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marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

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Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

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crankshaftgrindingrepair · 1 year ago

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vunblr · 5 months ago

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Toy Soldier (part 1)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings:Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Eventual Smut. Dark Content: Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

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.

Word Count: 5.6.k.

notes: Even though this fic will include the tone I usually maintain in my stories, there will be flashbacks to unpleasant events that might be triggering. Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. More tags will be added in the future.

Masterlist

The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

The door creaked open, and she flinched instinctively. Her pulse quickened as they rolled him in on a gurney, his body was impossibly broken again, but somehow, still alive. The Winter Soldier. His mask was cracked, exposing a bruised cheekbone, his metallic arm hung at an unnatural angle, wires sparking like dying fireflies. His tactic suit was shredded, revealing deep gashes that glistened with dark blood.

"Fix him," the handler barked, void of empathy. He tossed a clipboard onto the table, detailing every injury, every broken bone, every expectation to her work. "We need him ready by morning."

She didn’t move at first. She never did. But the familiar press of a gun muzzle against her temple jolted her into action. They didn’t tolerate hesitation.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold tiles as she approached the table. Soldat’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his blue eyes were half-lidded and glassy, staring past her into the abyss. She wondered, briefly, if he even felt the pain anymore, or if the agony had simply become a part of him, stitched into his body like the scars of the wounds she was forced to erase.

She laid her trembling hands over his chest, cutting the remnants of the suit and rushing her power forward like a tide, knitting sinew, mending fractures, restoring what should have been allowed to rest. His body convulsed as the healing process awakened raw nerve endings. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of both relief and torment and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Good pet," the handler sneered, patting her head, "Keep going."

As the minutes dragged into hours, her hands moved mechanically, weaving muscle and bone back into place. Every touch drew more from her, siphoning her strength to pour life into a body that shouldn’t be able to withstand such brutality. The process left her light-headed, and her vision started blurring at the edges, but she didn’t dare falter. They would notice. They always noticed.

As her hands pressed over a jagged wound on his side, a faint tremor ran through his body. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and his eyes fluttered open. Glassy and unfocused at first, they slowly, impossibly, found her. A vacant gaze, yet somehow piercing, locked onto her face as if trying to understand who she was and what she was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She kept her voice low, trembling, her fingers brushing the edge of the wound as she worked. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t falter, even as she murmured the apology again, with a cracking voice. He didn’t speak -he probably couldn’t- but the weight of his stare felt like an answer. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

More time passed, and the room emptied. The guards left her alone with him, trusting her to finish her work under the ever-present cameras. The sterile silence closed in around them. She wiped the sweat from her brow and whispered again, “I’m sorry,” her voice breaking completely now. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Soldat blinked slowly, almost as if acknowledging her words, but his body remained still. Her fingers lingered over his shoulder where fresh skin covered what had been a deep gash, and couldn’t stop herself from caressing his bloodied temple before going back to mend him.

By the time she finished, her legs felt like water, barely holding her upright. The Soldat’s breathing had evened, the jagged cuts on his skin replaced by fresh, pale scars. His metal arm still hung limp, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. He looked human again, or as close to human as Hydra would ever allow him to be. She allowed herself to caress him again as if that gentle touch could make up for what her actions on his body entailed, his endless torment.

When the door creaked open, the spell was broken. The handler barked a question she didn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Then he stepped forward, inspecting her work with a critical eye. He tugged at Soldat’s extremities and poked his body, then he turned to her with a smile that chilled her blood.

“Well done,” he said, sickeningly sweet. “See? You’re still useful. You’ve earned yourself another day.”

The words felt like a slap, a grim reminder of her reality. She wasn’t a person to them. She was a tool, an extension of their will, just as much a prisoner as the man she had just saved. Her power was her curse, chaining her to a life of servitude. And for what? To keep the Winter Soldier standing. To ensure he could carry out their dirty work, kill their enemies, and endure whatever horrors they deemed necessary for him to endure.

The handler gestured to the guards. “Take her back. She’ll need her strength for tomorrow.”

They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the door. Soldat's eyes shifted for a moment, trailing her as they walked her out, his gaze still glazing but faintly flickering with awareness. Then the door slammed behind her, sealing them both back into their respective hells.

----

The cryopreservation always left her disoriented, the passage of time reduced to a murky void of nothingness. Days, months, years, they blurred together into a haze she couldn’t untangle. Based on the count of the meager breakfasts slid through the cell door, it had been two days since they’d pulled her from the tube. Her body still ached from the cold, and the numbness clung stubbornly to her limbs.

When the metallic clank of the cell door jolted her from her thoughts, she instinctively tensed. Two guards stood there, gesturing sharply for her to follow.

The halls they guided her through were unfamiliar. These weren’t the sterile corridors leading to the medical bay. These walls were darker and the air was heavier, and the faint hum of machinery was replaced by an unsettling silence. Confused, she knit her brows but swallowed the urge to ask.

When they descended a narrow staircase, her stomach sank. The flickering lights cast long shadows against concrete walls. They passed rows of heavy metal doors, each marked with faint rust and grime. No cells with bars, no windows, just solid slabs of steel.

Her breath hitched when they stopped in front of a door near the end of the corridor. One guard yanked it open with a screech that set her teeth on edge. The other shoved her forward, barking a single command: “Fix it.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound echoed in the cramped room. She stood frozen, since the stench hit her like a physical blow: blood, sweat, semen, and something else she couldn’t place.

Her gaze darted around the sparse room. A cot pushed against one wall. A table cluttered with ominous instruments. And in the corner, barely illuminated by the flickering overhead bulb, the Soldat.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she took him in. He was curled into himself, naked, trembling despite the heat radiating from his abused flesh. Blood and cum stained his thighs, while bruises painted his skin in grotesque patterns. His wrists and ankles bore the raw marks of restraints, and burns and welts layered over old scars, turning his body into a tapestry of pain.

But it was his face that shattered her. A blank mask with hollow and distant wet eyes, haunted by whatever horrors had left him in this state.

She forced herself to move. When her shadow fell over him, his head snapped up and his vacant blue eyes locked onto hers. The movement was sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t flinch. He simply stared, as though he were looking through her rather than at her.

She paused for a moment, crouching to his level, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice steady. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond. The haunted emptiness in his expression pierced her chest. He didn’t deserve this. “I know,” she said softly, inching closer. “I know it hurts. I’ll do what I can.”

She reached for him carefully, brushing his arm. His muscles tensed under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, she guided his arm away from where he’d been clutching his side, revealing the bruises and burns scattered across his flesh. Her stomach churned, but her hands remained steady. She had no room for hesitation, no time to falter.

As she worked, she whispered to him, not apologies this time, but reassurances. “I’m with you now, I’ll make this right, even if it’s only for now.”

As expected, he didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the involuntary twitches of his battered body. But his eyes stayed on her, betraying a silent acknowledgment, a fragile thread of trust.

She tried to focus on the burns on his chest, the raw welts along his ribs, anything but the bruises and blood marking his inner thighs. But eventually, she had no choice. The damage there couldn’t be ignored. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she shifted closer, and her hands trembled for the first time that day.

She couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t understand how anyone could twist a man into this, into something pliable, stripped of will, used like a puppet for their every vile whim. The red book and the chair had shattered his mind, and then they’d wielded that power not only to carry out their heinous crimes but also to satiate their carnal perversions.

“Soldat,” she said softly as she crouched closer. “I need to see the rest.”

His chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths. His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten hard enough to draw blood. The distant, vacant expression he’d worn before had given way to something else now, resignation, or shame.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I know it's private -should it be-, and it hurts a lot… but I promise I’ll make it better, yes?”

Her tone was as soft as she could make it, the kind someone might use with a frightened child. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he exhaled and shifted ever so slightly, granting her access. The movement wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes. He didn’t fight her. He didn’t resist. Even now, after everything, he complied.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hands moved carefully, brushing his battered flesh with as much gentleness as she could muster. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her focus on the healing, not on the tears threatening to spill over. Every touch she had to make felt like another betrayal of his dignity, but she couldn’t leave him like this, they wouldn’t leave him like this.

“It’s not fair,” she said under her breath “Fuck, it’s not fair.”

Every so often, her gaze flicked to his face, but he didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were closed, and his body was eerily still except for the faint shudder of his breathing.

—-

Some days, she wondered if he resented her. If he was even capable of that. She wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, wasn’t the one abusing him, but she was the one who ensured he survived it. She pieced him together, over and over, a cruel kind of mercy that prolonged his torment. Without her, they wouldn’t have been able to keep breaking him the way they did.

It haunted her.

Sometimes, it seemed like he remembered her. On the rare occasions when his body was whole and he wasn’t immediately dragged back out for another mission or another “session,” his vacant gaze would linger on her. Just a flicker of recognition in those haunted blue eyes, something that made her wonder if, somewhere beneath the chaos they’d inflicted on his mind, a part of him knew who she was.

Other times, he didn’t seem to know her at all. He would stare past her like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that he hated her or the possibility that he didn’t think of her at all.

-----

Nine years had passed since her escape from their clutches. Nine years since Captain America and his team put down Pierce and dismantled Hydra’s plans, the Soldat went missing and she got away in the chaos of the fight.

In the early days, survival had been a constant struggle. She’d wandered aimlessly at first, her coarse, prison-like clothes drawing stares from strangers who gave her a wide berth. The world was unrecognizable: a kaleidoscope of flashing screens, roaring cars, and people glued to strange, glowing devices. Everything felt faster, louder, and infinitely more confusing than the world she remembered.

For a couple of days, she kept to the shadows, but the hunger and desperation eventually pushed her to the edge. One night, trembling and exhausted, she walked into a police station. The officer at the front desk glanced at her with a mixture of suspicion and concern, likely wondering if she had escaped from a mental institution. And maybe, in a way, she had. She tried to explain, spilling out her words in a garbled mess of decades-old trauma. She told them about being taken, about Hydra, about the years spent in cryo. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked her to sit while he "sorted things out."

She knew they didn’t believe her. Not until one of the younger officers, fresh off patrol, walked in with a nasty road burn on his arm. She didn’t think, just acted. In seconds, the wound knitted itself back together under her glowing hands. The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on her in a mix of fear and awe.

From there, things moved quickly. The police dug into her story, and to everyone’s shock, her name and photo flagged a cold case from October 1962, a missing person report filed by her family. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, and presumed dead after two years of fruitless searching.

But what the police uncovered was too big for them to handle alone. They passed her case to federal authorities, and soon, she found herself in the hands of people who promised her a fresh start, though she quickly learned that nothing came without strings attached.

The feds helped her establish a new identity, gave her a place to live, and taught her how to navigate the modern world. In exchange, she worked for them using her mutant powers to heal injuries, aid covert operations, and clean up the messes no one else could.

Still, the past lingered in her mind, haunting her in the quiet moments. She often wondered what had become of the Winter Soldier, since freedom, she realized, was not the same as peace.

In the years that followed, she began piecing the fragments of her past into the puzzle of the present. The world had changed in ways she struggled to comprehend, yet she adapted, carving out a relatively ‘normal’ existence.

Then, one day, she heard his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

She learned about him in bits and pieces from news reports and whispered conversations among the people she worked with. Steve Rogers' best friend. The Winter Soldier.

The details unfolded like a tragic epic: framed in a terrorist attack, slipping under the radar, fighting in Wakanda, only to vanish in the Blip. And then, five years later, he returned. His face, no longer the blank mask of the Soldat, appeared on screens everywhere as the government pardoned him under strict conditions: mandatory therapy and restricted accommodations, a leash that kept him just shy of true freedom.

She watched every news segment, every interview. He wasn’t the weapon she remembered. There was something different in his eyes. Half-masked pain, certainly, but also humanity. He was trying, struggling to reclaim himself, to exist in a world that only knew him as a ghost or a monster.

It wasn’t an obsession. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was curiosity, concern, a connection she couldn’t sever no matter how hard she tried. Because no one else could understand what they’d been through. No one else had seen the depths of his torment, or felt the same chains biting into their skin.

She hadn’t planned to ever contact him. The idea terrified her. For all she knew, his fractured mind might not even remember her. Worse, maybe he did and resented her for the role she’d played, for the way she’d prolonged his torment under Hydra’s commands. Those thoughts were enough to keep her at a distance, safely watching from the shadows of her new life.

But life and destiny had their ways of unraveling carefully laid plans.

-----

Her work with Sam Wilson had started as another government assignment, one of many designed to keep her powers useful and her secrets buried. Yet, somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more. A friendship. He didn’t know about her past -no one did, actually-. He only knew the version of her life the government had scripted, a fabricated identity polished to perfection.

Leaving that aside, she liked him. He had a way of making her feel less like a displaced ghost and more like a person. Sometimes, they hung out after missions, sharing laughs over beers or stories about the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when he came back from a mission bruised or limping, she always tried to help.

That friendship had led her here, to a bustling backyard party, with warm laughter and music filling the air. Sam’s birthday celebration. She had accepted his invitation without thinking much of it, expecting a relaxed evening with a few familiar faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see him.

Standing at the drinks table, not the Winter Soldier, not the cold, empty Soldat she remembered, but James. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair shorter, and his blue eyes clearer than she’d ever seen them. He looked... alive in a way that left her breathless. For a moment, she froze, and her stomach twisted into knots. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he lifted his face after grabbing a glass of soda, only to find her mere inches away, rooted in place and staring at him like a rabbit in the middle of the road.

Her breath caught, and the world around them seemed to fade into a blur of laughter and music as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The faintest flicker of something -recognition? confusion?- crossed his face. The glass in her hand suddenly felt heavy, and she tightened her grip around it as her heart raced.

“H-hi,” she managed to mutter, almost lost beneath the hum of the party.

He tilted his head slightly, deliberately, as if weighing her. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped from them, low and hoarse.

“You.”

Her stomach dropped while her mind scrambled for a response. Did he remember her? Or was it just the way her face stirred a distant and fractured memory?

“I-” she started, but the words tangled in her throat.

His gaze darted over her, taking her in: the way she clutched the glass like a lifeline, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she made one step back as though retreating was an option.

Sam’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, Buck! Flirting already with one of my girls?”

Bucky flinched, the spell breaking as he snapped his gaze toward Sam, stiffening his posture. “I’m not f-”

“Don’t be a dick with her,” Sam interrupted, grinning as if he were the greatest matchmaker alive. “She’s good people. Y/n, this is Bucky, a pain in the ass but a good friend. Bucky, this is Y/n.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression still unreadable as his eyes flicked back to her. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer a hand or a smile, just narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her instincts screamed at her to move, to flee, to escape his scrutiny before his fractured memories pieced her together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite and not-too-awkward smile. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice much steadier than she felt.

Bucky studied her for a moment longer. Finally, he gave a slight nod, stepping back as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort of figuring out. “Yeah. Same,” he muttered before turning to leave.

As he moved away, she exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her grip on the glass trembled, the adrenaline coursing through her leaving her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sam intervened, leaning in with a knowing smirk. “He specializes in a heterogeneous game of staring, brooding, and groaning. Dry comments here and there, too.”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Good to know,” she murmured, still gripping the glass tightly.

Sam patted her shoulder with the easy camaraderie of someone who had no idea the weight of the moment that had just passed. “He’s not so bad once you get past all the walls. Might take a while to crack that nut, but hey, who knows?”

-----

Two months later, Sam called her for a job.

“It’s a simple mission,” he’d explained. “Poland. The higher-ups want you to stay at the safehouse most of the time in case something goes wrong, but if we need someone to move unnoticed -play tourist, fetch intel- they figured you’re our best bet.”

She hesitated for a beat, her instincts screaming at her to say no this time. But she had never ditched a mission before and Sam will be there, so she agreed.

When she climbed aboard the military plane early the next morning, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she almost turned around and fled.

Bucky was already sitting there, strapped into his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was as closed off as ever, and his gaze was fixed somewhere on the cabin wall. Her stomach dropped, and before her brain could process what she was doing, she turned sharply on her heel and headed straight for the cockpit.

The pilots greeted her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her there before takeoff. She forced a nervous smile, chatting with them about flight logistics, weather conditions, anything to stretch the time and delay the inevitable.

“Shouldn’t you be back in the cabin?” one of them asked eventually, glancing at her curiously.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” she replied, slightly strained.

The hum of the plane’s engines growing louder reminded her she couldn’t hide forever. She exhaled deeply, gripping the doorframe. Maybe, she could slip into some corner, unnoticed once the plane was in the air.

But life wasn’t so kind.

“Sam’s voice came loud and clear, calling her. “C’mon, you’re holding us up!”

Bucky’s head turned, locking his sharp gaze onto her the moment she entered. His expression didn’t shift -no frown, no surprise- but what she saw in those blue eyes made her knees threaten to buckle.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Hi,” she greeted the two men quickly, her voice barely above a murmur, before moving to the furthest seat she could find.

Her hands fumbled as she pulled a book from her bag, flipping it open without even checking the page. She pretended to read, scanning the same line over and over as if the words might somehow shield her from the weight of Bucky’s stare.

Sam furrowed his brows, glancing between them with a mix of confusion and curiosity. He’d been prepared for the usual brooding and disagreements from Bucky -his default settings on most missions- but he’d expected her to be more engaged. She’d always been sharp and chatty, quick to offer solutions or crack a joke, but now she seemed... distant.

He leaned toward Bucky, “Did you scare her off already before I got here?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed sidelong glance. “I didn’t say a word.”

Sam, determined to break the awkward silence, leaned back in his seat and raised his voice. “Alright, we’re stuck in this tin can for the next few hours. Someone better start talking, or I’m gonna make us all play twenty questions.”

She forced a small smile, though her eyes remained glued to the book. “You win. I’m reading.”

He huffed dramatically, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he turned back to Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze flicking toward her briefly before settling on the wall ahead. His expression remained impassive, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh, the only sign of some internal debate.

-----

After a while, Sam, ever persistent, leaned forward, and turned to her “So,” he started, casually but probing, “you ever been to Poland in other mission before? Got any recommendations for pierogi spots or are we flying blind here?”

She hesitated, tightening slightly her fingers on the edge of her book. Avoiding interaction had been her plan, but the pointed look Sam sent her way made it clear he wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Finally, she closed the book with a soft sigh, forcing herself to meet his expectant gaze. “No, never been,” she replied, cautious. “Though I think I read somewhere Kraków’s old town is nice.”

Sam grinned, seizing the opportunity. “Kraków, huh? I’ll take that as a vote to play tourist if we get the chance. “Maybe you can even guide us, seeing as you’re good at blending in.”

“I doubt we’ll have time, Sammy,” she said quickly, trying to deflect.

“Oh, come on,” Sam teased, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated grin. “You’re one of the friendliest people I know. You’ll probably charm us into some exclusive spots. Earn your keep!”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking her head. “I think you’ve mistaken ‘friendly’ for ‘quiet enough not to get in trouble.’”

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Nah, you’ve got that vibe. People trust you, and open up to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you walk away with more intel than anyone else.”

Her fingers tensed slightly on the edge of her book, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment... I think.”

“It is,” Sam replied, his tone warm and easy. “And I’m just saying, if we do get downtime, we’re counting on you to find the good spots.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say, though her stomach churned under Bucky’s relentless stare.

He hadn’t said a word, but the weight of his gaze made every exchange feel heavier like he was dissecting her responses, searching for cracks in her calm facade. She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Sam’s cheerful grin.

Sam clapped his hands together. “That’s the spirit. See, Buck? She’s already proving more useful than you.”

Bucky huffed, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “Yeah, well, let’s see if she’s still useful when things go south.”

Her stomach tightened at his words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the skepticism in his tone felt like a challenge, a warning wrapped in a dry comment.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve gotta work on your people skills. Not everyone you meet is gonna double-cross you, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond and bit his lower lip as he looked away, clearly done with the conversation.

She forced a small smile, trying to defuse the tension. “I think he’s just saying I should prove myself first.”

Sam shot her an encouraging look. “You don’t need to prove anything to him. Trust me, you’re good-”

“Sam,” Bucky intervened almost dryly. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. This isn’t sightseeing. It’s a mission. If she’s not-”

“I can handle myself,” she interrupted, managing to keep her voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat to her face.

The fact that she addressed directly to him got Bucky’s attention. He turned, locking his gaze onto hers, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the thrum of the plane’s engines.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he murmured, leaning back slightly in his seat. He kept staring at her sharply and unyielding. After a beat of silence, he added, “And, actually, what exactly do you do?”

Fuck.

The question wasn’t casual, she could see it in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her, a glint of something just beneath the surface. He knew. He was waiting for her to say it, to confirm what he already remembered but was pretending not to.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Bucky, come on. She’s solid, alright? I wouldn’t bring her along if she wasn’t.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. His attention stayed locked on her. “I didn’t say she wasn’t solid. Just curious what her... specialty is.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. If he wanted to play coy, fine. Two could play that game.

“I’m good at staying unnoticed,” she said, feigning a casual tone “Recon, blending in, getting intel…” She shrugged lightly, as though explaining her skill set was just a routine part of the job.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “That it?”

She gave him a polite smile, curling her fingers around the edge of the book on her lap. “Well, I’ve been told I’m handy in a pinch. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for fixing things.”

His lips quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fixing things, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her heart raced under his scrutiny. “Little cuts, scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing too fancy.”

Sam, oblivious to the subtle tension between them, chuckled. “Don’t let her undersell it. She devours. Saved my ass more than once, you wouldn’t believe the absolute carnage I've seen her mend.”

“Good to know,” Bucky commented, with his gaze still locked on her. There was something in his eyes -something sharp-, almost daring her to break first, but she didn’t flinch.

“Just doing my job.” She added, her eyes still glued to the unreadable baby blues.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more but decided against it.

Sam glanced between them. “It's pretty early for a staring contest.”

She didn’t answer; she just smiled at him and returned her focus to the book. He remembered, she was sure of it.

Still, if he wanted her to confirm it outright, he’d have to try harder. For now, she’d play his game, and she was determined to win.

-----

The safehouse was a two-bedroom apartment in an old building that groaned with every step. It was cramped but functional, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw attention. As they settled in, Sam tossed his bag onto one of the worn couches and stretched like a cat.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at her. “Do us all a favor and work your magic in the kitchen. I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, and I can’t survive on takeout and those protein bars Bucky packs.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Cooking would give her something to focus on, and it was the perfect excuse to isolate for a couple of hours.

“Fine, let’s see what I can do,” she muttered, scurrying inside the kitchen.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, gotta meet a contact nearby. You two... play nice.”

The sound of the door closing made her grimace. She exhaled slowly, tying an old apron on her waist as she dug through the sparse pantry and fridge. Within minutes, she was chopping some potatoes, humming Animals while she was at it, because fuck it all.

She felt the weight of his gaze pressed against her back like a physical thing before she heard him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, quiet and unmoving, a presence impossible to ignore.

Her grip on the knife tightened, but she didn’t turn around. “Need something?”

“No.” The simple word carried so much weight that it made her pause mid-cut.

She exhaled slowly and resumed her task. “Then why are you standing there?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“You’re good at it.”

Her hand froze. “At what?”

“Pretending.”

She forced herself to keep chopping, while her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” His tone didn’t carry malice, but the words felt heavier than any accusation. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I remember you.”

Her chest tightened, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “You’re mistaken,” she said flatly.

“I’m not.” He took another step forward. His tone was soft, but the words were unrelenting. “You were there. Hydra.”

Next Chapter ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky hurt/comfort #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x female reader #winter soldier fanfiction

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rafesangelita · 6 months ago

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♡ everyone is lucky farmer’s!daughter!reader is in a jail cell when she finds out her favorite sheriff isn’t around because he’s on a date with another woman..

warnings: mentions of being groped in public, just a little bit of southern dialect, small town gossip, mentions of jj x reader, lots of comebacks and insults, jealousy, implied age gap, reader stays the night in jail, hitting, very slight physical altercation, reassurance, comfort (?), little bit of kissing, suggestive ending

a/n: read more of sheriff!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader here <3 i would say this particular situation takes place in the beginning stages of their complicated relationship lol. read how sheriff!rafe’s date went here!

wc: 1.5k

“what did she do this time?” sheriff thornton looked up from his desk, an amused smile playing on his lips as you glared at him from under your lashes. “she threw drinks over at keith’s son, ‘said he groped her and all hell broke loose.” your wrists ached as the metal of the handcuffs dug into your skin, your boots scuffing the concrete flooring before the sheriff behind you plopped you down in a chair. “she gave me a hard time and resisted arrest, so now she’s here.” you scoffed at his words, a bitter laugh emitting from your throat. “i gave you a hard time because you tried to apprehend me before the asshole that started it!”

both of them ignored you, leaving you to sit uncomfortably in the main office while bryan, the newest rookie in the department, got your paperwork together. “uhm— do you have anyone you could call? it looks like you’re going to stay the night in here..” he looked almost scared as he broke the news to you, his eyes blinking rapidly as you shot daggers at him from where you sat. “are you pulling my leg?” you narrowed your gaze, “there’s no way in hell i’m spending the night here.” you shook your head, hopping onto your feet. just then, topper came in and sat you back down.

“i’m already in the shit house with rafe for manhandling you last time, don’t make me do it again.” speaking of rafe.. “you’re not scaring anybody, topper.” you used his first name against him, catching him off guard. “where’s sheriff cameron, anyways? i’m sure he’d love to know that you haven’t fixed my skirt since i’ve gotten here. i think the new boy has already stolen a peek at my underwear.” bryan’s eyes widened at your words. “i haven’t, miss, i swear!” topper glanced over at him with irritation evident on his face. “she’s fuckin’ with you kid, jesus.”

dragging you up by your arm, topper lead you to the back where the holding cells were. “it’s a shame you’re wearing nearly nothing,” he shoved you inside, “it’s gets pretty cold in here.” you cursed under your breath when he finally uncuffed you, your fingers itching to punch him square in the mouth. he watched as you adjusted your denim mini skirt, his eyes trailing down your bare legs. “you’re a mystery, y’know.. ‘way too young to be acting up like this.” if you had a penny for every time someone brought up your age, you’d have enough money to leave this shitty town and never look back.

“and you’re just annoying.” you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest before sitting at the edge of the cold steel bed. you should’ve been used to the discomfort by now, considering you’re here at least once a month, but you still couldn’t help but shiver at the harsh contact. “i need to talk to sheriff cameron. i shouldn’t even be here.” topper walked out of the cell, locking it shut behind him. “yeah, well he’s not on duty tonight. my pal finally scored himself a date.” he laughed. you felt your stomach twist at his words. not a damn thing was funny. “what did you say?” your voice was barely above a whisper when you looked up at him and met his eyes.

“yeah,” he nodded, “me and the department decided we’d stitch him up with ms. belle, she teaches the children’s sunday school down at the church.” he winked. your leg was bouncing now, your chest heaving with anger as your eyes brimmed with tears. “who knows, maybe after tonight they’ll be the newlyweds of the town.” you looked down at your feet before topper could question anything, your nails digging crescents into the palm of your hand. once you heard the heavy metal door slam shut, you covered your mouth with your hand as tight as you could and screamed.

rafe was so scared of what people would think of you two, he never showed you affection in public, let alone take you out on a proper date, yet here he was; willingly taking someone else. no matter how many times you told him you didn’t care about what anyone thought, he insisted that it was for your own good that no one saw you running around with a man who was much older than you were. the people of this town were far too judgmental to just accept something like what you and rafe had. figuring it was pointless to use your one free phone call, you settled into the hard surface before curling up and shivering yourself to sleep.

“y/n..” it was the next morning, and you were far from letting go of the information you found out last night. “y/n, you’re free to go.” your eyes were open as rafe patted your back lightly, his touch only fueling you with pent up anger. turning around, you shoved his hand away, your eyes bloodshot from crying so much. “don’t touch me again,” you hissed, “not ever.” rafe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as you got up on sore legs. “i had to stay here all because you were too busy with someone else!” you spat, shoving him again except this time in his chest.

“hey, you stop that!” he said through gritted teeth, shooting up to his feet before backing you up against the cement wall. “i hate you!” you whispered, attempting to get out of his grip. your efforts were deemed useless of course, your strength being nothing compared to his. “no you don’t.” he pinned your wrists down by your sides. he hated when you said shit like that, then again he knew you had every right to feel the way you did. nothing about your shared arrangement was fair, especially for you. “i went on that date for the sake of getting everyone off of my back, alright? it didn’t mean a thing.”

you laughed, avoiding his heated gaze. “well surely it meant something, because you agreed. you agreed and got ready and dressed nicely for her. you fixed your hair, you shaved, you put on your best smelling cologne and you picked her up. don’t you dare tell me it didn’t mean nothing when you put in that much effort.” rafe blinked, his nostrils flaring as he cupped your chin and forced you to look at him. “it didn’t mean a thing.” he repeated. you stared at him, reading his eyes as best as you could. “sure.” to say you were hurt would be an understatement.

“i mean it,” he started, “i did it for appearances. i’ve never been married, i don’t have any children. people talk around here, y/n, and just recently did i hear something about us both. people are catching onto your ‘get out of jail’ free card, and you could only imagine what their reasoning for that was.” he grimaced, recalling the disgusting words filtering the air of the diner where he drank his morning coffee. while the claims weren’t completely false, his said intentions couldn’t be more wrong. “rafe,” you glared at him, “i. don’t. care.” not wanting to rile you up any further, he let go of you before you could get the bright idea to knee him in his manhood.

“you know.. how do you think i feel when i have to see you around here kissing jj fuckin’ maybank, and i can’t do shit about it, huh? how do you think i feel when i see him have his hands all over you? you think i like that shit?” you rolled your eyes, about to step out of the open cell before he shut it closed. “why do you do that? why do you get joy out of pissing me off?” rafe caged you between his arms, his gun holster digging into your hip.

“first of all, i’m keeping up appearances just like you.” you stood up on your tippy toes, pecking his cheek before you placed your lips right next to his ear. “and secondly; you only act like you care about me when i’m all over someone else. it’s either that or i have to get into legal trouble just to get you to myself. so you try to imagine what that makes me feel like.” you pulled him close by the buckle of his belt, his large hands finding your hips as he towered over you. “do i really have to go to jail just to get a kiss?” rafe leaned down, his lips finally taking your own. he groaned at the taste of you, your cherry lipgloss still sticky with its sweetness.

you two stayed kissing like this until he grew rock solid in his pants, the buckle of his belt not being the only thing poking your tummy. “i don’t want you with any other women. i can’t take it.” rafe nodded, his bottom lip shining with your gloss. “you have my word, sweetheart. i’ll set aside time for us to be together, i promise.” his sheriff’s hat tipped to the side, revealing his buzzed scalp. “but if i see you with that maybank kid again i’ll have to lock him up for good.” you smiled, your red nails raking down his buff arms. “yes, sir.” rafe cursed at the nickname as he glanced down at the digital watch on his wrist.

“i got about an hour to spare..” you hummed at his words, palming him through his pants.

“well what are we waiting for?”

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all-purpose-dish-soap · 18 days ago

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Do the task force genuinely care about free use medic reader or do they just use her for sex? Genuine question! I just found your account so i’m kinda stalking all your posts lol, love your writing!

thank you!!

it's complicated :)

...

79 / 1.1k / more free use medic reader

You strip off your heavy equipment—medical supply packs, a comm radio, extra ammo for the boys—and stretch your tired body with a groan. Tough mission. Holed up in an old laboratory for hours until extraction arrives. You know what that means.

You sit down on a dented countertop, spread your legs, and loosen your collar. “Who’s first?”

Soap, Gaz, and Ghost exchange glances. They’ve stripped off their visored helmets, but they’re still otherwise armored in urban camouflage. Soap steps forward to crowd you in anyway. Sweat and oil are smeared across his grin.

“Don’t know how you do it, love,” Ghost says. He wedges the knuckles of one broad hand into his lower back like he’s trying to pop something back into place. A click echoes from his spine and he muffles a groan. “Tough mission. Might be too tired.” That’s a lie.

Soap seems to think so, too. He grabs your legs under each knee and pulls you to rest on the edge of the table. “Mission’s only tough if I don’t get my dick wet.”

Gaz lets out a dismissive huff and looks at Ghost. “Want to take a look around the lab while MacTavish drools all over himself?”

Ghost grunts noncommittally, flipping a serrated knife and catching the tip in his fingers as he scans the room and sees a camera in one corner.

You ignore Gaz. You know jealousy when you hear it, and he tries to play his off by being a snarky ass. It’s even more pronounced when Price isn’t around to keep everyone accountable—like right now. It’s risky to offer your body up when the boys are wired with adrenaline and the Captain’s busy with other things. But you take your job seriously.

“Well, then.” You loosen the straps on Soap’s pack harness until he lets it fall off his shoulders and thump to the floor behind his bootheels. “That’s what you pay me for—keeping morale high.”

Soap’s grin widens. His gloved palm rests on the metal countertop next to your hip. “Aye, but your morale’s my fuckin’ specialty.”

Ghost’s gaze slides to you as you and Soap begin stripping you of your fatigues. Soap doesn’t bother waiting until you’re meaningfully exposed—as soon as he sees your bare shoulder, he stoops down to maul at the skin there like a rottweiler with the mind of an overeager high school boy. You’re left to work around his roaming hands and mouth to work yourself free of your clothes. His distraction, as always, makes your job more difficult.

Gaz watches shamelessly, and Ghost rubs his chin as he observes. “Someone oughta check the security feeds, make sure nobody’s watchin’.” Nobody moves to check jack shit.

You manage to unbutton your coat and wrest one arm free. When you shift, though, a sudden pain makes you hiss. You slip your fingers into the thin fabric of your undershirt and up to your ribs. They come out wet with blood. “Ah, fuck.”

Soap’s grin dies. His hand shoots out and grips your wrist, shoving the bloodied fingers back to your ribs to staunch the flow. “The fuck you think you’re doing, bleedin’ without permission?” His voice is a growl, but the way he fumbles for the supply pouches on his belt betrays him.

Gaz—who happens to function as a secondary medic if something happens to you—is there instantly. He pulls Soap’s shoulder hard, forcing him back a step, and peels your undershirt back with a steady hand. He prods the wound. His gloves smear red. “That’s no good,” he mutters. His thumb brushes over unbroken skin beside the gash. “All this pretty skin wasted if you croak before we get our share.”

“Quit eye-fucking the injury and stitch her up,” Ghost says.

Your breath hitches when Gaz’s fingers linger too low. Soap’s jaw locks. “Nobody’s allowed to croak this close to mission’s end, Garrick. Either get your ass in gear to stop the bleedin’ or I fry the hole shut myself.”

“Boys, please, one at a time.” You try to huff a laugh, but it comes out as a pained groan. Never one at a time with them. Your vision flickers. If you weren’t seated, you're sure your legs would be giving out right about now.

Gaz slots his still-armored knee between your legs, steadies your drifting frame with one hand, and tears an injector pack open with his teeth.

“Hold still.”

The needle jams into your thigh. Stims, maybe amphetamines. Hard to focus when he’s already rucking up your bloodied tank top to fully expose the torn flesh below.

The clicking shake of an antiseptic spray bottle makes you tense a half-second before he sprays the godawful mist all over your wound. Your body pulls back blindly to escape the burn, but with Gaz’s grip keeping you in place, your back hits the table and then arches up. A choked scream pushes up your throat. Ghost clamps his hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

He leans in. “You’ll bring every tango in a klick radius down on us. Shut. It.”

He knows better than any of them how much that spray burns on an open wound.

Without looking away from you, he issues a firm order to Gaz in his lieutenant voice. “Pack the wound.”

“Rog’.”

Gaz takes gauze from your pack and shoves it against and into the gash. You let out another cry against Ghost’s hand, which clamps down tighter around your mouth until your breath runs out and turns the scream into a rasp. Then he keeps it there still until you go limp.

Numbness from the injection—fuck yes, painkillers—finally flood out the adrenaline in your blood. Your vision shutters again. “God, that’s good.”

Ghost’s gaze flicks down to the way your chest heaves under your torn tank top. “Ain’t cut out for field work. I keep saying it.”

Soap shoulders his way back between your legs. He spreads them wider and leans over your limp, blissed-out body on the table. He weaves his fingers through your hair, tugs your head back, taps your cheek until your eyes refocus on him. “Wakey wakey, sunshine,” he murmurs, eyes already traveling back down your body. “You’ve still got a job to do, and you don’t get to nap till we’re done.”

...

more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / more free use medic / masterlist

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engineoverhaulingservices · 2 months ago

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Cast Iron Cylinder Head Repair by RA Power Solutions

Cast iron cylinder head repair by RA Power Solutions is a service that helps fix broken or damaged cast iron heads, and engine block liners of engines. If the head of your engine is cracked, chipped, or not working properly, we can help make it as good as new. They use special techniques and skilled experts to mend the cast iron head, ensuring it works well, and your engine runs smoothly. We are using advanced metal stitching (metal locking) techniques to restore structural integrity, without the risks associated with welding. We have been providing cast iron cylinder head repair, cast iron head repair with metal stitching and metal locking process worldwide at an affordable price. For more information on Cast Iron Head Repair, Cylinder Head Repair, and cylinder heads, please email us at [email protected] or [email protected], or call us at +91 9582647131 or +91 9810012383.

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vaishalirapower · 2 years ago

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Metal Stitching for Repairing Crack Cast Iron

The metal stitching process involves inserting metal pins into the crack or broken area of the cast iron. The pins are then welded in place, creating a strong and durable repair. This process can be used to repair cast iron cracks of any size, and it can also be used to replace missing pieces of cast iron. The metal stitching process is a cold method of repair, so there is no risk of heat damage to the cast iron. For more information about cast iron repair, repair crack cast iron, and crack repair in cast iron, contact us at [email protected], 0124-425-1615, or +91-9810012383.

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rapowersolutions234 · 11 months ago

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Repair Of Casting Cracks | Metal Stitching And Metal Locking

Metal locking and metal stitching processes have been used by RA power solutions technicians for more than 44 years to repair of casting cracks and damage casting. Cracks in casting are primarily influenced by melt quality, casting equipment, casting process conditions, and grain structure. The repair of cracks in casting by metal stitching and metal locking has a definite advantage over the repair of cracks by welding. For the successful repair of broken, cracked, and fractured casting parts, metal stitching is becoming increasingly popular. The services of crack repair of casting cracks and aluminum parts are offered 24/7, and we are considered to be cost-effective. All crack repairs of metal stitching and crack repairs of damage casting are undertaken with a guarantee. For more information, repair of crack casting, Turbine casing crack repair on site, and crack repair damaged casting rectification Contact us at [email protected], [email protected] or call us at +91 9582647131, or +91 9810012383.

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metalstitchinglocking · 1 year ago

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youtube

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rebabbitting · 2 years ago

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The Advantages of Repairing Cast Iron with Metal Stitching

Metal stitching is a reliable and effective method used to repair cast iron components without the need for costly replacements or extensive welding. It is commonly employed when cracks or fractures appear in engine blocks due to mechanical stress, temperature fluctuations, or other factors. For more information about metal stitching surgery, contact us by email at [email protected], 0124-425-1615, or +91-9810012383.

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baocean · 30 days ago

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i tried to be good, am i no good?

pairing ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ criminal!jj x sheriffsdaughter!reader

synopsis ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ you were supposed to be safe, quiet, clean. sheriff’s daughter, sweet southern manners, reputation stitched into the hem of every dress. but jj maybank was all cigarette smoke and hands cuffed behind his back, and you’ve been wanting him since seventeen. he didn't look at you back then, not like he does now. and you pretend nothing’s happening, you still say your grace and keep the front door locked. but the window stays open. and his bruises look better when they're yours.

warnings ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ smut (minors stay away get out), choking, very brief mention of slapping, jj lowk being mean during smut, kinddd of almost getting caught, mentions of christianity and reader being minorly religious, afab!reader, swearing

notes ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ word count - 6kish words! inspired by 'crush' & 'strangers' by ethel cain. (edit: my admiration and credit belongs to @princessbrunette! they wrote a fic inspired by crush first, it is amazing and wonderful pls go read it! thanks anon)

you hadn't planned to stay long. just long enough to drop off the sandwich, the salad, the sweet tea in a mason jar to your dad, because he'd forgotten his lunch at home again.

it's hot out today and you shiver when you step inside the kildare county sheriff's office from the ac blowing. its quiet- no one is behind the front desk, there's no drunken yells coming from the holding cells. there's a radio humming 60's country music on low, but that's it.

it smells like floor wax and old coffee. you cross the lobby slow, careful not to make too much noise, keys still hooked around your finger.

you're headed to your dad's office, mentally preparing for the lecture you'll probably recieve for wearing a skirt this short, when the slam of a metal door against wall makes you jolt.

the first thing you see is your dad- kildare's sheriff, locally loved and adolescently dispised. he's got that look on his face that can only mean someone's managed to piss him off in the hour and twenty minutes he's been working, or he already knows about the length of your skirt.

it's the first one. your dad’s dragging someone in by the elbow. shirt stained, hair a mess, hands cuffed behind his back, and grinning.

your stomach drops. jj maybank.

you recognize him immediately. how could you not? his file lives in your dad’s top drawer. his name was muttered like a curse word at the dinner table. this is his second time this week getting brought in. something about a fight, something about resisting.

he's the kid who’s been in and out of this station so many times, he probably knows the code to the back door. he's the boy your mother didn’t even bother warning you about. she assumed you had enough sense to know better.

but maybe she should have taken the thirty seconds it does to ward you off him. because the crush you have on jj maybank? it's not the cute kind, it's not the kind you say out loud. it's sickening and a little humilating.

you feel kind of bad for it. you're the sweetest girl in town, getting straight a's in college, you can’t even say the word sex without getting red in the face. but still, you want him to press your face to the mattress and say 'so polite for everyone else, huh? let’s see how polite you are for me'.

sickening.

you didn’t know him, not really, but you knew of him. everyone did. that’s just how it works on a place like this, the island’s too small to hide anyone, especially not someone like jj.

he was a year older than you. he graduated, barely, from the public school on the island, got into fights, spent half his week in this here police station. while you had been kildare acadamy trained, clean reputation, polite. raised on yes sir, no ma’am, and don’t ever go near that maybank boy.

you've only spoken once, technically, if you want to count the time he held the door for you. lip split, blonde craze curling out from under his hat, he didn’t even look up at first.

you stepped past him, said 'thank you', real quiet, polite, like you were supposed to. he glanced up just long enough to say 'no problem, sweetheart' and then he was gone.

and that was it. so oviously, you've convinced yourself that you're a creep.

jj is still getting dragged across the lobby by your father.

“you’re really startin’ to make this a habit, sheriff,” he says. “you miss me or somethin’?”

your dad grits his teeth, but doesn’t answer. he looks over at you, huffing out a smile. "hey, kid."

jj looks up, and then he sees you. he actually stops walking for half a second, forces your dad yank him forward again. but his eyes stay locked on you, his head tilts like he’s trying to remember if you’ve ever spoken.

his eyes drag over you, slow and curious, like you don’t match the picture in his head.

then, he smiles. "afternoon, sweetheart."

you wondered if he had somehow, magically remembered what he had called you the first and only time you interacted with him, or if he just called every girl that.

he turns to your dad. “you ever get nervous lettin’ her walk around like that?”

your father tightens his grip on the cuffs. “watch your mouth, maybank.”

jj grins wider, eyes never leaving you. “just sayin’. you're braver than i thought."

“that’s my daughter."

jj’s eyebrows lift. “lucky man." his lips fall into a line, nodding his head. "she looks just like her mama."

you hide a jaw drop. his head tilts, then shakes it with approval.

they make it to the other end of the lobby, before your dad stops and yanks jj with him. he turns, giving you that look you're sure jj put on his face earlier.

"that thing's real short, kid."

"yeah, completely makes up for gettin' arrested, though. actually, i think i'll even thank you for this one, michael."

your father shoves him foward so hard jj stumbles, shoulder hitting the frame. he probably would've fallen if not for the hostile grip your dad had on the cuffs. but jj’s still smiling.

they pass through the doorway, the door slams behind them. and you’re left standing in a silence that buzzes.

you see him again five days later.

you're in the gas station, picking through the cold drinks while you wait for the gas pump to fill your car.

"look who it is."

you turn, and there he is, standing with just enough distance that it makes you kind of fidgety. his arms are crossed and he's already smirking like he won't end up in holding tonight.

you force your face into something neutral, pleasant, indifferent. like your heart isn’t already racing just from the sound of his voice.

“jj." you say carefully.

“you remember my name. i’m touched.”

you roll your eyes and walk toward the counter. he follows, slow.

“cute dress,” he says, like it’s nothing. like he didn’t just burn that image into his brain, “real sweet."

"thank you. you done?"

“not tryin' to cause a scene, sweetheart. just surprised, is all. figured you were only allowed out with a badge escort.”

“funny,” you say flatly, plucking a pack of gum from the display and tossing it next to your drink. “you been working on your material?”

he doesn’t answer right away, just watches you with that same unreadable look. the one that makes your stomach coil even when you tell yourself it shouldn’t.

“how fast do'ya think your dad would put a bullet in me if i kissed you?”

you go still. not in that flustered, overdramatic kind of way, but in that real kind of still. like your brain forgot how to move your mouth.

he doesn’t even look at you when he says it. just taps the cap of the soda bottle against the counter, head tilted slightly like he’s already picturing it.

the cashier hands you your change, not without a look of concern, and you walk out into the sun, hoping it'll hide your reaction to him.

jj doesn’t let more than two seconds pass before he pushes through the door behind you.

"okay, that was a joke. not really, but kind of."

you glance back at him, quick. he's a few steps behind, already squinting from the north carolina sun.

"it was a bad one."

"you got somewhere to be?"

you don't look back at him. your hand’s tight around your keys, your other fidgeting with the edge of your drink. “…no.”

“then come for a drive.”

your head snaps up, brows raised. “with you?”

he nods like it's simple, like it was obvious.

"why would i do that?" you ask, eyes flicking between the gas pump and him.

“beats standin’ here tryin’ to pretend we’re not both thinkin’ about it.”

you swear your whole body locks up, again. he didn't know...did he? no, he couldn't possibly know about the way you think of him at night. but the way he talks like he does makes a silent shiver run down your spine.

you take a deep breath a shake your head. "you aren't funny."

the gas pump clicks as jj laughs, you pull it out and replace it with the gas cap.

“wasn’t tryin’ to be. you comin’?”

you stand there, looking at him. he's smiling, like always, his shirt is stained with something black and is cut at the sleeves.

you hear your dad's voice in your head after the event at the station five days ago, comments made after arresting jj and then coming home and pointing a fork at you during dinner. “next time he looks at you like that, you walk away.”

you should walk away. you should politely decline and then run for the hills like he's chasing you.

“…you gonna bring me back?”

he grins, slow and tooth-biting. "promise."

the passenger side door creaks when he pulls it open for you. the seat’s hot, the truck smells like sun warmed leather and gas station gum and something darker, sweat and smoke and boy.

he drives with one hand on the wheel, arm lazy out the window. the breeze messes up your hair, but you don't try and fix it.

the road’s all winding road down by the lighthouse, no one on the road, no reason to feel this tense except for the boy driving like he’s got all the time in the world and none of it’s clean.

you’re hyperaware of the way his arm brushes the console between you, the way his knee shifts when he laughs. the way you keep crossing and uncrossing your legs, trying to shake the warmth climbing up your body.

he’s talking about something dumb, some fight on the beach, some busted cooler and a stolen fishing pole, and then he stops mid-sentence.

“hold up,” he says, low and casual, like it’s nothing. “you got somethin’ right there.”

before you can ask, his hand’s already in your space. his fingers brush over your shoulder, then up, slow and careful, until they find a little piece of something caught in your hair. maybe a leaf, maybe thread, maybe nothing at all.

he pulls it free but doesn't drop his hand. just twirls the same lock of your hair around his finger. once, twice.

you're staring at him with your lips parted, his eyes out onto the road as if he doesn't have you wrapped around his finger, figuratively and literally.

your breath hiccups. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t smile, just keeps twirling, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

and then he tugs. gentle, light, barely a pull.

he lets go like it’s nothing, but it doesn't stop you from gasping, only loud enough for jj to grin.

he flicks the piece of fuzz out the window, and leans back into his seat. “should see your face right now.”

you roll your eyes, uncross and recross your legs. you can't help the pink that appears on your cheeks as you stare out the winow.

jj looks you over again. looks at your hair, your jaw, your hands placed politely in your lap, your thighs.

he breathes out a shaky breath, almost like he's in awe he's got a girl like you here with him.

“your dad’s gonna kill me." he says after a beat. he says it with a little humor behind it, but even jj knows it's no joke.

"guess you better make it worth it, then."

the ballroom smells like citrus polish and catered chicken. everyone’s dressed in their best, firefighters in borrowed jackets, town councilmen in suits that haven’t fit right in a decade. your dad sits tall at your side, name printed on a place card in the center of the table. your mom keeps adjusting the silverware.

you’re in a long, light blue dress with a low neckline and bare shoulders, earrings your aunt lent you, and heels that look really good, but don't feel good.

and of course, jj has magically managed to weasel his way into this event as a waiter.

he's dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves cuffed to the elbows. hair combed but already falling out of place. there's a bruise shadows the left side of his jaw. he looks so out of place he might as well be glowing.

he's next to you before you know it. a hand appears at your side, steadying your glass. a second later, the sound of ice water pouring, slow and quiet.

you glance down. his sleeve brushes your arm. “miss.” he says.

he leans in just a little closer, not enough for anyone to take a second glance, but enough. “you look real sweet tonight.”

you tuck away a smile, a subtle hand reaching out to give a harsh tug at his belt, like that'll silence him.

he just lets out a breathy laugh, wandering over to the next table without giving anyone at yours a second thought.

the speeches start twenty minutes later, and you find a decent excuse to sneak outside before you're stuck in there listening to your dad's deputy talk about community.

you lean back against the stone railing, chin tilted up toward the stars you can barely see past the glow of streetlamps and floodlights. your heart’s still beating a little fast. too fast for someone who just needed air.

"knew i'd find you hidin' out here."

you turn, but you're not surprised. you were hoping he would follow you. hoping he would have some slimy, annoying thing to mutter under his breath.

jj’s already halfway to you, hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled, shirt slightly untucked like he’s been messing with it all night.

“how long’d you wait before following me?” you ask, leaning back against the railing.

“waited long enough to make it seem like i didn’t.”

you sigh. jj steps up beside you, quiet for a moment. he smells like smoke and heat and cologne he probably stole. the bruise on his cheek looks worse under the glow of the patio lights.

you smile a little despite yourself. “you’re not even supposed to be here.”

“yeah, well,” he says, inching even closer, “lucky for you, i’m real good at bein’ in places i shouldn’t.”

you laugh, eyes flicking over him, bruised knuckles, undone top button, the way his hand brushes the edge of the railing next to yours like he knows he’s already too close.

“you never shut up, do you?”

he gasps, loudly. “woah. little miss raised-to-be-polite tellin’ me to shut my mouth?”

you glare. “jj-”

“no, no,” he says, all mock-offended. “what would your mama think?”

you shove his shoulder, failing to hide your grin. “don’t bring my mother into this, jerk.”

he grins, not wide, but slow, lazy.

“mhm.” he tilts his head. “you always this mouthy when you wanna kiss someone?”

your breath stutters. you blink at him and say his name all stern like.

“what?” he says, voice low now, soft at the edges. he holds his hands up like it's absolutely not his fault you're in this situation. “you told me to shut up. i’m just sayin’...there’s better ways.”

you don’t answer, you just step forward and kiss him.

you don’t warn him. don’t ask for the first time in your life. just grab his shirt in your fist and pull him down to meet you.

and for half a second, jj freezes like he wasn’t expecting you to actually do it. but he's moving again after a millisecond.

his hands find your hips, not soft, not questioning, and he pulls. drags you in until your chest hits his, until there’s no air left between you. his fingers flex against the fabric of your dress, not like he’s holding you, like he’s molding you into the shape he wants.

his mouth is hot, moving over yours like he’s got something to prove, as if he needs to show you exactly what you’ve been missing.

it's like a dream. this is probably what taking drugs feels like. you can't feel your limbs all the way, and you feel like you're floating.

then, you think you hear something. a laugh, a door, a creak maybe. maybe you're just so paranoid from kissing the kid who has his own personal cell at the station.

you try to pull back, just an inch. jj doesn’t let you. he's already finding his way back to you, muttering something like 'don't' as his lips crash into yours again.

it's rougher this time, messier, like he’s trying to drown whatever part of you was second-guessing. like he needs you distracted, breathless, his just a little longer.

and when he finally steps away from you, quickly checking over his shoulder to make sure someone wasn't running to go tell on you two. jj turns back to you, lips parted. then that grin returns, bigger than before.

he's breathless, pupils blown, lips pink from kissing you too long and too hard.

you look up at him, he’s beautiful in this light. ruined and smug and golden. an absolute wet dream that you'll be replaying in your head tonight.

“don’t follow me in,” you say, soft, still smiling.

“’course not.” he grins. there's a beat of silence as you walk past him, letting your fingers graze across his stomach just because you could. over his shoulder he says, “see you in five.”

you took a little more time getting ready this morning, just a little. a little more mascara, a little smoother with the hair, a dress you wouldn’t normally reach for on a saturday. nothing dramatic, nothing obvious, just soft enough, just pretty enough.

jj maybank is outside.

he’s shirtless, slick with sweat, halfway disappeared under the hood of your dad’s truck. he showed up twenty minutes ago with a smile like he wasn’t late. your dad, clearly annoyed but cornered, muttered something about a deal- fix the alternator and maybe next time he gets caught trespassing, the cuffs stay in the glovebox.

your eyes damn near bugged out of your head when your father explained it over cereal this morning. you haven't seen jj since you kissed almost a week ago, it's been killing you. so yes, you sprinted up the stairs and then destroyed your closet getting ready.

you're trying to make yourself look as busy as possible in the kitchen when he walks in. he's wiping grease off his hands with a rag and wearing that smug, sun warmed smile.

“your dad’s still cussing at the alternator,” jj says, casually grabbing your glass of water off the counter and taking a sip. “figured i’d come see my favorite girl.”

"sure, help yourself." you try and sound annoyed as you point to your stolen glass, it does not come out the way you want.

he tips his head up with a smile as to say 'thank you', then steps closer to you.

you can’t breathe. jj's still very shirtless. he smells like sun and motor oil and whatever trouble’s been festering between you since friday night.

“you haven’t called.” you say, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

“you haven’t either.”

that stops you. you open your mouth, then close it again.

jj watches you, gaze dragging over your face like he’s memorizing it, like he missed it more than he wants to admit.

“miss me?”

you tuck your lips and shake your head no, even though you're smiling, even though you're leaning against the counter like you're willing to do all the work for him.

he leans in a little, and you think maybe he's finally gonna kiss you again, before he glances toward the hallway and goes, “wait. which room’s yours?”

you freeze. “jj-”

he doesn’t even wait for permission. just tosses the rag on the counter and starts walking.

“jj, no-”

he opens the bathroom door, mutters 'not that one', and then continues. you close the bathroom door while you're trailing behind him.

you’re still whispering like it’ll help, like your mom won’t hear if you keep your voice at a hiss while chasing a shirtless felon down the hall. he ignores you completely.

he opens the last door on the left and stops in the doorway. he lets out a low chuckle and you freeze behind him. but he’s already stepping inside before you can stop him.

your bedroom is small, soft. quiet pinks and warm creams. throw blankets and stacked books and a half-open window letting in the breeze. a few dried flowers in a jar on your nightstand, a line of perfume bottles on the dresser, little sea-glass trinkets from the beach, half your closet is still sitting on your bed.

jj takes all of one second to look around before letting out a low whistle.

“you know,” he murmurs, stepping away slowly, “i thought about this. you, what your room would look like.”

“yeah?”

“mhm. oh, totally knew you'd have a diary.” he grabs it from your nightstand, flipping through it without asking, humming.

you tear it from his hands, hoping he didn't see one of the thousands of times you've written his name in there, and toss it on the bed. “you’re such a jerk.”

he grins. his eyes land on your mirror, the cluttered edge of it, where a few photos are tucked into the frame, polaroids, memories. one in particular, slightly off-center, corners curling just the tiniest bit. jj steps closer.

“don’t even think about it.” your voice is laced with attitude, and you're already moving forward.

he ignores you again, plucking the photo from the mirror like it was his to take.

“jj.”

he doesn’t even look at you, just turns the polaroid over in his fingers to show you the photo, head tilted, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

it's the one of you at the beach, wearing some bikini the preacher at your church would force you into confessional for. you're laughing, your hair is all over the place, blowing in the wind.

“yeah,” he says. “this is coming with me.”

your jaw drops. “no, it's not.”

he shrugs. "sure about that?"

you snatch for it, but he's learned his lesson from the diary, and he lifts it higher. the smirk widening, like he lives to make you reach for things you shouldn’t want.

“what are you even gonna do with it?” you snap, crossing your arms, trying to cover the way your cheeks are burning.

he just stares at it, nodding like he's figuring it out in his head. then, he grins.

“gonna keep it under my pillow,” he says, voice low and warm, “until i fuck you in this exact bikini.”

you go completely still. heat explodes across your face, down your neck, in your fingertips. your jaw goes slack, your brain empties, your attitude? gone, totally gone.

"then i'll frame it." he nods one last time, shoving the picture into his pocket.

jj leans back just slightly, satisfied. his hand brushes your waist as he passes, slow and deliberate.

he presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s a favor, light, cocky, devastating. “thanks for the photo, sweetheart.”

and then he’s gone. screen door creaking, footsteps thudding down the porch steps, headed back toward the driveway like he didn’t just blow your entire soul out of your body.

and you stay there, flushed and speechless in the middle of your bedroom, already knowing exactly what he’s gonna do the next time he gets you alone.

it comes much sooner than you expect it. the same night, actually.

you haven’t moved in an hour. just lying there, tucked beneath soft sheets and fairy light shadows, staring at the ceiling and thinking about him.

about the polaroid in his back pocket. about what he said he’d do with it. about the way your breath stopped, and hasn’t really come back since.

it’s late, too late. the house is dead quiet, your parents asleep down the hall, the fan humming low in the corner, the sheets cool against your bare legs.

you sit up fast when your window creaks.

and there he is. blond hair a mess, wearing some dirty, old shirt, carefully tossing himself through your window and landing on the floor with a soft thump.

“jj, are you insane?” you whisper, scrambling to your feet. “you shouldn't be here."

he shrugs, "shouldn't do a lotta things."

he's already crossing the room toward you, eyes dark as they drop down the length of your legs and don’t come back up.

you're in white. thin cotton, lace trim, a little bow at the chest and straps falling off your shoulder like they’re tired of pretending you're not hoping for it.

jj blinks once. then again, and then drags a hand down his face like maybe that’ll stop the blood from rushing straight to his dick.

“jesus fucking christ.” he breathes.

you shush him, but can't help the blush that's creeping on your face.

“honestly jj,” you whisper harshly, “what are you doing?”

“missed you." he says simply, like that’s reason enough to sneak into your bedroom at nearly one in the morning.

“you’re gonna get murdered. my dad is right down the hall.”

he just shrugs.

"no, i'm serious. he's got a loaded gun in the closet i'm sure he's been dying to use on you." you say, breathless, pulling him away from the window anyway, like if he’s going down, you don't mind going with him.

“well then, you better keep quiet.”

you don’t even realize you’ve backed into the room until your legs hit the edge of the bed.

the window is still cracked, your fingers are still fisted in his shirt.

and then he’s kissing you, like he’s making up for every second he didn’t. like he’s not stopping unless someone physically drags him off of you.

he’s already pushing the straps of your nightgown off your shoulders like they’re in his way. you shudder when his tongue traces along the edge of lace.

you gasp into the air when his lips trail down your neck, slow and open mouthed and intentional. you whisper his name, almost a warning, already shaky.

he hums against your collarbone like you didn’t say anything at all.

“you said be quiet.” you breathe, barely able to form the words. like it's his fault you just made that sound, because it is.

“i did,” he murmurs, kissing lower, teeth brushing just enough to make you gasp. “you’re the one moanin’ about it.”

your hand fists in his hair and he smiles into your skin. his hands are on your thighs now, pushing the fabric up inch by inch. his palms are hot, steady, grounding and wrecking all at once.

you try to stay still, you try to be quiet. but then he pulls your night dress down to your ribs and pulls your nipple into his mouth, sucking. just a little, just enough to make you forget who's down the hall.

his grin is immediate.

"damn,” he hums, not even looking up. “you were doin’ so good too.”

“jj, please-”

“please what?” his mouth is right above your nipple now, lips brushing it every time he talks.

you look down at him, and let out some sort of twisted version of a sigh and a moan. and it only makes him bolder.

he kisses his way down your stomach, slow and open-mouthed, and when he reaches your hips, he pushes the nightgown up completely.

he pauses, sits back on his knees, and just stares.

you’re panting, red-faced, hands twitching by your sides, and he looks like he’s been punched in the throat.

“holy shit.” he says it like it slipped out, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

you would try to cover yourself if it wasn't jj maybank sitting it front of you, already coming back to reach for you again.

he's lower now. jj drags his hands up the outside of your thighs, slow, thumbs pressing into soft skin, and leans back down, mouth kissing the inside of your knee first, and then higher.

his fingers peel your underwear to the side, his breath making you jump.

you’re shaking already, and then his mouth is on you. warm and perfect and so slow you nearly cry from it.

his hands keep your hips pinned. his tongue moves in maddening circles, and when you choke out a quiet “jj-” he groans into you, like he needs to hear it.

your back arches, he pulls you down by the hips, harder, his grip is bruising, his mouth is relentless.

he mutters something, then slides a finger in, and your jaw drops.

his mouth is back on you, eyes flicking down to where you're connected then back up to your face, over and over again.

he slips the second finger in slow, and when you gasp, hips jerking, thighs trembling around his wrist, jj just smirks and mutters, “jesus, tight little pussy. she’s not used to this, huh?”

his fingers are so deep it makes your vision blur.

you’ve touched yourself thinking about this before. jj between your legs. jj with his hands on your thighs. jj saying your name like he is now.

you’ve thought about it a hundred different ways, slow, soft, angry, teasing, but none of it, none of it, have even touched what this is.

you moan, high, wrecked, and slap your hand over your mouth like it might help.

you can’t look at him, not really. not when your thighs are shaking, not when you’re so wet you can hear it, not when your brain is fogged over with warmth and want.

this is so much worse than you imagined. so much better. jj talking shit between your legs, curling his fingers up into you while your back arches off the bed? this is everything, and he knows it.

you’re so close it feels like your whole body is about to snap. jj’s mouth is locked between your thighs, warm, open, sure, tongue dragging slow and deep, and his free hand is keeping you right there while he finishes what he started.

“fuckin’ unreal.” he mutters, only pulling back enough to get half of it out before he's back on you.

you’ve never been touched like this. never had someone lick into you like it’s for them, not you.

your legs start to shake and he feels it, tightens his hold on your thighs like he know you're gonna try to run.

“that’s it,” he mutters, low and steady. “just like that.”

you clench around his fingers, your eyes roll back, your mouth parts on a silent moan. and jj just stays there, mouth firm, tongue working in slow circles, sucking just right, until your whole body stiffins.

he lets you cum like that, quiet and wrecked and barely breathing, and doesn’t move until you’ve given him everything.

your legs are still twitching, your eyes won’t focus. you’re wrecked, flushed and messy and so far gone you couldn’t speak even if you tried.

jj just watches you. his hands are still on your thighs. his chest is rising and falling like he’s the one who came.

“gonna be thinking about that for the rest of my fuckin’ life.” he leans into you, kissing you once. “you want more?”

you don't think you've ever nodded that fast in your entire life. you can't feel your fingers, but they're already grabbing to get rid of his clothes.

“easy,” he mumbles, voice low, amused. “i’ll give it to you. don’t gotta tear my fuckin’ clothes off.”

you don’t say anything. just look at him, flushed, breathing hard, mouth parted, and tug him down into another kiss.

he groans into it, grabbing your leg and hooking it over his hip. his hand finds your thigh, squeezes it once, and then he leans back on his knees, reaching blindly for his wallet.

you’re still catching your breath when he tears the foil open with his teeth, eyes never leaving you.

“should’ve done this a long time ago.”

he says it like it’s nothing, like it’s just a thought that slipped out as he rolled the condom on. but it lands like a punch to the chest. your breath catches, your whole body stills.

he strokes himself once, slow, and leans forward again, gaze flicking to your face.

“are you sure?” he asks.

your hand finds his wrist, you nod. “jj please-”

“yeah, baby,” he says with the biggest, shit eating grin you've ever seen, lining himself up. “i got you.”

he pushes in, steady but deep, splitting you open in one long, perfect stretch that has your fingers clawing at his shoulders and your legs tightening around his waist.

he’s fucking you deep, slow, deliberate, one hand gripping your waist, the other curled into your soft, pink sheets.

the headboard’s silent, the sheets barely rustle, he’s keeping it controlled, keeping it just quiet enough to survive this.

but you? you're gone. your mind is hazy, half lost, like you're dreaming. like you're still floating somewhere between his mouth and his dick and the way he sounds when he moans into your skin.

your hands scramble for something, his arms, his shoulders, the sheets. and then you find his wrist, and you don’t even think.

you wrap your fingers around his forearm and pull, dragging his hand from beside your head and guiding it to your throat like it’s just where he belongs.

his hips still. his chest rises hard against yours. for a second, the only sound in the room is your breathing, high and shaky, like you don’t even know what you just did.

he stares at you. then down at his hand, his fingers twitch against your neck. you blink up at him, still panting, still trembling, still clenching around him like you want him to ruin you. and jj just grins.

“knew it.” he mutters, hand tightening slowly, just enough to feel your breath catch under his palm. “you’re not as sweet as you act, huh?”

he starts to move again, deeper now, heavier, his free hand digging into your hip to keep you still, to make you feel every inch.

“could’ve just asked.” he places a kiss to your jaw, your heart flutters.

his hips snap forward again and your body jolts, breath catching sharp in your throat, and it hits you. not the thrust, not the sweat-slick sound of skin on skin, the thought, the truth of it.

years of being good. years of doing exactly what was expected- chin up, shirt tucked, hands folded in your lap. never talked back, never crossed the line. of doing everything right because it was easier to be perfect than to be noticed.

and now you’re on your back, spread, mouth open, letting jj maybank fuck you like he's waited his whole life to.

years of being the girl people trusted, respected, relied on. and all it took was jj maybank looking at you the wrong way.

he groans something low and filthy against your shoulder and your whole body clenches like it wants to be worse for him, like it wants to see how far down you’ll go.

you feel sick, almost. because you should feel ashamed, you should feel guilty for this.

for how easy it was. for how badly you want it. for how much you don’t want to stop. but you don’t feel guilty, not even a little. and somehow, that feels worse.

jj slides out, slow, and wraps his fingers around your underwear, pulling down. before you can even question it, he’s got a hand on your hip, flipping you onto your stomach like it’s effortless.

you gasp into the pillow, dizzy from the movement, from the emptiness, from the cold that rushes over your skin, until he’s there again, behind you, covering you, pulling you up.

his arm wraps tight around your middle, dragging your back flush to his chest, his cock sliding back in deep and slow.

he’s so deep it knocks the air out of you. you can feel every inch, every grind of his hips. his hand comes up, slow and sure, fingers curling under your jaw, thumb pressing beneath your chin, and then he wraps his hand around your throat again.

“y' know,” he pants, voice thick with it, lips brushing the back of your neck, “i always knew you had a thing for me.”

you choke and whip your head as far as he's allowing to look at him. “what?”

he laughs. moans, really, thrusts again just to make you stutter.

“your little crush on me,” he says, smug and panting. “you thought you were subtle?”

it doesn’t register at first. but then it hits- like cold water, like fire in your veins. he knew. he knew.

“no, shut up-”

you want to bury your face in the pillow, you try to move down away from him, but he's got you locked.

“nah,” he huffs, grinning against your skin. “shit was adorable. made me wanna be good to you. made me wanna be so fuckin’ mean to you.”

his words, the angle, the way you're finally fucking jj maybank after two full years of pretending you didn't want to makes you moan a noise so loud it shocks you, too.

he pulls out halfway and thrusts back in. his hand slips from your throat to your mouth in one fast, practiced motion, palm pressed firm over your lips, fingers stretching up your cheek, holding you there.

“quiet,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “i mean it.”

you try to get a ''m sorry' out from against his palm, wide-eyed and already trembling.

“you want me to stop?”

you shake your head fast, desperate, pleading into his hand.

"then shut up."

his hips moving slow but heavy, each thrust dragging a sound out of you he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

his voice is low, wrecked against your ear. “you like that?” another thrust. “quiet now, huh? just needed it deep, baby, that it?”

he’s so deep it doesn’t feel real anymore, jj’s hips are steady, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you inch by inch.

then, the phone rings, loud.

you hear it. so does jj. so does your dad.

jj freezes. one hand still over your mouth, one still braced around your stomach. you turn your head to look at him, his expression caught somewhere between amused and very much not supposed to be here.

there's shuffling outside your bedroom, and your dad picks up on the third ring. his voice is muffled but right there, and it sends a cold wave straight down your spine.

jj doesn’t move, not right away. his eyes are on yours, dark and gleaming, like he’s waiting for something, permission, panic, surrender. your lips tremble under his hand.

and then, he moves. just once. a single slow, deep thrust that pushes every inch of him deeper into you, and rips a sound from your chest so sharp you think your whole body might short-circuit against his hand.

jj’s mouth curves against your shoulder, all teeth. “mhm. yeah, there it is.”

you sob into his palm, he just shushes you like you're doing something wrong.

his hand disappears from your face. just long enough for his palm to return with a sharp, perfect slap to your cheek, quick and hot and shocking, not cruel, but enough to make your breath catch and your eyes go wide.

he laughs, breathless, smug. “you play the good girl act so well. almost had me fooled.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. you're fifty percent humilated, fifty percent hoping he'll do it again.

he’s close. you can feel it in the way his rhythm starts to falter, the way his grip tightens, the way his chest presses tight to your back.

your body locks up, your vision goes white, and you cum hard, your whole body seizing around him, sobbing and shaking against him.

jj groans, low and sharp. “fuck, baby, jesus- fuck-”

he thrusts once. twice. and then he’s spilling into you with a soft, broken curse, his head dropped to your shoulder, his arms holding you close like he can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

the phone clicks. the house falls into a silence again.

you’re trembling. both of you are slick with sweat, breath sticky in the still air. he pulls out carefully, slow and aching, like it hurts to leave you. and then, without a word, he shifts,tugging you gently with him. you follow- limp, pliant, quiet.

you roll into his chest. he pulls you into him like muscle memory.

you blink up at him, dazed and flushed, and he presses a kiss to your temple. one, then another, slower.

he’s quiet for a beat. then he mutters, voice rough and dry, “if your dad kills me, just…tell him i said it was worth it.”

your mouth tips up into a slow, sleepy smile. jj shrugs, barely, his thumb brushing over your hip. “seriously. i won’t even put up a fight.”

you laugh, low and warm, and bury your face in his chest. if this is the last good thing he gets, he’ll take it.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

#jj maybank #obx fanfiction #obx imagine #outer banks #outer banks imagine #obx season 3 #jj mayback imagine #obx jj #jj mayback x reader #jj outer banks #jj x you #jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank smut #criminal!jj #sheriffsdaughter!reader

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mandoalorian · 2 months ago

Text

the mechanic's girl [mechanic!bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: When your car breaks down, you pull into Barnes Auto Fix, and encounter Bucky, an older-looking man with a metal arm and a haunted past. As he works on your vehicle, you notice the way his sweat-soaked vest clings to his chisled frame and can't help but let your neediness and desire get the better of you.

Warnings/Rating: 18+ explicit content, no minors, smut, age-gap (reader is in their 20s), dom!bucky, he’s rough and possessive with you & talks you through it, unprotected p in v, m receiving oral, cunnilingus, spanking, biting, choking, allusions to cheating, daddy kink, breeding kink, praise kink, sex-tape, this is just pure filth, also the reader doesn’t have a clue about car stuff lol, she’s not dumb she’s just like me<3

Word count: 3800>

Masterlist

You pushed open the creaky door of Barnes Auto Fix, the bell above jangling weakly as a gust of swelteringly unbearable air followed you inside. The day had been a scorcher, the kind of hot, humid hell that made your clothes cling to your skin like a second layer, sweat beading on your forehead and dripping down your spine.

The air inside the garage wasn’t much better. It smelled of motor oil and metal, with an undercurrent of gasoline, and the faint hum of an old radio playing a scratchy rock tune filled the space. Your car had sputtered to a stop just a hundred yards down the road, and you’d barely managed to roll it into the gravel lot outside, your thighs sticking to the vinyl seat, leaving you peeling yourself off it with a grimace.

Behind the counter, a man looked up from a greasy engine part he’d been inspecting. His stormy blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch, pinning you in place. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair falling messily over his forehead and a scruff of stubble along his jaw.

His white vest was soaked through with sweat, the fabric clinging to his chest like it had been painted on, outlining every ridge of muscle, every dip and curve of his torso. The humidity had left a sheen on his skin, droplets of sweat rolling down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of the vest. A faded denim jacket hung open over the vest, and his left arm, shimmering metal from shoulder to fingertips, caught the dim light of the garage. Bucky Barnes, the name stitched on his jacket told you, and the way he looked at you, like a predator sizing up its prey, sent a shiver down your spine despite the heat.

“Car trouble?” he asked, his voice low and rough, carrying an edge of authority that made your stomach flip. He set the engine part down with a deliberate thud, wiping his hands on a rag, his movements slow and controlled. The motion made his biceps flex, and you caught a whiff of him—a heady mix of sweat, motor oil, and something unexpectedly delicious, like cedarwood and leather, a scent that made your mouth water despite the oppressive heat.

You nodded, brushing a strand of sticky, sweat-dampened hair from your face. “Yeah. It just… died. I don’t know what’s wrong. Can you take a look?”

His eyes raked over you, slow and unapologetic, before he gave a sharp nod. “Bring it around front.” The command in his tone left no room for argument, and you found yourself moving to comply, your heart racing as you felt his gaze on you the whole way.

By the time your car was in the garage, the afternoon sun had dipped low, but the humidity hadn’t let up, the air thick and heavy, pressing against your skin like a damp blanket. Bucky popped the hood and got to work, his hands moving with a quiet confidence that spoke of years of experience. You sat on a stool nearby, sipping a lukewarm soda he’d pulled from a mini fridge in the corner, the can slippery with condensation in your hand. The silence between you was heavy, broken only by the clink of tools and the occasional grunt as he worked.

You couldn’t stop watching his hands—those strong, capable hands, one flesh and one metal, as they worked with precision. His fingers, smeared with grease, wrapped around a wrench, tightening a bolt with a deft twist, and you found yourself imagining those hands on you, the way they’d feel, firm and unyielding.

The thought sent a wave of heat through you, pooling low in your belly, and you shifted on the stool, pressing your thighs together to ease the ache. His white vest was practically obscene now, the sweat making it stick to him like a second skin, and every time he leaned over the engine, you caught another whiff of that delicious scent, a mix of hard work and raw masculinity that made your head spin.

“Fuel line’s shot,” he said abruptly, straightening up and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. More sweat rolled down his temple, catching in the stubble on his jaw, and his vest clung to his chest, the damp fabric outlining his pecs, the faint outline of his nipples visible through the thin material. “I can fix it. But it’s gonna take a while,” He announced, taking a step back from the vehicle, his gaze locking onto you. “You got family? A boyfriend to come pick you up?”

The way he said it wasn’t a question—it was a statement, or an assumption, even. And the weight of his gaze made it clear he wasn’t waiting for an answer. But regardless, you gave him one. You swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay,” you said, testing the waters. Bucky didn’t shift, his blue eyes like steel, boring into you like you were some sort of spectacle. “Family is on the other side of the country, and no, no boyfriend.”

You hopped onto the edge of the counter, legs swinging beneath you. Bucky’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing and just went back to work. You felt the shift in the air, the way his presence seemed to fill the room, commanding every inch of space. You tried to make small talk, asking about the town, the garage, but his answers were curt, his focus on the car unwavering.

He’d bought the garage a few years back, he said, after getting out of the military. Didn’t like people much. Preferred the quiet.

The hours passed, and you found yourself helping him with small tasks—handing him a wrench, holding a flashlight while he tightened a bolt. His hands brushed yours more than once, the contact leaving a smear of grease on your skin, the warmth of his touch lingering even in the stifling heat, and each time, your breath caught, the intensity of his proximity making your pulse race.

By the time he finished the repair, the storm had arrived, the storm that you both had known was forecasted. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain began to fall, a steady patter that quickly turned into a downpour. You stood at the garage door, watching the water stream down the gravel lot, the rain a welcome relief from the oppressive humidity, though it did little to cool the heat simmering beneath your skin. There was no way you were driving in that.

You heard the faucet turn off as Bucky had finished washing his hands, dropping a towel haphazardly by the sink. A signal that the work was complete.

Your eyes were locked onto the brewing storm outside, a flash of lightning making you jump slightly, and you realised you were holding your breath.

“You’re not leaving,” Bucky said, his voice a low growl as he came up behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. The scent of him hit you again, stronger now, a delicious mix of sweat and cedarwood that made your knees weak, and you noticed his vest was still clinging to him, the damp fabric outlining every inch of his torso in a way that made your mouth water.

You turned to face him, your back against the doorframe, and his eyes were dark, predatory, as they locked onto yours. “I… I guess not,” you managed, your voice trembling under the weight of his stare.

He stepped closer, crowding your space, his broad frame towering over you. “Good,” he said, his voice rough with intent. “Because I’m not done.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs as he reached out, his metal hand gripping your waist, pulling you away from the door and into the garage with a force that made you stumble. He didn’t let you fall—his metal hand caught your arm, steadying you, but there was no gentleness in his touch, only a raw, commanding strength that sent a thrill through you.

“With the car?” You asked, biting your lip incredulously.

“With you.” He replied, his voice dark like honey. Before you could process what was happening, he had you backed up against the workbench, the edge of it digging into your lower back as he pressed himself against you, his body a wall of heat and muscle.

“Bucky—” you started, but his lips crashed into yours, cutting you off, the kiss hard and demanding, like he was claiming you.

His metal hand stayed on your waist, holding you in place with an iron grip, while his flesh hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back to deepen the kiss. You gasped against his mouth, your hands grabbing at his shoulders, feeling the slickness of his sweat-soaked vest, the hard planes of muscle beneath it, and he growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you.

“You’ve been watching me all day,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a rough rasp as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You want this, don’t you?”

Bucky brought his hand down to his belt, undoing it and unlacing it through the loops of his light-washed, oil-stained jeans. You glanced down, a knot in your throat forming when you noticed his bulge pressing against the denim.

You nodded, breathless, your body trembling under the intensity of his gaze. “Yes,” you whispered, and that was all he needed.

He lifted you onto the workbench with a roughness that made your breath hitch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks as he stepped between your legs, forcing them apart. His lips moved to your neck, his stubble scraping against the sweat-dampened curve of your throat as he bit down lightly, drawing a whimper from you.

“That’s what I thought,” he growled, his hands sliding under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head in one swift motion, leaving you exposed to the humid air and his hungry eyes. “What’s a young thing like yourself doing this far out of the city, alone?”

His metal hand pinned your wrists above your head against the workbench, the coolness of the material a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he pressed himself closer, his hips grinding against yours.

“Fight with my boyfriend,” you mumbled, ducking your head down as warmth crept across your cheeks. "Needed to get outta there."

“Ah,” Bucky let out an airy chuckle. “You told me you had no boyfriend.”

And yet, he didn’t step back. If anything, he pushed closer to you, his frame towering over you. There was no room for running. No room for escape.

“I’m going to break up with him.” You announced, your eyes nervously meeting his, anticipating a reaction.

“When did you decide that, doll? When you were watching me hunched over, fixing your car?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow, almost in disbelief. Almost like confusion was masking itself. Was he impressed?

Yes. Yes. You’d watched Bucky working meticulously in the heat, his skilled fingers doing laboured things that your boyfriend wouldn’t have the first clue about. When you didn’t reply, Bucky grazed his teeth over your neck. You gasped, fingers curling around the edge of the workbench.

“You’re mine now,” Bucky said, his voice low and commanding, and the possessiveness in his tone sent a wave of heat straight to your core. “You ever been fucked by a man as old as me?”

His hand found your neck, his thumb brushing over your jaw as he admired your face. You felt a pool of heat coil into your abdomen. God, you could burst just from the way he looked at you.

“Just how old are you?” You asked.

Bucky laughed darkly before turning his back on you, like he’d vetoed the question. Fine, he didn’t have to answer, but from the look of him, he had to be mid-40s. You briefly considered the age gap, but ultimately, you were definitely okay with it.

“I want to remember this,” he said, his voice dripping with dark promise as he reached into a drawer on the workbench and pulled out a small, battered camcorder—the kind that was popular in the late ‘80s, with a clunky lens and a red record button. Your heart skipped a beat, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding through you.

“You’re gonna look so good on camera,” he said, setting the camcorder on a tripod nearby, angling it to capture the two of you against the workbench, the storm outside framing the scene like a gritty, intimate movie. The red light blinked on, and the air felt heavier, the moment charged with a new kind of intensity. You felt exposed under his gaze, under the lens, but the way he looked at you—like he owned you—made you want to give him everything.

He released your wrists, but his hands didn’t stay idle. He tugged at his own vest, peeling the soaked fabric off and tossing it aside, revealing the sweat-slicked expanse of his chest, the dark hair dusting it, the scars that told stories of a hard life. His scent enveloped you completely now—cedarwood, leather, and that delicious musk that made your head spin—and you couldn’t help but lean forward, pressing your lips to his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin.

He let you, but only for a moment. Then his hands were on you again, rough and insistent, one gripping your thigh to pull you closer, the other tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back, forcing you to look at him. “Not yet,” he growled, his voice a low rumble. “I fixed your fucking car. You’ll do what I want first.”

He kissed you again, hard, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as his hands roamed your body, possessive and unyielding. Then he pulled back, his eyes dark with intent as he pushed you down onto your knees in front of him, the concrete floor rough against your skin.

“Show me how much you want this,” he ordered, his voice rough with desire as he unzipped his jeans and pulled them down to his ankles.

No fucking underwear. Holy shit.

You looked up at him, your breath coming in short gasps, and the sight of him—towering over you, his chest heaving, his white-hot intensity burning in his gaze—made your pulse race. Your hands trembled as you reached for him, pressing soft kisses along the taut skin of his lower abdomen, feeling the lingering heat of the day on his skin.

He was fucking huge, thick, a distinguised vein running up the base of his cock. You already felt full just from the sight of him, and you suppressed a moan as your core clenched around nothing. His muscles tensed under your touch, and he let out a low groan, his hand resting on the back of your head, guiding you with a firm grip. You parted your mouth, and he nudged himself against your lips, asking, no, begging for entry.

You could barely take half of him before you were gagging, unshed tears glossing over you as you looked up at him with big, doe-like eyes. Obscene sounds filled the room as you sucked, the taste of his sweat and precum leaving a saltiness on your tongue.

His grip tightened in your hair, a silent command for you to open wider, and you obeyed, your hands and lips working in tandem, drawing out every shudder, every growled curse that fell from his lips.

Eventually, your nose was pressed against his stomach as he’d pushed himself down your throat. The sounds he made—low, guttural, almost feral—sent heat pooling in your core, and you felt a surge of power, even as he dominated the moment, knowing you could affect him like this.

You pulled off him with a wet pop, gasping for air as a string of your saliva connected your lips with his cock. But before you even gave him time to adjust, you were back on him, this time licking a stripe down the underside of him before palming at his balls. He was loaded, and as you took him between your lips again, he made you feel small.

“Agh!— fuck,” he hissed, his hips twitching and bucking into you.

The camcorder’s red light glowed in the corner of your vision, a silent witness to the way Bucky’s chest heaved, the way his metal hand flexed against the workbench as he braced himself.

Bucky grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you off his cock with a groan, not wanting to finish yet. No, not before he had the chance to feel your pussy.

He yanked you back up to your feet, his hands rough on your arms as he spun you around, bending you over the workbench with a force that made you gasp. The edge of the bench dug into your hips, and his metal hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you down as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re so damn perfect like this,” he murmured, his voice a low growl, and the praise, paired with the roughness of his touch, made your knees weak.

Your breath hitched, fingers scrambling to hold onto the edge of the bench as he kicked your legs apart with one boot. You gasped, but he was already behind you, already shoving your skirt up and groaning when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, large hand smoothing over your ass—before he brought it down with a sharp crack that echoed through the garage.

You cried out, thighs clenching. “Bucky—”

“Say it again.” Another slap. “My name, sweetheart. C’mon.”

“Bucky,” you whined, louder this time, desperate, humiliated, soaking wet.

He chuckled low in his throat, and then he leaned down, biting your shoulder, hard. “You wanna act like a needy little brat, I’ll treat you like one.”

You could barely breathe as his fingers slid between your legs, rough and unrelenting, no teasing this time. “So wet for me already,” he growled, almost to himself. “Bet none of those boys your age ever touched you like this.”

“N-no,” you stammered, rocking back onto his hand.

“That’s right,” he said, dragging his fingers down again, slower this time. “You’re mine now. You get that?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look over your shoulder at him. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He kissed you then—filthy, biting, possessive—his hand still between your legs, the other wrapped around your throat like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go.

“Good girl.”

And then he turned you around, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and laid you flat on the bench.

“Now keep those pretty legs open, sweetheart,” he said, undoing his belt with one hand, the clink of it making you shiver. “Daddy’s gonna ruin you.”

Your back hit the cool metal with a clatter, tools shifting around you, but you didn’t care—not with the way he was looking at you. Like he was starved. Like you were the one thing he wasn’t supposed to touch, and he was gonna do it anyway.

“Look at you,” Bucky muttered, tugging your thighs wide open, eyes locked on the mess between your legs. “So fuckin’ wet already and I haven’t even gotten my cock inside you yet.”

You whimpered, hands gripping the bench behind you for balance. “Please—”

His hand came down hard across your inner thigh. Crack.

“Did I tell you to beg, baby?”

“N-no, Daddy,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“That’s right,” he said, dark and smug as he palmed himself, already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around his cock, giving it a few rough strokes, eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t beg unless I say. You take what I give you. And you’re gonna thank me for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless, almost crying with need.

"Yes?"

"Yes Daddy." you huffed, correcting yourself.

He didn’t wait any longer—he lined himself up, dragged the head through your slick folds once, twice, and then thrust in with one brutal stroke.

You cried out, head thrown back as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck,” he growled, both hands on your hips now, holding you still while he stayed buried deep. “So tight for me, sweetheart. This little pussy’s never gonna be the same.”

He pulled out almost all the way—then slammed back in hard, making the workbench rattle beneath you.

You moaned his name, over and over, each thrust driving it out of you like a prayer. Your legs trembled around his waist, but he just gripped you harder, biting your collarbone and fucking you rougher.

“Take it,” he snarled, one hand slapping your ass while the other squeezed your throat. “Take all of it like a good girl.”

You were already unraveling, eyes glassy, brain gone. Every time his hips slapped against yours it sent sparks shooting up your spine. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t speak.

But he wasn’t done.

He bent over you, pressing his chest to yours, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna fill you up,” he whispered, filth in every syllable. “Gonna fuck my cum into you so deep it’s all you’ll feel for days. That what you want?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you sobbed, clutching at his shoulders.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Daddy—thank you, thank you—”

He kissed you then, deep and messy, swallowing every sound as he fucked you into the workbench like he was trying to break you open. Your name was a growl on his lips as he came, hips jerking, cock twitching inside you while he held you down and moaned against your throat.

The camcorder captured it all—the way his hands roamed your body, the way you arched against him, the way the fluorescent lights flickered above you. It was raw, messy, intense, and as the storm raged on outside, you surrendered to him.

Your legs were shaking.

Your back was sore.

And your thighs were soaked—dripping with his cum, your release, sweat, and something so much filthier it made your cheeks burn.

You barely noticed when Bucky pulled out, cock still hard, chest still heaving like he hadn’t even begun to slow down. He watched you for a second—just stared at the mess he’d made of you, spread out on his workbench like something for him to tinker with.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So fuckin’ perfect like this.”

You whined softly, trying to close your legs, but his hands shot out—rough and fast—grabbing your knees and keeping you spread. “Ah ah. Don’t hide from me, baby. Let Daddy see what he did.”

You turned your face, embarrassed, only for him to grab your chin and force your gaze back to his. “You wanted this, remember?” he said with a smirk. “You begged for it.”

“I know,” you breathed. “I know—I just—”

“You did so good,” he said suddenly, softer this time, but still wrecked, still growling at the edges. “So fuckin’ good for me. My perfect girl.”

That made your chest flutter.

And then he stepped back, grabbed one of the old, half-clean shop rags from the nearby counter, and started cleaning you up—gentle now, but still firm, still his.

You gasped when the cloth dragged over your thighs, and he grinned.

“Sensitive already?” he teased, kneeling between your legs, his eyes flicking up to yours with that dangerous gleam.

You nodded, lips parted, completely fucked out—but glowing. His gaze dropped back to your thighs, admiring the mess he’d made, before he reached for the rag again and gently finished wiping you down. He was quiet for a moment, almost focused, but the tension hadn’t left him—it just simmered lower now, heavy under the surface.

“You took it so well,” he murmured, tossing the rag aside and smoothing his palms over your thighs. “Didn’t think a pretty little thing like you could handle my cock like that. Guess I underestimated you, huh?”

You huffed out a small laugh, still face-down on the bench, your cheek resting against cool metal. “I could barely walk before. I’m definitely not walking now.”

“Good,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Means I did my job.”

He helped you up carefully, guiding your body until you were wrapped in his arms, your legs slung around his waist as he carried you across the garage, like you weighed nothing. He set you down gently on the old couch tucked in the corner, grabbing his flannel from the hook nearby and draping it over your bare shoulders like it was instinct.

You melted into the warmth and the scent of him, blinking up through your lashes as he sat beside you, one arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers playing with your hair.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, a little hoarse now. “Wasn’t too much?”

You shook your head instantly, leaning into him. “No. It was perfect.”

His eyes darkened again, like just the memory of having you like that made him want to drag you back onto his lap.

But instead, he leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple. “You ever show up in that little skirt again,” he muttered, voice sinful and teasing, “I’m bending you over the hood of my car next time. Right in front of the open garage door.”

Your whole body reacted—heat flooding your cheeks, thighs clenching.

He chuckled darkly, watching you squirm. “Yeah. That got your attention.”

“Maybe I will,” you said, half-daring.

He looked at you, all rough affection and smouldering hunger, and smiled like a man who knew you were already his.

“Daddy’s not done with you, baby,” he whispered, tugging you closer. “Not even close.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

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#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #smut #mechanic bucky #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x female reader #winter soldier #thunderbolts

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