visit.

Holding the flashlight aloft, he balances his gun on his wrist, rolls his shoulders and starts forward, eyes cautiously sweeping the entrance, as she steps carefully behind.

The hallway twists and turns, snaking deep into the bedrock of the mountain. The air warms as they walk, the depth of the mountain keeping the cold from penetrating; the dampness in the air increases though, negating any warming effects and cutting deep.

Damp cold was the worst kind. It always soaked into his bones. Held tight, refused to leave.

Heavy iron doors hang from broken hinges along the walls, frozen in place through a potent combination of old age and powdery red rust. Bucky’s already rummaged through the small rooms lining the hall, turning up nothing more than a handful of paperclips and a couple broken rifles; as he runs his light up and down the doors, the rooms reveal nothing new.

A good thing, he thinks. A very good thing.

Their flashlights illuminate the narrow hall, the enclosed space muffling their footsteps. On and on they plod, until the click of Bucky’s boot makes a new sound, echoing up into the soaring ceiling of a new chamber. They’ve reached the control room now, and there it is.

In the blackness of the cavernous room, he sees a blinking red light.

What the fucking hell?

He starts toward it, super soldier eyes navigating through the darkness. Just before he reaches the light, a startled hum of electricity crackles around them, a generator bursting to life. Whirling around, finger hovering over the trigger, he finds her standing by the wall, her hand wrapped around the t-shaped handle of a giant light switch.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters, using his shoulder to wipe away the bead of sweat trickling down his temple. “Scared the shit out of me.”

Above the switch, he notices a water-stained Hydra propaganda poster depicting a faded red skull, tentacles reaching into a black pit of writhing, silhouetted bodies. Christ. He remembers those posters. They were tacked up around the bases back in the early 1950s. Some lousy intern’s job, he supposes. Hydra marketing for a summer job.

Assholes.

“We can’t all see in the dark,” she reminds him patiently, brushing the dust from her hands.

“Fair enough,” he says weakly, heart still pounding.

In the dingy light, the control dashboard looks as dirty and untouched as his last visit, coated in a thick layer of filth that only exists with decades of neglect. But in the right-hand corner, the red light blinks steadily.

Bucky’s perturbed. Is he missing something? Is there something else going on?

Right there, the first flash of fear prickles up his neck, lodging sharp claws into his skin.

Scanning the dashboard, he sees the breakers he flipped before, cutting power to the control center. All of them are still clearly locked in the OFF position, so he breathes a sigh of relief - just like the light switch she found, there must be some kind of secondary power source.

He debates the complex panel, searches the buttons and keys and slides and comes up empty. Unless Hydra gave him explicitly detailed instructions, he was never good with tech shit like this. What’s he supposed to do? Dismantle the entire dashboard? Search for a general power source?

In the end, he chooses a slightly different route.

“Cover your ears.”

She looks warily at him, her hands slowly rising to her head.

“Here goes,” Bucky mumbles to himself and with a swing, he smashes a metal fist straight through the dashboard. The sound explodes through the room, pieces of grey plastic and black metal and glass bulbs ricocheting off the wall. Jerking his hand back, he comes up with a fistful of electrical wires and the blinking red light goes dark.

“Problem solved,” he turns to her, the wires dangling like a handful of snakes.

The sound of his blunt dismantling still reverberates through the room, and she stands tense and frozen.

“What else was here?” her voice is low. Unlike Bucky, she seems afraid to make much noise.

“Not much,” Bucky admits, tossing the wires aside. “Searched it last time, nothing useful. Looks like it was abandoned sometime in the ‘50s.” He motions back to the far wall with the gun. “There’s a small office over there, we can have a look around if you want.”

There’s no reason for it, but something about the place puts her off kilter. Following Bucky’s direction, she moves toward the office, unsure what she expects to find, but inside is exactly what he said - nothing. A small desk and file cabinet on one side, a pair of broken metal folding chairs against a brick wall, a pile of crumpled papers on the desk.

“Went through it all,” Bucky confirms, leaning against the door frame and crossing his arms. “Desk was empty, file cabinet had a few papers, looks like office inventory. Doesn’t seem like they left anything behind.”

She hums in agreement, peeking into the file cabinets and finding nothing but more dust and the moldering remains of a dead mouse. She turns in a slow circle, eyes tracing the angles of the small room, and she finds nothing. Breathes easier.

Although - wait.

Stepping closer to the wall behind the desk, she runs her fingers lightly across the brick, touching here and there. Bucky watches intently, the way her hands move in random patterns. Several minutes pass in absolute silence, until suddenly she stops. Pressing against a single brick, she wiggles it, crumbling white mortar shaking loose to the floor, and then the brick pulls free.

Behind is a deep, hollow space.

“What - ” Bucky says, coming closer. “How? How did you know?”

There’s an emptiness in her face when she looks at him. “I’ve been hiding things in floorboards and fireplaces and - walls, most of my life.” Her voice sounds infinitely tired, like the years have finally caught up. “I know what to look for.”

Bucky shines a flashlight into the dark space and they see a fat bundle of paper. Reaching in, she tugs gently, the rough brick unwilling to reveal its secret so easily. When it finally pops free, they find a folded envelope. Brushing away the layers of dust, the faded scrawl of cursive handwriting is splashed carelessly across the front, with two words:

VERSION 2.

Wordlessly, she looks at him and Bucky shakes his head in bewilderment.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I don’t know what it means.”

She runs her fingers beneath the envelope flap to pull it open, but Bucky stops her, glancing over his shoulder.

“What?” she asks, immediately on alert. “Did you hear something?”

“No, but can we wait until we get home? I just - don’t want you here any longer.” He says the words without thinking and flinches. When we get home? You idiot, you’ll scare her off with that shit. It’s not your home, it’s hers.

But while Bucky frets over his word choice, he notices something. That look of exhaustion and sadness filling her eyes - it disappears. Like a weight’s been lifted from her shoulders. She reaches for his hand, tangling her fingers with his and tugging him close. Tucking herself against him, she hugs him tight and Bucky holds on fiercely.

“Okay,” she agrees softly. “Let’s go home.”

And just like that, Bucky Barnes has a home.

Dropping a kiss to her forehead, he squeezes her hand and they walk toward the door, ready to leave this depressing world behind.

His brain is already plowing ahead, remembering warm blankets and the smell of hot soup and the sound of a crackling fire, all things he now associates with her, associates with happiness. His brain and his heart want it so damn badly, he nearly misses it.

Just before they pass through the door, a strange gust of air, ice cold and smelling of snow.

He stops so fast, she bumps into him. With a sinking feeling in his chest, he turns to the blank wall, eyes roaming over the faded brick.

“Did you feel that?” He glances over his shoulder. Her mouth is turned down and she rubs her nose when it smacked his shoulder.

“Yes,” she says tightly.

Stepping closer, Bucky runs his hands over the brick, searching for the source. Bending down, he freezes, seeing something new, something he knows wasn’t there before. He recognizes it instantly, an unfortunate currency he dealt for decades.

Blood speckled across the brick. A small piece of human skin embedded in the mortar. Dried, but no more than a few weeks old.

Someone was here.

“God dammit,” he hisses, jumping to his feet. “Fucking fuck!”

She kneels beside the wall, absorbing the gruesome details. “That’s new?” she asks, swallowing hard.

“Yes,” he says shortly.

She looks around the office, back in the control room. Remembers Bucky describing the welded shut door at the entrance. “You said the entrance was sealed shut when you first arrived. Could this be the same person? How would they get inside in the first place?”

The icy whistle of wind hits his face again. Leaning into the wall, he pushes, testing a few different points. “Please don’t be a secret door,” he mutters under his breath, but with a sudden grating rumble, it slides back.

Revealing a secret door. He hates secret doors.

Stark would love this.

A long, dark tunnel appears. Tapping anxiously against his leg, he debates - he doesn’t want her to follow, but he’s sure as hell not leaving her alone. He turns around, but she settles it instantly.

“Just go. I’m coming with you.”

Propping the flashlight on his wrist again, Bucky clicks it on and positions the gun. Starting forward, he hunches over, bending to fit his tall frame beneath the low ceiling. For ten minutes they walk, encountering nothing more than ice slicked walls and a hard-packed dirt floor. Finally, the darkness begins to fade, a dim grey light crawling into the spaces around them. Turning a sharp corner, they find the source.

A large metal door sits askew, propped open and allowing slivers of light and cold air to filter through. Coming closer, Bucky discovers the door hinges are unscrewed, a little pile of broken metal and stripped screws littering the ground.

Wrapping a metal hand around the edge of the door, he looks back to her. “Be ready,” he murmurs, nodding to the gun. She raises it, her hands steady and returns his nod. With a rough jerk, Bucky pulls the door fully open, the grate of rust and metal screeching around them.

On the other side, they find a thin fissure in the grey rock of the mountain. Protected from the drifts of snow outside, wide enough for someone to fit through - but hidden well enough that no one would ever think twice.

And there, lying next to the door, is a black wool glove. Threadbare, with an unraveled hole in the thumb, it looks perfectly clean. Clearly a recent addition. Bucky picks it up, that sinking feeling in his chest now bubbling like acid in his throat. He shoves the glove furiously in his pocket.

“You fuckers,” he growls to himself. Turning around, he meets her wide-eyed gaze, panic clear in her face. She still has the gun raised, but now he sees the hint of a tremble in her fingers.

He’d give his entire life to erase that look.

“Hey, come here,” he murmurs, and she steps quickly into his embrace and once more, he holds tight. Holding her this close, he smells the faint, calming scent of her lotion. “Let’s go home. I need to make a call.”

*****

“Anything?”

Once again, Steve Rogers is eating giant globs of peanut butter straight from the jar. Wasting no time, Bucky gets straight to the point.

“Someone was there. Found a back entrance they must’ve used. Assume they turned on the signal.”

Steve swears and the spoon clatters to the kitchen counter.

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky snaps.

“What the fuck did they want?”

“I don’t know.”

“No possible scenarios?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky grits out, pissed with Steve’s exasperated sigh. “I’m fuckin’ working on it. Give me a minute to think.”

Steve rubs his forehead. The expression on his face morphs, an odd mix of frustration and enforced calm, with a sprinkle of suspicion.

“The other reason you’re there,” he asks carefully. “The reason you’ve stayed. Whatever that is, could it have anything to do with this?”

Bucky opens his mouth to refute that possibility, because fuck you Steve, of course not - but then he pulls up short. That’s the thing. He doesn’t know. She still hasn’t told him her ability and why it ever allowed her to know the scope of Hydra’s brutality. This is one big piece of the puzzle that remains hidden.

“I don’t know,” he admits. Looking out of the bedroom, his gaze grows thoughtful. “But I’ll find out.”

*****

Downstairs in the cozy little cabin, she opens the dusty envelope.

Inside, she finds 14 photographs. They’re old, a sepia toned mix from the 1940s and 1950s, their occupants slightly blurry and peeling around the edges. On her kitchen counter, she lines them up in two straight rows.

She stares.

She begins to shake.

“Darlin, can we talk about something?”

Bucky’s voice is low and soothing, meant for comfort. Walking up beside her, he peers curiously at her profile. Slowly she turns, and the look on her face cuts him to the bone.

“Bucky - “

Cold sweat fills the palms of her hands where they lay flat on the counter and a shudder ripples through her, rattling her entire body. He moves quickly behind her, pressing himself against her back, wrapping his arms around her, surrounding her in that blessed heat.

“Hey, hey, what is it?”

Over her shoulder, he sees the images.

There are two group photos, each showing four men posing. Three of the men are dressed in white lab coats, horn-rimmed coke bottle glasses perched on their noses. The fourth stands a head above them, dressed head to toe in black, his white-blond hair gleaming even in the faded photo. Bucky’s lip curls in disgust - an SS officer, from the looks.

Until he looks closer. Something about the man’s arrogant sneer and icy stare sparks a long-forgotten memory. Bucky squints.

“Hang on. I think I remember him,” he says slowly. “He was there my first few years, but then he disappeared. Deserted, they said.”

“Deserted,” she repeats. She gives a hollow laugh. “I doubt that.”

Bucky should interrogate that comment, but he sets it aside for a moment. Returning to the pictures, he looks at the second row. The images are consistent, six full body pictures of a naked male, each accompanied by a close-up headshot - twelve photos in total. A small postcard is clipped to each pair of photos, block print letters with details.

This is familiar. Not the men themselves, but the visual and the information. Familiar, because long ago, the former Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes started with a file just like this.

Name. Country. Rank. Skills.

In the beginning, he supposes his was just as simple and basic. Until the graciousness of cryofreeze carried him through the decades, turning his paper-thin file fat with Hydra accomplishments. Assassination, murder, torture. All those details that made up the shadowy outline of the Winter Soldier.

Suddenly, he gets it.

Version 2.

Bucky knows that while he may have been the first successful super soldier Hydra created, he was by no means the only experiment. Proof of that assumption is lined up on the table before him. Soldiers and special skills categorized alphabetically in what he realizes is evidence of Hydra’s original super soldier trials.

The information is massive. He needs to call Steve, but there are shallow, panicked gasps bleeding from her throat, and he refuses to set that aside, because she is his priority - he turns her firmly to face him.

“Look at me. Darlin’, look at me. What is it?”

Wild eyes search his, so full of despair. Sweat slick fingers point to a pair of photos, depicting a tall, thin boy with curly black hair and vacant eyes.

Bucky looks closer and sees the information listed on the card.

NAME: Lewis, Henry.

COUNTRY: United Kingdom.

RANK: Lieutenant.

SKILLS: Espionage. Technology.

“I know him,” her voice cracks. She pauses and corrects herself. “I mean, I knew him.”

More than anything, he wants to ask about her past. Who she was before she found him broken and bleeding that day in her village. What she went through all those years ago that shaped her into the wary person she became. What secret she carries that weighs so heavily on her soul.

But he promised he wouldn’t. He knows the pain of having other people digging into his past, what it feels like to feel like to reveal your darkest secrets. He knows he needs to tread lightly.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks carefully.

“No,” she whispers, staring down at her hands. “But I need to.”

He takes her chilly fingers in his and rubs, quick friction warming them.

“Okay,” he encourages. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. You can tell me anything.”

She stares at their entwined hands and curls her finger tight around his silver thumb.

“I don’t think you’ll like me very much. When you know.”

Bucky feels a hysterical desire to laugh. Not like her? Absurd. How could he not love her? Smiling wryly, he brings their hands up and leaves a kiss on her knuckles.

“Between the two of us, my track record will always be worse. There’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind, so don’t worry about that. Just tell me.”

Gathering her courage, she looks up to meet soft blue eyes.

And she talks.

“When I was 12-years-old, a group of men came to my home. The - blond man. He was looking for me. They arrested my Father and I ran. As far from Berlin as I could get.” Closing her eyes, the memory of that black night burns fresh. “I made it to the coast and bought the first ticket out of Germany I found. In March of 1929, I got to London.”

Bucky imagines her as a little girl, alone, penniless, mourning her father and hiding from an unknown horror. It makes him want to raze the world for her.

“That was brave. You were really brave,” he tells her, still rubbing her skin, but she shakes her head.

“That’s where I met him.”

*****

Next Chapter

*****

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[stopthepres]

“um, i thought you quit? like, forever ago?”

“fuck, i did. i’m sorry.”

i drop my cigarette and stomp it out with guilt weighing heavy on my shoulders. i stopped smoking years ago - the day brady told me about the cancer. it wasn’t some selfless noble gesture or me seeing ghosts of hanukkah future.

he begged me to stop. “you need to be good, man. totally healthy,” he’d sniffed into my neck while we hugged tight. “for him. he can’t lose both of us.”

that him, of course, was stevie.

the same stevie who is staring at his sneakers with a lump growing in his throat. i thought i had enough time to finish the damn cigarette behind our building before he came over. he always uses the back entrance. you know, less people, less chance of forced conversation.

but here we are and he’s not saying anything. he’s not pushing past me to the door either.

“it’s only the third one.” fuck, like that sounds any better given what he’s seen, what he’s been through, what he fears more than anything. “i won’t have anymore, i promise.”

silence hangs between us for a few moments until he finally speaks up again. “stacey told me.” he scratches the back of his neck, fingertips barely peeking out from the sleeve of his oversized sweater. “is that...”

“it’s a stupid reason.”

and it is. nate coming out of fucking nowhere to brag to stacey about talking to doe? that’s a stupid reason to rush to the nearest gas station to buy a pack of cigarettes. i don’t even know why that was my impulse? i guess you make bad decisions when you’re desperate to feel something that isn’t your body shutting down completely.

that’s dramatic but i connected the dots pretty fast and it sent my head spinning. doe’s delayed responses to my texts and how she was too tired to see me last night. i thought she needed to chill out after the overblown buzzfeed fiasco but i didn’t believe she’d talk to nate again.

not until stacey sent me screen shots this morning of goddamn nate sending her a bunch of smug dms. of course stacey still follows him everywhere. how else would she get the latest gossip to spread?

i have no idea how her and stevie are twins sometimes. that girls sips and spills tea like her life depends on it. meanwhile he had no interest in other people; he’s content to stay in a bubble with brady.

i’m only granted the privilege of being allowed to exist in his world, to know him beyond the quiet surface level of constantly fizzling anxiety, because i didn’t bail when shit got hard. stevie knows i would do anything to him and i’d do anything for brady. because i’d done everything for them when it mattered most.

“it’s, you know... you can’t... even if...” stevie does this thing where he uses his hand to shield his eyes like he’s trying to keep the sun out when he’s actually trying to stop focusing on something overwhelming.

like my dumbass smoking means i could get sick too. that’s how his brain works, in these spirals he struggles to stop once they start.

god, i’m the worst.

at least i can hear brady’s voice in my head. dude, distract him if it happens and i’m not there. it works.

“i don’t think she’s going to get back with him now or anything.” honestly i don’t know if i’m changing the subject for him or if i’m attempting to talk myself down now that i don’t have a bad habit to force me to breathe in and out. “i don’t get why she would even talk to him when he’s such a garbage can. it’s not the same as me talking to cait.”

stevie furrows his brow, lowers his hands and slides them into his pockets. “why are you?”

“huh?”

“talking to cait,” he answers, somehow patient with me when i don’t deserve it.

“i don’t know,” i groan, pissed at myself for being so clueless all the fucking time. “doe definitely doesn’t like it.”

“you love her...”

stevie has this way of speaking, so soft and so unsure if he’s ready to keep going or if he’s said enough, they it’s difficult to tell the difference between a question and a statement sometimes. i’m not prepared to process either option.

“HUH?”

(honestly he’s a saint.)

“are you in love with her?” he says each word slowly, like he knows how heavy each syllable feels when they all pile on top of my chest.

i don’t answer. i can’t. there’s too much to say, too much to feel, too much, too much, too much. how do you know if you’re in love with someone? it’s not like i grew up with… oh my god, i can NOT be thinking about this while i’m standing by outdoor ash trays across from fucking dumpsters. my face falls - lost, defeated, afraid.

stevie makes his right hand into a fist and reaches across his chest to tap his left shoulder a couple times before holding it there. i do the same.

this is the signal i made up for when i want to hug him. i know he doesn’t like anybody but brady in his space unexpectedly (or ever, if he can help it).

he’s never been the first one to bust it out before so i feel my knees wobble and i wish the cigarette carton in my pocket would catch fire. i don’t deserve this kid to exist in my bubble but he takes a small step closer.

“it’s possible to think someone could never love you until it becomes obvious they’ve loved you the whole time.”

what stevie said rattles around my head for hours. is that true? is that what happened to him? i’d never even considered there was a time when stevie didn’t know with absolute certainty that brady loved him back. we all knew.

what if all the assumptions about me and doe have nothing to do with us fucking all the time? what if everybody’s been seeing in us what i do when i look at bravie? what if that’s why they’re so damn worried i’m going to mess this up? what if i already pulled that off?

WHAT IF SHE KEEPS TALKING TO NATE?

i can’t let that happen.

kat rolls her eyes when she opens their door but she doesn’t stop me from rushing right by her to doe’s room. she’s in bed, covers pulled up to her waist, hair tied up, eyes focused on her phone. there’s seven messages from me she’s ignored. SEVEN.

i bet she’s playing some ridiculous game where you dress up a doll or something. i see her swiping away, refusing to look up at me even when i clear my throat.

“hey, can we talk for a second?”

“i don’t know, how would cinderella feel about that?” she brushes a stray hair away from her eyes and i want to kick something but i take a deep breath instead.

“i don’t think cait cares what i do but nate might.”

i can feel doe tense up when i turn to shut the door. i can feel her eyes burning holes into my back. i’d give anything for this all to stop. for us to go back to laughing as we fall onto the mattress, to laughing harder when we tumble onto the floor in a mess of tangled limbs and twisted sweets.

i miss when our fights were fun and nothing but an excuse to push each other just far enough to snap right back into each other’s arms.

“i’m sorry,” i sigh, turning back toward her. “i’m sorry cait’s being weird and i’m even more sorry i didn’t tell her to knock it off knowing it was getting under your skin. i’m sorry i haven’t been a good boyfriend. i’m sorry my mouth might taste like smoke but i brushed my teeth, like, five times and used that swishy stuff a couple times to-“

“mouthwash?” she snorts, shifting to one side of her bed and dropping her phone on the nightstand.

“huh?”

“the swishy stuff is called mouthwash, genius.” doe pats the space beside her and glares when i hesitate instead of moving right away. “c’mon, if we’re going to talk, you can’t just stand over there like a weirdo.”

i slip my shoes off and climb onto her bed, sliding underneath the covers and slouching down until i can rest my head on her shoulder. “you’re supposed to be focusing on me saying i’m sorry.”

“well, you’re supposed to tell me why talking to him is a bad idea.” her body isn’t melting against mine the way it always does. “maybe we’re supposed to do a lot of things and we’re just not cut out for it. we got x number of chances, p, and that’s why we’re fucked.”

“hey, that’s not true.” i tilt my head to press a kiss to her jaw. “you shouldn’t waste your time on someone who never loved you but there’s nothing wrong with wanting to find something better. something that’s actually good. something that’s more meant to be than supposed to be.”

her hand finds mine underneath the sheet and she laces our fingers together, thumb brushing lightly over my skin. i feel it stronger in my chest than any fucking cigarette i’ve ever smoked.

she nudges her head against mine and i can hear her smile in her voice. “what’s all this? did my mom call and finally talk you into marriage or something?”

“we could be together and not get married.”

the thought is out in the world before i catch myself and there’s no way to shove the words back down my throat. my heart is pounding and i wind an arm around her waist to pull her in closer, holding onto her like we’re lost at sea and she’s about to start explaining the physics of the door scene in titanic for the billionth time.

why isn’t she saying anything? why is she taking so long to talk? doe doesn’t do quiet.

too much, too much, too much. too much, too much, too much. too much, too much, too much. too much, too much, too much. too much, too much, too much.

“damn, that could work,” she whispers, sounding slightly of breath, and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “we could start a trend where you register for your friends to buy you shit without the boring wedding part.”

i squeeze her tight and press a kiss to her collarbone. that’s my favorite place to kiss her - it always makes her shiver and then i can feel goosebumps on her skin when i touch her. “we should start a trend where we only need each other.”

“oh my god,” she sighs, dragging me in closer, dragging me on top of her so she can tease my lips with her tongue when her thighs press against my hips. that’s what she does to make me shiver. “we can’t start something that’s already a thing. keep. up.”

i should’ve asked stevie how you know, what makes the flip switch so you see the obvious.

…or is wanting to see it enough?