howdy.

You smooth your hands down the front of it anyway.

Then your gaze drifts up to his dog tags.

They rest against your chest, cool metal warmed by your skin, the chain slipping between your fingers when you touch it. You don’t even remember when you put them on, just that they were sitting on his nightstand, and you’d been standing there in his space, already wearing his shirt, already thinking too much about him.

Now you’re here, in front of his mirror.

Just… looking.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes tracing the way the shirt falls over your body, the way the tags sit right in the dip between your collarbones. You look like you belong here. Like this is normal. Like this is something that happens every day—wearing his clothes, his things, standing in his room like you’ve always been allowed to.

Your lips part a little.

“God…”

It comes out quieter than you expect, almost like a confession.

You shouldn’t like it this much.

You shouldn’t feel this warm, this… claimed, just from a piece of fabric and a chain.

But you do.

Your fingers curl around the tags again, pressing them flat against your chest, imagining his hands there instead. Imagining the weight of his gaze. The way his voice drops when he’s looking at you like you’re something he wants to ruin.

The thought alone makes your thighs press together.

You exhale slowly, eyes flicking back up to your reflection, and for a second—just a second—you let yourself pretend.

That he’s behind you.

That he’s watching.

That—

The door clicks.

You freeze.

It’s instant. Every muscle in your body locks, your breath catching halfway in your lungs as your eyes snap to the mirror again—but this time, it’s not just you staring back.

He’s there.

In the doorway.

Bucky.

And he’s not moving.

Not even a little.

His gaze is locked on you like he’s been hit with something physical, something that’s knocked the air clean out of him. His shoulders are still squared from wherever he just came from, jacket half shrugged off, but none of that matters compared to the look on his face.

Dark, heavy, and animalistically hungry in a way that makes your stomach drop.

His eyes drag slowly over you in the mirror, taking in every inch of his shirt on your body, the way it hangs, the way your fingers are still curled around his tags.

It takes him a second to work through what he's seeing but then a low groan tears out of him.

It’s not subtle. It’s not controlled. It’s deep and instinctive and it hits you straight in the chest, makes something inside you clench tight and hot.

“Buck—”

“Don’t.”

It’s sharp. Commanding enough that the word dies on your tongue instantly.

He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him without breaking eye contact with your reflection. The sound echoes, final, and it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anticipation.

He moves closer like he's stalking prey—maybe he is.

“You got any idea,” he starts, voice low, gravel thick and dangerous, “what you look like right now?”

Your throat feels dry.

You shake your head before you can think better of it.

Big mistake.

Because his eyes drop to the movement, to the way the tags shift against your chest—and something in his expression snaps tighter.

“Mine,” he mutters, almost to himself, gaze dragging back up. “Walked in and you’re standin’ here wearin’ my shirt… my tags…”

Another step closer.

You can feel him behind you now, heat at your back, his presence swallowing the room whole.

Your pulse is racing.

“I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t,” he cuts in, softer this time, but no less intense. “That’s the problem.”

His hand comes up, not touching you yet—just hovering at your waist, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. You can see it in the mirror, the tension in his arm, the way his fingers flex like he’s trying not to grab.

It makes your breath hitch.

“Turn around,” he says.

You don't question his command and you don't think of why that is.

Now you’re face to face with him, and it’s worse because up close, you can see every detail of the way he’s looking at you. The blown pupils. The tight set of his jaw. The way his chest rises a little heavier with each breath.

“You think you can just stand in my room like that?” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters.

“I—”

“Wearin’ my things,” he continues, stepping closer until there’s barely any space left between you. “Lookin’ like you belong to me.”

Your lips part.

“I didn’t mean—”

His hand finally closes around your waist and you gasp

“Didn’t mean what?” he presses, leaning down just enough that his voice brushes against your mouth. “Didn’t mean to drive me crazy? Didn’t mean to stand there lookin’ like that and expect me not to do somethin’ about it?”

You can’t think.

You can barely breathe.

His other hand comes up, fingers hooking under the chain at your throat, lifting the tags just slightly, eyes locked on the way they shift against your skin.

A dark, satisfied exhale leaves him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

And then his sharp gaze snaps back to yours.

“Get back on the bed.”

Your stomach drops.

It’s not a suggestion. Not even close.

It’s a command.

You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.

It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.

And then, his gaze snagged on you.

You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.

But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.

Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.

You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.

“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”

“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”

“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”

You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”

Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.

You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.

“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”

Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.

“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.

Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”

“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”

“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”

Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.

“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.

Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”

“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”

Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.

“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”

That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.

It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.

Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.

However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.

They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.

Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.

You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.

You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.

You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.

You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.

If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’

Until the dam finally broke.

It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.

Then, Bucky looked up.

Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.

The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.

“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.

Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.

“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”

Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”

“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”

“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”

“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”

Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”

“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”

Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.

He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.

You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.

You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.

Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.

Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”

Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”

You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.

There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.

You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.

“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”

Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.

“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”

Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.

You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.

A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.

“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.

Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”

“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”

Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.

“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”

The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.

“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”

“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”

“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”

“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”

Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.

“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”

Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.

Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.

“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”

Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.

The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.

“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.

“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.

You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.

Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.

While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.

She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.

She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.

“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.

Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”

“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”

All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.

“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”

“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.

“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”

Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.

“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.

“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”

“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”

Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”

“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.

“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”

Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.

But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.

You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.

You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.

There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.

The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.

A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.

The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.

He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.

“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.

But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.

For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.

You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.

The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.

The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.

They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.

But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.

You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.

“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”

Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.

“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”

“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”

“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.

Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”

You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.

“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.

Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.

Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.

It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’

Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.

“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.

Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.

Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.

Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’

Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.

Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.

Attempt number three was purely chaotic.

Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.

The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.

Attempt number four was hilarious again.

Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.

Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.

And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’

Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’

When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.

“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”

You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.

“I’m going to burn them!” “You definitely should!”

That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.

You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.

But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.

You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.

“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”

Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.

“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”

Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”

You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”

“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”

You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.

A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.

Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”

“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”

Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.

“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”

Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.

“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”

You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.

“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.

He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.

From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.

You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.

The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.

You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.

But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.

It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.

You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.

“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”

A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.

“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”

You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”

“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.

The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.

“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”

“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”

“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.

This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.

You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.

Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.

It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.

“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”

You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”

“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”

Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.

Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.

Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away,  his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.

“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.

“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.

“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”

“Crystal! Crystal clear, totally got it!” Greg choked out, practically vibrating with terror.

Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”

Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.

You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.

You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”

Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”

“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”

“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.

The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.

Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.

The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.

Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.

He was absolutely miserable.

Until he saw you.

You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.

Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.

“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”

“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”

Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”

“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.

Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.

The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.

“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”

“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”

You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”

Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.

“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”

Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.

“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”

Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.

That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.

And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.

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@pattiemac1 @lovely-geek @hzdhrtss

Bucky had insisted the bed wasn’t a big deal.

“It is a big deal,” you’d told him when he showed it to you.

Months of dating had taught you that James Buchanan Barnes rarely did things halfway. The king-sized wooden bed dominating his bedroom wasn’t store-bought. Every joint, every polished board, every carefully measured corner had been built by his own hands.

For you.

Because before you, he’d slept on the floor.

“It’s just a bed, doll.”

“You built an entire bed.”

He’d shrugged, ears turning slightly pink.

That had been three hours ago.

Now you were curled beside him beneath soft blankets, listening to the steady rhythm of rain against the cabin windows.

The room smelled faintly of cedar and Bucky’s cologne.

You couldn’t sleep,Not because you were uncomfortable - Because you were happy, Embarrassingly happy.

This was your first night staying over,The first time sharing a bed, The first time seeing the life he’d built away from missions and Avengers and chaos.

Beside you, Bucky slept on his side facing away, one arm tucked beneath his pillow.

You smiled softly, Then his shoulders tensed.

At first you thought he was adjusting.

Then he twitched.

His breathing changed.

A sharp inhale.

Another.

His body stiffened completely.

“Bucky?”. No response.

His face twisted with pain.

The peaceful expression vanished.

A strangled sound escaped his throat.

Your stomach dropped.

Nightmare.

You’d heard stories from Sam, From Steve. You knew they happened but you’d just never seen one.

Bucky’s breathing became ragged.

“No…” he muttered.

His metal hand clenched so hard the vibranium fingers groaned.

“Bucky.”

His head jerked violently against the pillow.

“Please…”

The word shattered your heart.

Another sound escaped him.

Almost a gasp.

Almost a cry.

Then suddenly—

“No!”

He sat bolt upright.

The shout ripped through the room, You jumped so hard you nearly fell out of bed.

Bucky wasn’t awake, his eyes were open but unfocused.

Wild.

Terrified.

Like he was seeing something that wasn’t there.

His chest heaved.

Sweat covered his face.

“Bucky!” you said louder.

Nothing.

He was trapped somewhere else, Somewhere horrible.

His breathing became frantic.

“P-please don’t—”

The desperation in his voice made your chest ache.

You grabbed his arm. “Bucky, wake up.”

Nothing, You squeezed harder. “Bucky!”

His entire body flinched, His eyes finally focused, Blue replacing panic.

Reality replacing whatever nightmare had been holding him, For a second he just stared at you.

Disoriented.

Confused.

Then realization hit and horror followed immediately.

“Doll…”

His voice broke.

“Oh God.”

You could see the embarrassment instantly.

The shame.

The self-loathing.

The same expression he’d worn whenever HYDRA was mentioned.

“Bucky, hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m sorry.”

He pulled away, dragging a hand down his face.

“You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

Your heart cracked, Not because of the nightmare because of how convinced he was that he had something to apologize for.

You moved closer.

“Bucky.”

He wouldn’t look at you.

“I scared you.”

“A little.”

His jaw tightened. You reached up and gently cupped his cheek, His eyes finally met yours and there it was fear.

Not fear of the nightmare.

Fear of losing you because of it.

“Look at me.”

He did.

“You had a nightmare.”

“It was bad.”

“I know.”

His throat bobbed.

“You don’t have to apologize for that.”

A long silence.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

“I still get them,” he admitted quietly.

You brushed damp hair from his forehead.

“I know.”

“They don’t usually happen this bad anymore.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

His eyes dropped.

“I hate it.”

The vulnerability in those three words hurt more than anything else.

For so much of his life, things had happened to him.

Things he never chose.

Things he couldn’t control.

And nightmares were just another reminder.

You slid closer until your knees touched his.

“Bucky.”

“Hm?”

“You know what I see right now?”

His lips twitched faintly.

“What?”

“I see a man who built an entire bed because his girlfriend might be more comfortable.”

A tiny huff of laughter escaped him.

“I see someone who spends hours helping neighbors fix fences.”

His shoulders loosened slightly.

“I see someone who leaves food out for every stray cat in a ten-mile radius.”

“Those cats are manipulative.”

“They adore you.”

A slightly bigger smile.

Good.

You kept going.

“And I see someone who survived things most people couldn’t even imagine.”

The smile faded.

But not because he was upset.

Because he was listening.

“You woke up, Buck.”

His eyes softened.

“You’re here.”

You rested your forehead against his.

“You aren’t there anymore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then he exhaled shakily.

And all at once the tension seemed to leave his body.

Not completely but enough.

His forehead stayed against yours.

“Thanks, doll.”

His voice was rough.

You wrapped your arms around him.

Immediately he folded into the embrace.

Large arms surrounding you carefully, like you were something precious.

Like you were the one who needed comfort.

You rubbed slow circles across his back.

His heartbeat gradually slowed beneath your hand.

Minutes passed, Maybe longer.

Eventually he whispered, “You should get some sleep.”

You smiled against his shoulder.

“So should you.”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

The rain continued outside.

The room felt warm, Safe.

Finally Bucky shifted, lying back down.

This time he hesitated.

Just for a second, As if unsure.

You answered by curling directly against his side.

One arm draped across his chest.

Your head tucked beneath his chin.

The hesitation vanished, His arm settled around your waist.

Holding you close.

“You okay?” you murmured.

He pressed a kiss into your hair.

A quiet, tender thing.

“Yeah.”

You felt his chest rise and fall.

Steady.

Calm.

He tries to glare at you, but it just makes you giggle again. You lean down, kissing over his face and rolling your hips cruelty down. You know just how to keep him on the edge. He hits deep inside of you, right against your g-spot as you use him to get off. He looks up at you with glossy, star-struck eyes and parted lips, and you smile sweetly.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he groans.

“Don’t- Don’t be mean, doll-“

“Hmm.” You pout, dragging your hips in a slow, torturous circle. “But you like it when I’m mean.”

A broken whimper escapes Bucky’s lips, and you hum, picking up the pace just enough to make him pant.

“You want to cum for me, baby?” You whisper, and Bucky nods frantically.

“Please, please-“

You start to rock back and forth, shoving down on his chest and purposefully clenching your tight, sweet walls around his cock. Bucky cries out your name, his face slack and eyes unfocused as you pull him right to the edge.

“Still trying to hold it for me,” you whisper. “Good boy.”

He moans, staring at you hopelessly, and you take mercy. He’s too pretty like this, for you to say no.

“Let go, Bucky,” you whisper, and at your command—just as always—Bucky cums.

Beautiful sounds escape him, as he does. His whole body trembles with the force of it, his hips rutting up into your heat as thick ropes of cum paint your walls and dribble down your thighs. You don’t stop when he’s sensitive and moaning, using his orgasm to get yourself off. When it’s done, you roll over and guide Bucky’s face into your breasts, petting his hair with a lazy smile.

“Good?” You ask softly, always just to be sure.

He makes a garbled sound and holds you tighter. Good.

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

“Listen, this is just a theory, not a fact.” You started, beginning to write. “So bear with me. So Bucky was taken captive before Steve rescued him, in Nazi-occupied Austria. H.Y.D.R.A. didn’t have a hold on his mind, but they were close. When he fell off the train, the day before Steve went into the ice, he lost his arm, right?”

“We’ve established this.” Bruce said, and you hushed him absentmindedly. 

“But then, H.Y.D.R.A. had complete and utter control of him a few years later, when he fought Isaiah Bradley. So, what changed? His arm.” You tapped the board confidently. 

“Or their tech updated,” Tony said.

“Or they had more time with him.” Nat added quietly.  

“I’m not done.” You turned to the board. “In my universe, he only really starts to heal once he’s in Wakanda.”

“Why Wakanda?” Tony asked, and you winced. 

“Long story. Anyways, when he’s in Wakanda Shuri takes his arm off while he’s in the cyberfreeze.”

“Who’s Shuri?”

“Daughter of the king of Wakanda, princess and one of the world's smartest individuals at the age of 15, which’s when the film takes place.” You said, as if this was common information. “She’s like ten right now, I’m not calling the king of Wakanda and asking to borrow his daughter. However, when James was under cyber freeze, they were working on replacing his arm. And then once he was out they worked on the actual brainwashing, but I didn’t see much of it so I don’t have a lot of notes. But, his arm is connected to his nervous system, it has to be in order to function, so what if it contains extra data, data meant to rewrite his brain?”

“It doesn’t.” Bruce said quietly. “The files say so.”

“I’ve read the files, we only uncovered the ones regarding his treatment after they started using him as the Winter Soldier, not before.” 

“The new files covered his brainwashing, there was nothing about his arm.” Sam cut in sharply.

You paused. “What new files?”

“The ones from Siberia.”

“I thought we didn’t get any from Siberia,” you began, and then it hit you. “We got them. We got the rest of the Winter Soldier files and you didn’t tell me?”

“It’s not like you were in a state to be told.” Clint said defensively.

“You withheld this information from me for over a month?” Your hands trembled slightly, and you clenched them, desperate to keep yourself from snapping.

“We didn’t want to make it worse, to hinder your recovery,” Nat said calmly.

She was right, you knew she was right, but you were still livid.

“You can’t just keep information like that from me.” You began, and Tony scoffed.

“You’re one to talk.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He pointed to the binder on the table with the words DO NOT TOUCH OR I WILL BITE YOU scrawled in Sharpie on it. 

Shit. “That’s different.”

“Is it, though?” Nat said quietly. 

“It is. Because this is stuff from the future, stuff that hasn’t happened yet. But that info—that’s from the past, it could have helped before this. And, you know I have this information, but you didn’t tell me that you had more to add to James’ file.” You paused, a horrible thought appearing in your mind. “Does he know?”

“Know what?” Said Tony quickly. Too quickly. 

“That you recovered additional information about his time in H.Y.D.R.A.? Did you tell him? Does he know that you know about what he went through? Or did you keep him in the dark, withholding knowledge from a man who spent nearly a century being abused and kept mindless?” Your voice wavered again. “Did. He. Know.”

“Socks, he helped us find the files.” Tony placed a tentative hand on your shoulder, and you hit it away viciously. He winced. “He was there when we found them, as we looked for you, he even gave us permission to watch some of the footage. He said he would do anything if it got you home.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered.

“Because the last thing that you needed was to go through those files,” Nat said softly. “We wanted you to be ok.”

“I don’t care if I’m ok, I care if he’s safe. And we can’t keep him safe if not all the information is available.” You snapped.

“You couldn’t look any of us in the eyes without flinching or running away for the first three weeks, and you still can’t be in the same room as us without using Barnes’ arm as your personal stress ball.” Tony retorted. 

“We’re not talking about my personal issues, we’re talking about the fact that Bucky is downstairs and he can’t remember his own name.” Blood started to pound through your ears, and you gripped the table. “He doesn’t know who he is, and you’re too busy making me tell you his story, the story that apparently you had access to the entire time, rather than actually helping him.”

“We certainly didn’t know everything,” Bruce said defensively. “There’s still gaps in the data, and you knew him the best, better than the rest of us.”

“Well, I’m sorry that you didn’t take the time to get to know him, Banner.” You had ceased making sense a while ago, but you didn’t care. “Maybe if you treated him like a person and not like a nuclear bomb three seconds away from exploding, he’d open up more.”

“That’s not fair,” Tony said. “You know him, the things they made him do. Some of us had memories, things that predate his escape.”

“Oh fuck you Tony.” You said sharply, earning a concerned look from the rest of the team. “I spent nearly four months being beaten to death by a man who wore your face, and yet here I am. I’m still here, talking to you and ignoring every instinct that tells me to knock you down and run like my life depends on it, because my life did depend on it a while ago.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you tilted your head plaintively, venom dripping from your tongue. “Because every time I look at you I hear his voice, and all I want to do is run. But I’m here. So you can have a civil conversation with the man who spent years being tortured and abused beyond your worst nightmares.” You stomped out of the lab before Tony’s reply could reach your ears, binder of secrets clutched under your arm.

~

“I’m not talking to you.” You informed Steve upon entry into Bucky’s room, arms full of various crafts, and a copy of The Hobbit. 

“What happened?”

“They told me about the extra files, Steve. You know, the ones you found and then forgot to mention.” You glared at him, and then glanced over at Bucky. Your gaze softened as you looked at him, sitting on the edge of the bed just as rigidly as before. “Hey, are you feeling better?” you asked quietly, placing the things onto the desk.

He gave no response, just looking at you, eyes empty.

“…right.” Your heart tore a little as you looked at him. “I brought a book, I thought I could read to you, if you’re ok with that.”

“He won’t talk to me.” Steve said quietly. “He just kept saying his name was Объект.” His brows crinkled in confusion. “Whatever that means.”

“Asset.” You said bitterly. “It means Asset, Steve.” You took Bucky’s hand in yours. “Do you know me?”

Slowly, he nodded. 

“And I know you.” More than you know. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and you’re my friend. It’s ok if you don’t remember right now, I just want you to be safe.” You picked up the book, settling next to him. “I’m going to start reading, but you can interrupt me if you need to.” You gestured for Steve to get out as you started. “In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit.”

~

The days passed slowly but surely, a weird mix between the life you had before H.Y.D.R.A. and the one you had ever so slowly began to build. Bucky wouldn’t leave you alone after your afternoon reading to him, and you weren’t complaining about it. However, you had to move a cot into his room, you didn’t feel comfortable sharing a bed with him in this state. Not when he couldn’t consent to it.

So now you were curled up on the couch with an incredibly rigid Bucky Barnes next to you, reading The Fellowship of the Ring to him. You’d had weirder days. 

You were in the middle of the Council of Elrond, when the sound of Tony and Steve bickering filled the living room.

“All I’m saying, Rogers, is that it might be a good idea to have him see a professional. It’s been three days and he still responds to the Russian gibberish they taught him, if he saw an actual therapist we might be able to actually help him.”

“And I’m saying no. He doesn’t need a shrink, he needs time.”

“I’m with Steve.” You said quietly. “I’m not against therapy, god knows we all need it, but Bucky’s non-responsive. I think if we give him time he’ll break out.” He has to.

“And if he doesn’t? If he never recovers the memories?”

“Then we start again, and we double our defenses against H.Y.D.R.A.” you said simply, as if it was that easy.

“You two are impossible.” Tony rolled his eyes and left the room, Steve on his heels. 

“I really don’t think that it’s a good idea, Tony.” The voices slowly drifted away into the hallway.

You smiled at Bucky. “It’s nearly time for dinner, do you want to come with me?”

Of course, he did.

You entered the kitchen with your hand gently around his wrist, leading him to his usual seat, starting the kettle for his tea as you pulled up the recipe. “I was thinking a taco bar would be fun tonight, I haven’t had Mexican food in a while and it can stretch a bit.” You told him. You had decided to keep talking with him as if he could hear you, treating him like a person and not a weapon. It was mostly for his sake, but you would be lying if the constant talking didn’t help you, too. Part of you was afraid that the tears that you had suppressed for so many days would break free if you didn’t talk.

You chatted away as you started on dinner, fingers flying and mouth running as you chopped onions and mixed spice mixtures until suddenly you were on the topic of the 2005 adaption of Pride and Prejudice. 

“And then they completely butchered the character of Mr. Darcy, making him this socially awkward slightly bumbling man instead of keeping him as the sarcastic asshole he is in the book. It completely reduces the story to this rom-com based on a misunderstanding, instead of the brilliant satire that Jane Austen wrote. Frankly it feels a bit misogynistic, as if women can only have romances and can’t have stories about willingly making choices to improve the lives of the people you care about, with sarcastic commentary. And don’t even get me started on the first proposal scene—”

There was a crash behind you, and you whipped around to see Bucky, standing in the kitchen, mug in pieces on the ground. He whispered your name, and you looked into his eyes, and you knew. You saw your Bucky looking back at you, blue eyes wide with realization and something akin to terror. 

Before you knew it, the vegetables and knife were on the floor and your arms were around his neck. His arms gripped you tightly, as if he let go he would lose you forever. Sobs, ugly, heaving sobs erupted from your mouth as you clung to him, tears slowly staining his shirt as you buried your face in his shoulder, not even caring about the vibranium digging into your face. Eventually, you pulled away, touching his face. 

“Do you remember?”

“Remember you? Always.” His voice was rough from disuse, and you laughed a little.

“Your name, sweetheart. Do you remember your name?”

“Bucky.” He said simply, and another sob escaped your chest. 

“I thought I lost you.” You whispered.

“Not now. Not ever.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” Bucky Barnes looked into your eyes with the eyes of a man who, for once, knew exactly what he wanted and who he was.

TAGLIST:

@beppybeesnuggets

@espressopirate

@bartonsparrow25

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

Drabble #1 - Documented condition Rating: Teen

"You put me on your medical forms?" Sam scowled.

"Documented condition." Bucky shrugged

"I will destroy you."

"Symptom four: risk of death."

"I will end you—"

"Fascinating. Keep going."

"Steve!"

Steve looked up from his coffee. He'd been on this couch for eight minutes. He'd aged considerably.

"Bucky. Remove Sam from your allergy list."

"Medical records are confidential."

"I'll show you confidential—" Sam started.

"That doesn't mean anything," Steve said.

"It means something to me—"

"Barnes, I swear to God—"

"Symptom five," Bucky said serenely.

Steve put his coffee down. Stood up. Walked out.

They didn't notice for four minutes.

Drabble #2 - Faker Rating: General Audiences

Bucky faked a cat allergy for years. “Cats make my eyes swell shut.” Convenient. Effective. 

It started with Bucky piggybacking you during a rainstorm. He’d ducked into the alleyway behind your shared apartment. There was a tiny meow, then thunder.

“I hear something!” 

On cue, a tiny meow.

You slid off Bucky, crouching down. Between two trash bins was a rain soaked white kitten.

“Bucky!”

“I’m allergic,” he lied.

“That’s what Benadryl’s for. Just for tonight.”

That night the kitten was asleep on Bucky. Months later, the kitten, now Alpine, lived her best life,, spoiled rotten.

Conveniently, the allergy vanished.

Drabble #3 – Side Effects May Include Rating: General Audiences

At first, Sam thinks Bucky is allergic to your perfume.

A reasonable theory; every time you pass him in the hall, Bucky’s ears go red, his breathing catches, and he finds urgent reasons to leave.

Then Sam blames your lotion.

Then the plants on your desk.

“Serum does weird things,” he says, genuinely worried.

“Yes,” Natasha drawls. “Super soldiers have allergies too.”

Bucky glares. “I’m not allergic.”

You glance up from your mission report. “To what?”

Bucky opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Natasha smiles.

Sam, finally understanding, is delighted.

“Oh,” he grins. “It’s chronic.”

Bucky has to leave the room.

Drabble #4 – Cheap Soap Rating: Teen

Vicious cursing followed Bucky out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips.

“Cheap soap,” he grumbled. “Feels like I rolled in poison ivy.”

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, taking in his damp skin and the trail of water slipping down his stomach and you forgot yourself for a second.

“You’re naked,” you blurted out, not thinking.

Bucky frowned. “I’m itchy.”

That pulled your eyes higher. Angry red blotches spread across his skin, made worse by where his fingers scratched.

“Shit,” you breathed, already moving. “I’ll see if I’ve got chamomile or something. Stop touching it.”

Drabble #5 - Plan B Rating: General Audiences

“Think of a new plan,” Bucky said, “I’m allergic.”

Sam was eavesdropping; he shouldn’t have jumped in. “Allergic? Do supersoldiers even have allergies?”

“I got the shitty Hydra serum,” Bucky explained. “Just my luck.”

Steve’s face was planted solidly on the table. “You’re not allergic,” he mumbled into the wood.

“Uhh…” Sam wondered what he had wandered into.

“Then explain the tightness in my chest whenever this dumb punk jumps out of a plane, no parachute.”

“You’ve done that, Barnes.”

“He’s what?” Steve’s head shot up, eyes wild.

“Looks like allergies are catching,” Bucky said evenly. “New plan?”

“New plan.”

Drabble #6 - Pickle Juice Rating: General Audiences

“What kind of pickles come on the burger?” Bucky looked up at the waiter.

“Uh, standard? Dill.”

“No pickles, then,” Bucky stated. “I’m allergic to dill.”

“Oh,” Kevin responded, “I’ll be sure to tell the kitchen.”

You fixed Bucky with a look.

“What?” Bucky asked once Kevin left.

“You’re not allergic to anything, super soldier.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but his ears turned pink. “If I say I’m allergic, they actually leave it off.”

You raised one eyebrow.

“I just… I hate them. Unless I’m particular, they throw them on anyway, then the whole burger’s contaminated with dill pickle flavor.”

Drabble #7 – Like a Liar Rating: General Audiences

Bucky crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed as he looked down. A pair of eyes stared back at him, daring him to blink. He wasn’t about to lose that battle. 

“I can’t take you home,” he said, watching the small creature tilt her head. “I’m allergic to cats.”

Yes, Bucky Barnes told a cat, who couldn’t verbally communicate, that he was allergic to her. 

Like a liar. 

He sighed when the feline brushed his leg with a purr. “I have to ask my girlfriend, who is also allergic to cats.”

Another lie.

And you’d love a new pet, right?

Right.

AH-CHOO. *sniff* Well, that about covers it for today! We hope you enjoyed the seven drabbles--now it's time to vote!

Please follow this link to the Google poll to choose your two favorite drabbles.

The authors of the two drabbles with the fewest votes will be announced Friday afternoon. See you then!

You stretch your arms above your head and turn to the side as you examine your reflection. You look good. The black lace stands out against your skin and the cut makes your waist look impossibly tiny. It's definitely not how you imagined spending your weekends as a kid, but a grad school stipend only goes so far. You're pretty sure you're making more in tips than what the people who are stuck in adjunct roles get from the university. It's not a bad gig. A couple hours of work and you’ll get to go to bed with a hefty sum heading your way and your body loose from a series of orgasms. It's a win-win. 

You're not sure if there are any rules about playing favorites, but there's one subscriber who you always keep an eye out for. He's the one that sent the set you're wearing. It's a generous gift; Agent Provocateur doesn't come cheap. 

Setting up the camera and lights is automatic at this point. This isn't the first time you've been sent a gift, but it's definitely the nicest one. Combined with his tips, it's not hard to guess that the man is either making extremely poor financial choices to your benefit or has more money than you'd know what to do with. You don't normally make a big deal out of thanking people for their gifts—they get what they want out of you posting something with it and letting their imagination do the rest. This feels different though and you can't figure out why. 

Maybe it's the price tag, but you know of girls out there who get Dior and Chanel so often their closets are bursting. This would barely register as a drop in their buckets. 

Knowing that doesn't stop you from posing in a way you suspect he likes. You've noticed a trend in his tipping patterns. He likes to see you spread open, vulnerable. Maybe he likes to picture you spread out beneath him, there and ripe for the taking. Your first four-figure tip was from him on a video of you edging yourself, getting messy and loud with it. By the end, it hadn't even been performative, you just couldn't help yourself as you circled your own clit with a bullet vibrator. 

You've never sent someone something for free before. You get the occasional custom request, but nothing from the guy who sent you the set you're wearing. Would he want something private? Or would that be too much? Would it be a bad idea to hint at the gift being so much more than what you normally got? Did he get off on the idea of you showing it to everyone?

You're still debating when you lay back on the bed. You need photos to post anyway, you have time to decide if you want to send him anything special. 

A couple hours later, freshly showered with a pleasant ache between your legs, you click his name and hover your thumbs over your phone keyboard as you think of what to say. If you want to say anything. The chat just shows his tips and gifts, no messages. Jbb0317 is a mystery and a part of you thinks it might be better to leave him that way. 

But you're curious and while you'd miss the income if he stopped tipping, he's hardly your own subscriber. 

You type, heyyy, wanted to thank you for the gift xx it's a perfect fit ;)

There's no way of knowing when he'll see it or if he’ll respond if he does. You exit out of the conversation and go through replying to your other messages, most of which involve reminding people you don't work for free while carefully trying not to ruin their fantasy of you being painfully horny for them and them alone. After a year or so of this though, you've found a balance that works for most of them. 

Jbb0317 responds just as you're about to close the app. You bite your lip as you click the message to read it, uncharacteristically nervous. 

I'm glad you liked it, it says. Can't wait to see it on you.

Well, you guess that's as good an opening as any. You've already gone through the pictures and videos you took today to figure out which ones were worth posting. You have enough good ones that it won't hurt to take one or two out of the mix. 

You attach the photo you suspect jbb will be into the most: you're lying on your back and have pulled your panties to the side so the camera is aimed right at your cunt, already shining with how wet it is. You took the picture after using a vibrator through the fabric. It's messy and filthy and there's no mistaking what you'd just been doing. Your back is arched and your nipples are hard through the lace. The real cherry on top is the look in your eyes, half-shut and lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. You're not sure how you managed to look hungrily at the camera, but you're getting a bit heated looking at your own photo. 

Here's a preview, special just for you ;), you type and send before you can second-guess yourself. 

This time, his response is almost immediate. 

Fuck.

I knew it'd look good on you but this is even better than my imagination, sweetheart.

Sweetheart, you mouth to yourself. It's oddly charming. He's still typing. 

What would it take for you to send me the rest of the photos and not post them? 

Your jaw drops and you type, more than you can afford.

The next response comes just as fast. Try me.

10k, you throw out. It was a whole day’s work. You have some backlog, obviously, but you'd need to spend another day to make up for it and that's not time you'll have for at least a week. 

You expect a laugh emoji or being called a bitch or anything else that'd lead to you never wanting to talk to the man again. You don't make 10k in a week. It's a fuck you amount of money and there's no way this guy doesn't know that. 

Instead, his next message comes and you almost throw your phone at the wall. 

Done. Accompanied by $10,000. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Are you serious?!?!???????, you ask.

As a heart attack.

Well, he can't unsend the money. Even if he were to try to fuck with your shit by contacting his bank or credit card, the site you use protects you from that type of shit. 

You send the photos and resign yourself to having to play catch-up next weekend. Not that you'd even really need to do that with the money that'll be hitting your bank account soon, but you're too practical not to. 

Really, you expect that to be the end of it. Maybe another set of lingerie headed your way in the future, maybe some more requests for customs. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just adding your high-roller to the list of people you message. 

What you get is a diamond bracelet accompanied by a note to wear that and nothing else five days later. 

There's no name attached, but there doesn't need to be. 

—

You start setting aside more time for content creation. It's a squeeze in your already full schedule, but you make it work. Jbb, whoever he is, has not stopped with his gifts and his requests begin and end with wearing what he buys you and only showing it to him. It's different, and you keep waiting for the other foot to drop and the gifts and money to stop coming, but they never do. 

Today, it's a silk nightgown. There's a vintage quality to it, but that doesn't mean modest by any stretch of the word. The fabric feels like water on your skin and flows in a way that clings to your curves in a way that's more obscene than if you were wearing nothing. 

You send the video and hop into the shower, already looking forward to what jbb’s response will be. You didn't get into this work because you didn't like the attention, that's for sure. 

This time, instead of the usual slew of compliments and payment, there's a question: What would it take for me to be able to take you out for dinner?

You narrow your eyes at the screen. This is bold. More than bold, it's dangerous. This goes against every rule you've ever made for yourself. It's not the first time you've been asked if you do in-person (usually much more directly), but it is the first time you haven't immediately hit the block button. Maybe it's because in the last couple months he's more than paid for your tuition, or maybe it's because you've started assigning characteristics like decency to a man who's paying you for nudes and whose name you don't know. Either way, it's you being an idiot. 

You text back, not sure how the logistics of that would work

It's a gentle dismissal. You don't want to lose jbb, so hopefully he'll take the hint. 

How can I convince you? he asks. 

You sigh and type, you can't.

And if I told you I don't mean for this to be a one-time thing? That I want to take care of you? Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Agree to meet me one time, dinner with no expectations. If we meet and you don't like the sound of it, that's the end of it. I won't ever bother you again. 

That is…not what you expected.

I don't know who you are, you text, not really thinking before typing. Or where you are, this is insane.

Me telling you both of those things if you agree is implied, sweetheart.

Smartass. 

You have everything to lose but god dammit a part of you can't help but be tempted. A sugar daddy sounds a bit like a cliche in this day and age, and your logical brain knows it's a terrible idea, but an arrangement has rules and that means you might be able to make things work to your advantage. 

This is a dangerous train of thought. You don't even know what jbb looks like. Even thinking about this is the stupidest thing you've ever done. 

Prove it, you say. 

You expect a cop-out. Even if he sent a name and photo it wouldn't mean anything. 

Give me an email that works for you, he says. I'll send an NDA. It’ll protect us both, and prove that I am who I say I am. Even if you say no to dinner, I ask that you still sign it. 

Well, that's an option. Fuck it. You send your email. 

No new notification comes through for the next five minutes so you set your phone down with a roll of your eyes and figure that's the end of that. At least the email you shared isn't one you use for anything important if he decides to leak it or something stupid. 

You find an email waiting for you from a jbarnes after you finish cleaning. It has an attachment and you only hesitate a moment before opening it. 

And promptly drop your phone. 

Your jbb is none other than Congressman James Buchanan Barnes, WWII Veteran and literal superhero. 

—

There's no way he didn't know who you were when he asked you to dinner, knowing what you know now. Him knowing you're at Georgetown even makes things make a lot more sense, like why he even thought of the arrangement in the first place. You're local, he's attracted to you, you're obviously okay with exchanging sex for money, and he likely valued discretion. You don't doubt that he has women throwing himself at him, but you also can't fault him for wanting something simple and clearly defined. Stress relief at its core, and he's already made it apparent he likes to see you in things he buys you. Why wouldn't that extend to keeping you? 

It should turn you off. You really shouldn't be walking into this restaurant. You've told a couple friends the barebones of the situation—a potential sugar daddy—and they're on call if anything goes to shit. But not only are you walking into a place that looks like you can't afford to breathe there, you're doing so wearing an outfit entirely purchased by him. The dress and purse arrived two days ago and the dress fits perfectly.

He's waiting for you at the table and stands up when you approach. Your breath catches in your chest. This is actually happening and he's even more gorgeous in person. You're pretty sure that's not how these arrangements usually start (you scoured the sugar bowl Reddit), but you're definitely not going to complain. 

You manage to gather yourself, at least enough to not feel like a complete idiot, by the time he's sitting back down after he's pushed your chair in. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, sliding a velvet box across the table. It's familiar, similar to the one the bracelet you're wearing came in. You notice he uses his left hand, the lights from the candle reflecting against the metal. You suspect he did that on purpose. “This is for you.”

You open it to reveal a watch, a delicate one obviously designed for the women in the same tone of metal as the bracelet. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he says with a small smirk. 

He orders for you and you exchange small talk between courses. You talk about school and he talks about work. There's the occasional gesture toward why you're both really here, but the casual conversation helps lessen the pressure. He tells you to call him Bucky and how he still doesn't feel like he's found solid footing yet. 

He feeds you a bit of the chocolate cake he ordered for dessert and asks, “have I passed my interview?”

You laugh. “Shouldn't I be asking you that?”

“I’m not one to change my mind,” he says, eyes flashing. “I meant what I said. I want you. Let me have you. Let me take care of you.”

The words send a flare of heat through you. They're possessive and objectifying and you think you should hate them but you don't, at least not when they're coming from him. 

“And if I say yes?” 

He smiles and feeds you another bite of cake. “You're working to get through school, right?”

You nod. 

“Stop,” he says. “I'll take care of it instead. It doesn't need to be permanent, only until you graduate. Let me take that weight off your shoulders.”

It's appealing. Dangerously appealing. You don't hate the work, you really don't. But if the alternative is being spoiled and more time for yourself? You'd be a fool not to take it. Even if the sex isn't that great, you've done a lot more for a lot less. 

You smile. “Congratulations, you've moved onto the second round of interviews.”

Bucky laughs.

—

The sex is so not mediocre it's laughable that you even considered it. By the next weekend, you've cancelled your lease and have moved into the townhouse Bucky owns in D.C.. You're pretty sure most freshman congressman don't have these sort of funds, but he made a comment about back pay when you prodded and you figure it's not really your place to be too concerned. 

You're waiting for the downside to reveal itself because there has to be one. Life doesn't work like this. 

You find what should be it when you come home from a networking event (something you have time for now). You shut the door behind you and kick off your shoes, knowing you'll regret not putting them away properly tomorrow but not caring because you are not used to standing in stilettos for hours on end. They're gorgeous, patent black and shining red soles, but you much prefer when you're pressing the heels into Bucky's back than having to smile through the agony while talking to someone whose work you're citing in your thesis. 

Bucky's there, waiting for you. His jacket and tie are gone, but he's fully dressed otherwise. The top couple buttons are undone and his sleeves are pushed up and that on its own makes your mouth go dry but the narrow-eyed glare makes the rest of the room disappear. 

You straighten, skin alight with anticipation. You're still learning him and this is new. He feels dangerous in a way you thought didn't happen in real life. 

“You're late,” he says, pushing himself off the wall with his arms crossed over the chest. 

Maybe you should be worried about missing something, but you're distracted by the way his arms look through the thin fabric of his shirt. You check the time—the watch he got you had become a daily wear. “No, I'm not. I said I'd be back around 9. It's 9:05.”

Bucky clicks his tongue. The sound sends a shiver down your spine. 

“You're smart,” he says, getting closer. His voice is low and there's something in the back of your head telling you to leave but you also feel yourself getting wet. “Smarter than me.”

“That's not true,” you insist, taking a step back. It puts you against the wall. You think that's what he was going for going by the way he makes an amused huff. Your breath is coming fast now. 

“Yes you are,” he argues. He reaches out and grabs your chin to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “And you just made sure everyone knew it. Look at you…how could anyone look at you and not fall in love with you?”

“Fall in love with me?” you laugh. “You're joking.”

He shakes his head and steps even closer, pressing you fully against the wall. It's easy to forget how much larger he is than you, the force he's capable of putting behind his touches. Right now it's all you can think of. 

“I'm not,” he says, lowering his hand to the side of your neck. His other comes up behind the small of your back and pushes you even closer against him. He's hard against your hip and you know your panties are a lost cause. “And I guess it doesn't matter. It's me who you come home to, who you belong to. They'll never have you.”

You think the words should be teasing, but his expression is hard. He means them. It's a threat to anyone who would dare touch what he considers his. It's a red flag by every metric and should have you running for the hills. It makes you want to push, see how far he’ll go. This is the same man who couldn't bear the thought of others seeing you in things he bought you back when you were nothing more than a nameless woman spreading her cunt on the internet, after all. 

“Is that what you think?” you ask, pressing your hips against his. You almost moan at the way his grip tightens, but you hold it back. “Is that what I should think when you go to your fundraisers? Should I worry about every woman looking at you, wondering what it'd take to get you into a coat closet. I've seen it, you know, online. The way they talk about you.”

Bucky grins and grabs your tit roughly, and this time you can't hold back the sound you make. It's not gentle and it hurts but it's the kind of pain that heightens the pleasure when he rolls his thumb over your nipple like he's trying to soothe it. The fabric of your dress and bra dull it, but not enough. He spreads your legs with one of his thighs and your grind down on it, helpless to resist.

“I could take you with me,” he says, dropping his hand from your tit to lift up your dress. He likes to watch you and now is no different from when you were separated from distance. You roll your hips down against his leg, gasping when you manage to get the right angle. “Would they still try then, do you think?”

He can be serious but that doesn't matter because even the thought of it is bringing you closer to the edge. His eyes are fixated. You're not sure he's even blinked. 

“That's it,” he purrs. “Just like that, sweetheart. No one else can make you feel like this. Just me. I'm the only one who gets to see you like this.”

“Just you, Daddy,” you gasp. “Only you.”

“Only me.”

You nod and moan as you get closer to the edge. He likes to hear you too. His thigh shouldn't be enough to get you here, but the combination of his heat and his attention does it for you. 

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” you cry, hips jerking uncontrollably. “Oh my God.”

“Like that?” He asks. “Don't forget that.”

As if you ever could. 

He pulls his thigh back. You can see the wet spot on the fabric of his pants. You can also see the hard line of his cock. You lick your lips and drop to to your knees.

“Can I?” you ask. “Please?” 

Bucky nods and you waste no time in undoing his belt and pulling his pants and underwear down to free his cock. It's already flushed at the tip with a bead of pre-cum catching the light. Your mouth is watering, but you've learned he likes the tease. You lean forward and press your lips to the head in an open-mouthed kiss as you wrap one hand around it, looking up at him to make sure he's watching. 

You take it slowly, inch by inch, savoring the taste and weight of him on your tongue. 

This part is easy. This was part of the agreement. He takes care of you by covering every expense and showering you with gifts. In turn, you're there for him whenever he wants, for whatever he wants. 

The jealousy, the possessiveness, isn't new. That was there from the beginning. He didn't want anyone else to see you, let alone have their cock down your throat like this. It's always sent a thrill through you. Nothing compares to the feeling of being wanted so desperately. 

But his hand is cupping the side of your face and his thumb is stroking your cheekbone like you're something precious and this feels like more than just meeting his needs. 

He cums down your throat with your name on his lips, thumb still stroking your cheek. 

—

You smile and thank the staffer that leads you to Bucky's office, amused as you imagine what she's thinking of. Bucky asked you to visit him for lunch. His text was short and to the point, but the fact that he'd bothered to let you know he'd been stressed made it clear what he was aiming for. 

Not that you mind. There's something undeniably hot about being called on like this, like you're waiting for him to want you there. The secrecy only adds to it. It's all pretend, everyone here suspects if they don't know outright. There's nothing subtle about him locking the door and you stumbling out on shaking legs some time later. You might be more embarrassed if it weren't for the looks of envy aimed your way, and it's not like you're the only woman there on any given day for the same reason. 

He smiles when you walk in, one of his genuine ones that shows his teeth and makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

“You came,” he says, pushing back from the desk. 

“Of course I did.” You walk around so you're standing between his spread legs. His hands come up to your hips, not with any real pressure, but automatic like he can't resist the chance to have his hands on you. “I have class in a couple hours, but until then I'm all yours.”

“Good.” He grips your hips and lifts you onto the desk in one easy motion. “I think it's time for lunch and I'm hungry.”

It's a bad line, but he's still grinning so you laugh as he shoves your skirt up over your hips and he comes out of the chair to settle on his knees. 

“You're going to ruin your suit,” you say, voice already breathless from anticipation. 

He shrugs and parts your legs. He pulls at one of your garters and lets it go, chuckling when it snaps against your skin. “That's not for you to worry about.”

You didn't put underwear on. You didn't see the point and you don't regret it now because it means there's one less thing in the way of Bucky's mouth on your cunt. 

When you'd gone home with him after that first dinner, a part of you had resigned yourself to a year or so of a very selfish lover. You'd weighed the pros and cons and decided it was worth it. 

You couldn't have been more wrong. 

Not only does the super soldier serum mean a refractory period is nothing more than a set of words, but he seems to get more out of watching you fall apart on his tongue, fingers, or cock than when he cums himself. It's very possible he's ruined you for all other men. 

He licks into you like he's starving for it, looking up at you through dark eyelashes as he grips onto your thighs for purchase. You hope you bruise. You know you will. You can still see the ones from last week. 

You grab onto the edge of the desk. The edge of the wood almost cuts into your hands but you really don't care because he's circling your clit with his tongue and it's the perfect balance of not enough and too much and you know it's only a preview of what's to come. He's not in a hurry, he's not curling his fingers inside of you to press against that spot that only he's managed to ever find. No, he's going to take his time torturing you with his tongue on your cunt, somehow knowing when you're almost there so he can change the pattern or pressure before you cum. 

He likes it when you're loud. He likes to hear you. But now is not the time or the place to give him that. You need at least the illusion of decency, of plausible deniability. 

You moan under your breath, trying to keep quiet but silence is impossible when he sharpens the tip of his tongue into a point and presses. Fuck. 

He laughs against you and it's so hot you want to cry. You bite your tongue because now is not the time, but you have no idea how something can feel so good. 

—

You wake up surrounded by Bucky Barnes. If he's touchy while awake he's downright clingy when sleeping. He says it helps, knowing there's someone there with him. He's never said but you suspect nightmares. Your face is tucked under his chin against his neck where you breathe him in. Whatever body wash he uses leaves a lingering herbal smell behind and sometimes you just want to huff it in like an addict. He's radiating heat and his arms around you keep you pressed tight against him. Your own hand is settled on his side and you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be. 

It takes you a moment to figure out why you're awake. It's Saturday and you've won Bucky over to the side of slow mornings in bed by introducing him to the wonders of sleepy, morning sex. There's no feeling better than when he slowly rocks into you, voice still thick with sleep as he rolls your clit between his fingers. 

But Bucky's not hitching your leg up, instead he's moving away from you to reach for his phone that's vibrating like crazy on the nightstand. His biggest complaint about his job as a Congressman is the expectation that he always be reachable. You're pretty sure that if he had his way he'd keep his phone at his office and it'd spend most of the time lying dead and unused. 

You roll onto your back with a sigh. It’s probably something stupid, something that most people would call urgent but you think Bucky will just tell them to deal with it and call him when it's important. You don't know exactly what he's been so focused on, but you know it's gotta be a lot larger than petty squabbles or complaints. 

Bucky sits up straight, tension pulsing from him. His brow is furrowed and his frown is deep. Whatever he's hearing is not good news.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “Where did the leak come from?”

He runs his hand down his face and looks up toward the ceiling like he’ll find answers there. “Fine. I'll be right there.”

“What is it?” you ask when he hangs up. He's already standing up and heading toward the closet. “Don't you want to brush your teeth?”

He grunts. It's not like him to be so concerned. His usual way of dealing with things is with action, but you can tell by the way he's chewing his lip that he's anxious about something. 

“Tell me,” you say, getting out of bed so you can do his buttons for him. He lets you. That's a good sign. “What's wrong?”

Bucky winces. “They know about you,” he says. “About us. They don't know who leaked it yet, but it won't be hard to find. I'm going in for damage control.”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“I used a burner card to tip you, you know,” he says, turning away once his buttons are done. “Someone traced it to me. Which, considering I know what I'm doing, means this goes deeper than someone looking for a quick payout for gossip.”

Your blood goes cold. Mentioning the card means it's not just a rumor about a controversially young girlfriend. They know how you met. 

He turns back to you and squeezes your hands. “I'm sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

—

Really, you should be freaking out a lot more than you are. You're not ashamed of the choices you've made, but that doesn't mean you want them hanging over your head like a big neon sign. You're proud of what you've done. It's hard to put yourself through school without loans and you did it. You're enrolled in a competitive program that people dream of landing in and your advisor loves you. 

Logically, you know this isn't good. It doesn't matter how great your thesis is, how many publications you have, if people are able to find out you were selling videos of you fucking yourself for money when they google your name. People have associations with sex work and that's why you'd taken care to keep your real name as far away from it as possible. 

This is the sort of thing that should have you running into a corner and hyperventilating but instead you're stress baking in the kitchen because, no matter what lies ahead of you, it's Bucky on the front lines of it now. You haven't even started his career but he's been the news cycle's darling for years now after the bomb that was the Winter Soldier’s identity came to light. The idea that Congressman James Barnes has a sugar baby is going to be beaten like a dead horse. It doesn't matter he's far from the only one in D.C., it matters that he got caught and people will jump on any excuse to question his moral fiber. 

You know he has people for this. Good people. But you're stuck here waiting and catastrophizing and that means Bucky is going to be greeted with at least a couple batches of baked goods when he comes home. 

Home. Maybe you shouldn't think of his townhouse as home, not when your graduation is getting closer and closer. That was what you'd agreed upon. 

You don't mention it and neither does he and maybe that's part of the fantasy you're sharing. It's easier to cling to that explanation than admit to hoping it means something more. You can't even form the words in the privacy of your own mind. 

You beat the sugar and eggs together, trying your best to push the thoughts away. You'd ordered enough baking supplies to feed an army so you have plenty to occupy your time. You should probably be reaching out to your advisor, if not to ask what this means at least to give him a heads up. But no matter how much he likes you when it comes to going over your data sets, you don't know what that means for this. He's not the touchy feely type. 

You're not avoiding calling him out of veering into touchy feely territory. You're avoiding it because there's every chance he tells you you've ruined your chance as success before you've even started. 

You can't take any of it back. You always knew people finding out was a risk—everyone knows the internet is forever. 

Just, not like this. You haven't even looked up to see what people are saying. But you know they are. Your phone is safely upstairs in the bedroom where you cannot see or hear it. 

You have two batches of cookies, one batch of brownies, a fully decorated cake, and a loaf of bread by the time Bucky comes back. You've already ordered pizza because you've spent long enough in the kitchen today and regret that alcohol doesn't do anything for Bucky because you feel like now would be the time for a drink if there ever was one. 

“How are you?” you asked, taking his jacket off of his shoulders and setting it down on a bar stool. 

He looks more exhausted than you've ever seen him. He turns away from you as he yanks his tie off. The movements are sharp, jerky. Whatever happened today, you don't think he found a resolution he's happy with. 

“That doesn't matter,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter. It's only now that the bakery around him registers. “What is this?”

You slide the plate you'd prepared with a little bit of everything over. “Food,” you say. “Eat it. You'll feel better.”

Bucky shoves a cookie in his mouth and you feel better when you see him relax the slightest bit as he chews. You doubt he ate much today and this is comfort food. 

“This is so good,” he murmurs, grabbing a second cookie. “Since when do you bake?”

You roll your eyes. “When stressed, which you've been doing an amazing job of preventing from happening. I can do it more often if you'd like.”

He winces at the reminder and sets down his unfinished cookie. “About that…,” this time when he looks at you, you can see every single one of his years. “I'm so sorry. If I hadn't…if I wasn't so selfish, this wouldn't have happened. This is my fault.”

Yeah, that's not gonna cut it. 

You walk around until you're standing behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. You feel his muscles flex, but he doesn't push you away and one of his hands comes to cover yours. You hope you're managing to give him a little bit of the comfort he gives you when he surrounds you. 

“No, it's not,” you say. “I knew what I was doing when I made my account and I knew what I was doing when I went home with you. You have nothing to apologize for. In a perfect world, this would have stayed ours, but it didn't and that's okay.”

Bucky sighs. “You don't deserve to have me hanging over you like a shadow.”

You want to laugh, but know you can't. “I think it's me who'll be your shadow,” you say. “You're concerned about what people will think of me, but I'm much more worried about the people who want to kill me for getting to you first.”

He chuckles. It's dry, but you count it as a win. “I thought this would be safer,” he admits. “Our…deal…was supposed to mean I can't hurt you. It was supposed to protect you from this.” 

The press was never the danger but you don't know if you realized it until right now. Once you'd figured out that your high tipper wasn't a serial killer in disguise, you'd expected your biggest problem to be getting bored or having to fake it. It wasn't supposed to be the heart-stopping realization that it might not just be a deal for you. You can't ignore this warm feeling in your chest: you might be falling for Bucky Barnes.

You shove it down. You don't get that. He doesn't want that. He just confirmed he doesn't want it and it's your job to make him feel better about that. 

“I'm a grown adult,” you say. “You don't have to protect me from this. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then listen when I tell you it's okay, okay?”

He sighs but, after a moment, says, “fine. They said it should blow over soon anyway. It was good timing for the leak, comparatively. There are some rumors about the Senate Leader that are supposed to be surfacing soon.” 

You feel like this is more than convenient timing, but you keep it to yourself. 

“Good,” you say. And, because you can't help yourself when pressed against him like this, you drag your hand down his stomach. “Now, I have a couple ideas for how we can pass the time until the pizza gets here.”

—

Your advisor doesn't say anything about it and you don't bring it up. You're not sure if he doesn't care or doesn't pay that close of attention to be news, but you don't really care about the why. He brings out a bottle of champagne when you pass your defense and Bucky does the same when you come home immediately after. 

The moment is so sweet and perfect, the taste lingering on your lips that you try to ignore your impending graduation that will spell an end to it all. 

He makes it easy to ignore it. He's attentive and spoils you more than usual, always telling you how good you are for him and how perfect you are for being so smart and still choosing to be his, how you know your place is with him. 

“Hey,” you start, pressing yourself up from where you were lying in his chest. “My graduation is this weekend.”

Bucky trails his fingers up and down your spine with a soft smile. “Yeah, it is.”

“Will you come?” you ask, pushing down the nerves. “My family will be there, so I get if you don't want to, but it feels wrong not to—”

“Of course,” he says. “Anything you want.”

It feels like the beginning of the end. 

Your post-graduation dinner is…awkward isn't the right word, but your mom keeps looking at Bucky out of the corner of her eye and you know you're not going to be hearing the end of it for years. Your dad doesn't seem to have any opinion on Bucky's presence, but he's a pretty quiet guy as a rule so you didn't expect anything else. 

Bucky, to his credit, smiles politely when he's spoken to directly but seems much more interested in being a silent, steady presence at your side. His hand is resting on your knee and you're not sure if you're happy he's keeping things above board when you're with your family or if you're disappointed you're not having to hold it together while he takes you apart. 

You're happy he's here, grateful for even a few additional moments with him. Knowing this is the last time you'll get this is souring the moment. You should be proud of yourself, relieved that you made it, but all you can think about is the fact that your agreement was only ever supposed to last through today. Is he here out of pity? 

“So,” your mom starts. She's on her second glass of wine and you doubt you're gonna like what she says next. “What are your next steps? How long do you think it'll take you to find a job?”

You wince. The plans had been made before you even started your program—if you weren't able to land a job by graduation, you were going to go back home for a bit until you got your feet under you to avoid having to pay the rent that came with being close to the capital. You risk a look over at Bucky and find him frowning. More worrying is the way his hold on your knee tightens. This wasn't something you'd brought up. You'd been too worried that talking about it would make it real. 

“I'm not sure,” you say. “The market’s rough. My advisor thinks I could go for a doctorate, if I want.”

Your mom snorts. She doesn't have the highest opinion of graduate degrees, thinking that anyone who needs letters after their name to feel like they're smart needs a reality check. “And do what with it?”

“Research,” you answer, for at least the hundredth time in your life. “Maybe teaching. Professor positions aren't the easiest to get, but—”

“Or you could get a real job,” she interrupts. 

You reach over for Bucky's old-fashioned. He doesn't need it and you need something stronger than wine. He catches your eye and you see nothing but understanding. You lean toward him, just an inch. 

“We’ll see.”

Your mom huffs, but thankfully drops the subject. 

This is why you're not close to your family. 

On your other side, your brother spills his glass of water on his girlfriend's lap and your mom's attention quickly redirects. Small mercies. 

Your family is going back home tomorrow and you're going with them, but tonight you get to go back with Bucky. 

Walking through the front door is bittersweet. This is the last time you'll get to call this home. 

He guides you into the living room and pulls you down onto his lap on the sofa. You collapse against him, fucking your face against his neck. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you to come. I doubt that was any fun.”

Bucky shakes his head and wraps his arm around your waist, bringing you even closer. “I was happy to,” he says. “It was important to you, so it was important to me.”

You sigh. Of course he said that. That's why your feelings are in such a twisted tangle. This is your chance to say something about it, to let him know you know you only agreed to this through your graduation but that you're not ready to see its end. 

“You don't have to go with them,” he says. “You can stay here. It'll be easier for you to find a job in the city that way, and I have a few people I can reach out to. You don't have to go.”

It's everything you want on a silver platter but that's what makes it so dangerous. Going home makes it a clean break. Distance will give you the space you need to fall apart and come to terms with what it means to have fallen for a man who'll never want you like that. 

“I do,” you say. “It's…this was always the plan. Work through school and then move onto the rest of my life.”

He hums and you’ve had enough of the sort of conversation that could lead to revealing things best held close to your chest. 

You pull away from his neck and bring your hand up to play with the collar of his shirt. He didn't wear a tie today, and the peak of bare skin you kept seeing through the couple of undone buttons had been tempting you all day. You tell yourself he did it for you. 

“Enough about that,” you say. “I have to give you something to remember me by.”

Bucky looks away from you, just for a moment, but when he turns his face toward you again you only find glittering eyes and a pink lips quirked into a smirk. “As if I could ever forget you sweetheart, but sure, show Daddy what you've got.”

He drives you to the hotel your parents are staying at the next morning and even goes so far as to help you load everything you own into their old van. 

He doesn't linger. It's a harsh reminder that it was only ever an arrangement to him. You'd both fulfilled your ends of the bargain: you have a master's degree, no student loans, several investments, and enough jewelry to fund several years of unemployment and he got someone to come home to and stick his dick in. That was all you ever were. If you ever saw anything else, it was because you were a fucking idiot. 

You wipe away the tears before your mom can see. 

—

The free time you'd gained after getting with Bucky had been a luxury. Now, faced with so much of it, you are starting to lose your mind. There's only so many hours you can spend searching for and applying to jobs before your body starts screaming out for things like movement, sunlight, and nutrients. Still, you manage to send out a hundred job apps by the end of your first week at your parents’ and have completed the first week of a couch-to-5k program in addition to your usual regimen or Pilates and yoga. It still leaves you with too much time on your hands. 

You need to keep busy. Having nothing to occupy your mind means you start thinking about what could have happened if you'd dared to ask Bucky about maybe extending your arrangement until you got a job. It's a dangerous path to go down. He’d made it clear where he stood with his silent dismissal the morning you'd left. 

But what if he was silent because he was hurting? What if he couldn't bear to say good-bye any more than you could?

You shake your head of the thought and turn into the kitchen. Your brother doesn't live at home anymore, but he still swings by on the weekends so even if your mom snaps at you about having carbs in the house, you know the brownies won't go unappreciated. 

The stress baking becomes more frequent as you start to hear back from the companies you've applied to. They're mostly form rejections, but one email in particular keeps playing on repeat. 

Thank you for your interest in the position. We have had a higher than usual number of applicants and while we are grateful for and humbled by the interest, we have chosen to move forward with other candidates at this time. 

We would typically encourage you to keep an eye out for other roles, but in this case we advise you not to apply. Our company is very selective in who we hire and have no interest in inviting in someone with such a controversial background. 

It was from a smaller company, one that was family-owned and espoused strong values so it wasn't the most surprising response when you thought about it, but it still made your breath stop in your chest. 

The job market is rough on a good day—you’re not the only one of your friends who are at home with their parents while they desperately throw their resumes into the ether—but you'd been coddled by an advisor who didn't care and family who don't bring it up if they even know. D.C. was not that kind. Everything depends on your network, your connections and reputation. Bucky had made it easy to forget that you'd been part of a front-page scandal. He'd taken care of it, like he'd done with so much of your life, and you listened when he told you not to look it up. You know it didn't last too long after Bucky had done…something…but it was still there for anyone to find. Why would a hiring manager take a risk on you when they had hundreds of other similarly qualified candidates?

Your mom makes it another week before she starts nagging you. 

“Have you had any interviews yet?” she asks over her daily morning banana. 

“No.” You turn toward the coffee pot so she doesn't have to see your grimace. You have a feeling you won't be getting many interviews unless you give up on your big city dreams. “Not yet, but it's still early in the process so there's time.”

“Hm.”

Bucky would have an answer for you. He'd bring you in close and tell you how lucky anyone would be to have you, how they just don't know what they're missing, and then he'd drop to his knees and eat you out like a man starving for it like he needed to prove his point. He would have helped you apply, introduce you to the right people and then, if maybe a job wasn't what you'd wanted, he'd give you a safe place to fall and maybe even tell you how you don't have to work if you don't want to. How he'd take care of you, if you wanted. He'd shower you with lace and diamonds and you'd get to spend your days coming up with different ways to remind him why it was the best decision he'd ever made. 

You sigh longingly. Bucky can't be anything more than a memory and a fantasy anymore. You knew what you'd signed up for. 

You're surprised when, later that night, you see a text from him. 

Hey sweetheart, it says. Just checking in to make sure you're settling in okay. Thinking about you. Let me know if there's anything you need. 

You blink at the screen and bite your lip. This could just be some weird obligation toward politeness, trying to make sure you don't have plans to ruin him. But the NDA you signed at the beginning covers that and you know he's not much of a texter. More than that, he's not one to communicate needlessly nor say something he didn't mean. This was intentional. 

The smart thing to do would be to ignore it, but there's no part of that's feeling very smart about this. 

You text back, I'm okay. Thinking about you too.

Maybe you shouldn't have said that last bit. It's a bit revealing, isn't it? But hope is growing. He texted you for a reason, what if that reason is the same as yours? What if he misses you? 

I'm happy to hear that. The response comes faster than you expected. It brings you back to when he was a faceless tipper and that's a whole different kind of fun. Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?

The idea forming in your head is a bit risky. If he's just making sure there's no ill will, this is going to reek of desperation. But you still reach for that first lingerie set he ever bought you and set up your tripod to take a picture of you in it on your childhood bed. 

Can you tell me if this looks good? you ask, attaching the photo. I'm thinking of starting to post again if I can't find a job soon. 

You don't want to start posting again. Now that you're removed from it, you can realize how much work went into it. More than that, you'd have to build up a following again and that was hellish enough the first time. You'd been happy to be able to move away from live camming to a more subscription-based model and you're not looking forward to having to do that again. Bucky's jealousy had worked in your favor the first time, maybe it will again. 

But Bucky never responds. 

He does text three days later, as innocent as the first text with no reference to the photo still visible in your messages. 

Any more luck on the job search? he asks. Still thinking about you. Are you sleeping well? Eating enough?

It should be condescending but it's not because it's Bucky and you know he genuinely cares and had always wanted nothing more than to make sure you were taken care of. You feel your eyes water because this, this is what you want. You want to be taken care of again. You don't want your mom down your throat about when you're going to get out of her house and you don't want to have to go into work each day risking judgement should someone find an old article or if old gossip gets brought up again. You want the arrangement you had but you want it without an end date and that's the one thing you know you can't have. 

Still thinking about you too, you say back before setting your phone down. 

God, you need to figure this out because if this continues, you know it might kill you. 

—

It takes another week or countless rejection interviews before you decide you can't take it anymore. Bucky keeps sending you sweet messages, always checking in on you and always with a mention of how he's thinking of you and you really can't take it anymore because if he's doing it to be kind it's getting to the point of being the opposite. If he, like you, can't seem to let it go, you're going to need a bit more than a ‘thinking of you’. 

His card is still connected to your Uber account and you pre-book the ride rather than waiting an unknown amount of time for someone to accept the long drive. You have no idea if he gets notified when you use his cards or not. A part of you hopes he does. That same part of you regrets not thinking of the several still saved in your Apple pay. Spending thousands on pretty nonsense would have been a bratty way of getting his attention, but maybe that would have earned an actual phone call. Maybe then you'd have gotten to hear his voice take on that sharp tone that never failed to make you clit throb. 

That would have been worth it. 

Hopefully this will too. On the off-chance it works the way you really hope it does, the pay-off will be far, far greater than being told off on the phone while you try to stay quiet while getting off to the sound of him calling you wasteful and disrespectful. 

That's a fantasy for another time. 

You load the final shoe into your luggage and bring your bags down the stairs, grateful you timed it for when your parents are at work so you don't have to deal with their questions. 

The drive to D.C. is long but the driver is silent and it's far too late to back out by the time you're standing in front of Bucky's townhouse again. 

You hold your breath when you try the key. It still works. 

There's no doubt he knows you're here. You've never gotten the full run-down on security but he's assured you it's taken care of and if there's anyone to trust about that, it's him. 

You roll your bags in and shut the door behind you. If he doesn't want you here, there's nothing stopping him from telling you. 

Fifteen minutes pass and no message comes. It's a good sign. 

You don't dare get too comfortable. Sure, he's open to talking to you but what does that mean? You know what you want: you want what you had but this time without a built-in end date. You're going to ask for it. He cares enough about you to check in, but what if it's only out of obligation. He definitely had a better idea of the impact of your relationship getting out than you did. 

He hasn't responded to any of the photos you've sent, but he also hasn't told you to stop sending them. You don't know what that means. 

You place your bags against the wall, out of the way but still close to the door. You hang your coat up and turn toward the hall mirror. You're wearing a dress you know he likes over a matching set you know he likes even more. You'd thought about greeting him in just the lingerie and jewelry, but the embarrassment you'd feel if he turned you down made that a quick no. 

He doesn't make you wait hours. 

You're sitting on the sofa in the front room when he comes in. 

“Sweetheart?” he calls out. “Is everything okay?”

His voice sends a shiver down your spine. It's been too long since you've heard it. You've missed it, missed him. You start to pull at your dress and answer him, “in here.”

You drink in the sight of him. He's wearing a blue suit today, as flattering as ever. His hair is a bit messy like he's been running his hands through it. You press your own hands hard against your thighs, a flexible reminder that you still don't know if you're welcome no matter how much you want to leap up into his arms. 

“Hi.”

Bucky's brows furrow together. “Can I come in?”

“Of course you can, it's your house.”

“Sweetheart…” he trails off as he steps closer. 

He's only a couple feet away from you now, hands dangling loosely at his sides. You look up. Would it be better to get on your knees and beg for him to take you back? Or should you make a case? Your mouth is dry. You didn't think this far ahead. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

You bite your lip. You hate that it's such an obvious tell but you always notice you're doing it too late to stop it. “I…I miss you.”

His face softens and he lowers to his knees, bringing his hands up to cup your face like he was waiting for permission to touch you. 

“I miss you too, sweetheart,” he says, pushing some loose strands of hair behind your ear. “It's taken everything in me to not go find you and steal you away like you're some princess in a tower. I was so happy when I saw you were here. Just…tell me, baby…why are you here. I need to hear it.”

Hope begins to crest. His eyes are always so intense. You feel like you're under a microscope. It was overwhelming at first, the weight of his attention, but now you realize this is what you've been needing. 

“I didn't want to go,” you admit. “But I had to, because that's what we agreed on. You said until graduation so when I graduated and you didn't say anything I thought that meant I had to leave.”

“No, never,” he says. “I never wanted you to go, but you were only ever here to get through school. You don't need me.”

It's a direct contradiction to everything he's ever told you, and that's what makes you think maybe you were right to hope it wasn't just you tangled up in this mess. 

“I want you,” you say. It's terrifying but it's freeing. “I want to be yours. I want you to take care of me. I don't…I don't want to have to worry about anything else. Anyone else. Let me be yours.”

His eyelids lower and he presses his thumb into your bottom lip. “Do you mean that?”

You don't answer. Instead, you open his mouth and invite him to press his thumb in and press your tongue against it when he does. 

“Good,” he practically coos. “You're perfect for me, sweetheart. You came right back where you belong, right where Daddy can always take care of you, isn't that right?”

You nod. 

“Say it,” he orders, voice deepening. A shiver runs down your spine. 

“I'm yours, Daddy,” you say around his thumb. “And I'm here, right where you can take care of me.”

He's not gentle when he presses you back into the sofa, but you don't want him to be. It's a rush of clothing and he doesn't take your dress off enough to appreciate what you're wearing underneath. The first press of him stings, rough because you're not wet enough yet to make it easy but it feels so, so good. It's the needed reminder that this is where you belong. 

Bucky shoves your leg up and bites down on your exposed collarbone as he thrusts into you hard, forcing you to take the whole length of him. 

“Oh my God,” you cry out, desperately clutching into his shoulders. He didn't even take his jacket off. Fuck. 

He doesn't last long before he collapses on top of you, pressing you into the sofa cushions with his full weight. He sneaks his hand between the two of you and you follow quickly behind. 

You're panting when he presses his lips against your chest, beard scratching your skin. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” you say, bringing your hand up to come through his hair. 

“You'll stay here, with me.”

Blood drips from your split lip onto the mat. You don't wipe it. Wiping it would be a tell—would signal that you're aware of the injury, that it's affecting you. The Asset would see it. The instructors on the observation deck would note it. Neither outcome serves you.

"Again," he orders.

His voice is flat. Not cruel, but certainly not kind. Just... operational. Like the word is a function being executed rather than a command being given.

You reset your stance. Your left foot forward, weight distributed, hands up and waiting. Your left shoulder is screaming—you landed on it wrong twenty minutes ago and something shifted that shouldn't have—but you keep your guard even.

He comes at you without warning.

The first strike you block. The second. The third clips your ribs and you feel something crack, a small wet sound inside your chest that you file away for later. The fourth you redirect, using his momentum to spin out of range, buying yourself half a second of breathing room.

He doesn't let you have it.

His metal hand catches your wrist and twists, and suddenly you're airborne, the ceiling spinning past, and then the mat slams into your back hard enough to empty your lungs.

You don't stay down. Staying down is death. Staying down is for the other girls, the ones who washed out, the ones who went to the infirmary and never came back. You roll, get your feet under you, come up swinging.

He blocks it. Of course he does.

"Sloppy," he says bluntly. "You're favouring your left side."

You don't answer. Answering would be an admission. Instead you adjust your stance, redistribute your weight to compensate for the shoulder, and wait for him to come again.

He does.

The next exchange lasts eleven seconds. You count them in your head—one of the few things that's still yours, the counting, the quiet catalog of data that runs underneath everything else. Eleven seconds of blocking and redirecting and trying to find an opening that doesn't exist.

He puts you on the mat again. This time your vision whites out for three seconds when you hit.

"Get up."

And you get up.

The observation deck is dark, but you can feel them all watching. Two instructors, maybe three. They're evaluating. They're always evaluating. Every session with the Asset is a test, and the passing grade is your survival.

You've been passing for six months. Some nights you're not sure if that makes you lucky, or cursed.

The Asset resets to neutral. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides, face utterly blank. The arm gleams under the fluorescent lights—the only part of him that looks like what he actually is.

"Your breathing is irregular. Control it."

You control it. Four counts in, four counts out. The cracked rib protests but you don't let it show on your face.

He watches you. Those eyes—pale, empty, like someone scooped out whatever used to live behind them and left only the machinery—track across your stance, your hands, your center of gravity. Reading you the way you can't read him.

"Better."

It's not praise. Praise doesn't exist here. It's an assessment. A data point. You've moved from inadequate to acceptable and that's all the acknowledgment of it you're going to get.

He comes at you again.

This time you last fourteen seconds before you hit the mat.

Which is progress.

The session ends at precisely 04:15, on the dot.

You're still standing. Barely. Your left shoulder is definitely dislocated now, and the cracked rib has company—two more, maybe three, you'll know for certain when the adrenaline wears off and the pain comes back online. Blood is drying on your chin, your lip swelling where it had split, after he'd punched you square in the face.

At least he hadn't broken your nose. That was something.

The Asset stands three feet away, watching you. He's not even breathing hard. "Report to medical," he orders. "You have four hours before the next session."

You nod. Speaking would require energy you don't have.

He turns to go. The instructors are already filing out of the observation deck, their clipboards full of notes you'll never see. Another session logged. Another night survived.

You should move. You should get to medical, get the shoulder reset, get taped up before the next round. That's the protocol. That's what a good Widow does.

But the Asset pauses at the door.

He doesn't turn around. Doesn't look at you. Just... stops. For three seconds—you count them—he stands there, metal hand on the frame, and something in the line of his shoulders shifts. Not much. Anyone else would miss it.

You don't miss it.

Then he's gone, and you're alone on the training floor with your blood on the mat and four hours until you have to do this again.

You start walking toward medical.

The hallway is empty—always empty at this hour, the other Widows in their bunks, the instructors gone to wherever instructors go when they're not watching you bleed. You're halfway to the infirmary when you hear the footsteps behind you.

You don't turn around. You don't have to, because you know exactly who it is who's following.

His hand closes around your arm—the good one, not the dislocated shoulder, which is a small mercy—and he pulls you sideways into the nearby equipment room. The door clicks shut, and the lock snicks into place.

There's no cameras in here. You know this because he'd made you map the blind spots in the facility your second week here, filing them away under potentially useful. You never thought about why until he first shoved you against the wall in one of them and you understood exactly what kind of useful he meant.

It's strange. He doesn't do this with the other Widows. Just you. Just you and him in locked rooms and abandoned corridors, as if you'd both made some unspoken agreement about the things that happen in the dark.

The Asset doesn't say anything. He never does, not during this. His hands are already on you—metal fingers curling around your hip, flesh hand fisting in your hair, tilting your head back until you're looking at the ceiling instead of him.

He smells like gun oil and sweat and something colder underneath, something that isn't quite human.

You should fight. You're trained to fight. Every instinct Madame drilled into you says resist, redirect, escape.

But you don't move.

One breath. Two. Your body makes the decision before your mind catches up, because his mouth is on your throat. Not gently—nothing about him is gentle—but not entirely brutal either. His teeth scrape over your pulse point, then his tongue drags salt and copper from your skin, following the line of dried blood from your split lip down to your jaw. He's tasting you. Cataloging you the same way he catalogs your weaknesses on the training floor.

Your palms flatten against his chest. The tactical vest is rough under your fingers, warmed by his body heat. You're not sure if you're pushing him away or pulling him closer. Neither is he. That's the thing about this—neither of you knows what it is, or what it means.

That uncertainty terrifies you more than the Madame ever did.

He spins you around. Your cheek hits the cold concrete wall and you hiss at the pressure on your split lip, but his hand is already between your shoulder blades, pinning you there, and his other hand—the metal one—is working the fastenings of your training suit.

"My shoulder," you warn flatly. It's the only protest you're going to make.

He pauses, and it lasts only a fraction of a second. Then his grip shifts, avoiding the dislocated joint, and he yanks the suit down to your waist.

The air is freezing against your bare skin. Goosebumps rise in its wake, nipples hardening from cold and something else, something your body knows even when your mind refuses to name it. You're shaking—not from the session anymore, not from exhaustion. From this. From him. From not knowing if this is something you want or something that's been programmed into you the same way combat sequences are programmed into him.

His metal hand traces the line of your spine. The plates are cold, inhumanly smooth, and you arch into it despite yourself, despite everything. The seam between two plates presses, just barely, against a bruise he left last week—a sharp reminder of what he is, what you're doing, and why you shouldn't want it.

And yet, here you are.

When he kicks your feet apart, you let him. Those metal fingers of his slide between your thighs, beneath the waistband of your underwear and find your cunt already soaked—slick and swollen, your body betraying you the way it always does with him. You don't know if it's fear or arousal or some fucked-up combination of both that the Red Room bred into you both.

You don't know if this is just the result of animal instinct or if there's something more to it.

You do know that he doesn't ask first before touching you—he never does.

The Asset starts with one finger first, circling your entrance patiently, as if he has all the time in the world. He waits, letting you feel the threat before he delivers on it. Then he pushes inside—two fingers, knuckle-deep—and your forehead hits the wall, a choked sound dying in your throat.

"Quiet," he growls. It's the first word he's spoken since this started.

You bite your already-split lip to keep the sound in. The taste of copper floods your mouth as the flesh rips anew. He doesn't care. His fingers are moving—rough, efficient, the same way he does everything—and you clench around them helplessly, body responding even when your mind is still trying to catch up.

He adds a third finger, and you gasp.

His flesh hand comes up to cover your mouth, immediately, and it squeezes tight in a silent warning across your face. Be quiet or we get caught. You know the calculus. You've done it before. Whatever this is, it will cease to exist if anyone sees you.

You nod against his palm and he takes his hand away. In the same motion, his metal fingers withdraw, despite the way your hips buck to keep them inside you. Wordlessly, he pushes those slick fingers past your lips and into your mouth, making you gag slightly.

"Clean."

The order is utterly degrading. But you've been trained to obey such orders without question, and so you do—tasting a heady mix of your own blood and essence and the metallic tang of his fingers. As you work, he yanks your suit and underwear both down and over your hips, baring your ass to the cool air.

You hear his zipper. The rustle of fabric. Then the head of his cock pressing against you, thick and blunt, and you brace your palms against the wall because you know what's coming.

He doesn't ease in. The Asset doesn't know how to ease into anything, you think.

The first inch burns. His metal fingers are still in your mouth and you bite down on them, but he doesn't stop. He pushes forward—slow, relentless, inevitable—and your body screams at the stretch but you take it. Inch by inch.

When he finally bottoms out, he stops. His hips flush against your ass, his cock so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. His thumb strokes against your jawline in a gesture that's almost tender, even as your teeth dig into his artificial fingers hard enough to leave marks.

Two seconds. He gives you exactly two seconds to adjust.

Then he starts to move.

It's not kind. It's not cruel. It's necessary, somehow—that's the only word you can think of for it. Like both of you need this the way you need water or air, like the programming left a gap in both your heads, and this is the only thing that can possibly fill it.

His hips snap ruthlessly against your ass—the slap of skin on skin, the creak of his tactical gear, the slick sound of him fucking into you filling the little equipment room—and you bite down harder on his hand to keep from making noise. Your cracked ribs scream. Your dislocated shoulder screams. Everything screams except your mouth, which stays perfectly silent.

He fucks you like he fights you—relentless, mechanical, and utterly focused. Your fingers scrabble against concrete, nails scraping yet finding no purchase. That coil in your belly winds tighter and you hate it, hate how easily he can take you apart. Hate that your body responds to him even when your mind is screaming that this is wrong, so wrong, you shouldn't be doing this, neither of you should be doing this.

But you don't want him to stop. That's the worst part. You want him to break you open and leave you empty and do it again tomorrow night. You want this to be yours, even if nothing else is. You want him to be yours.

You push back against him—not to escape, to take him deeper. You control the angle now, grinding down on him, and he stalls for half a second—surprised, maybe, or just processing the new information—before his grip on your hip tightens and he meets you thrust for thrust.

You try to whisper please around his fingers but the words are garbled nonsense. You don't know what you're asking for, anyway. More? Less? Something in the between? Does it even matter? He'll give it to you, whether you beg for it or not.

And, predictably, he doesn't answer. But he knows. That's why he reaches around youand finds your clit with his fingers—pressing exactly where you need it, ruthless, unrelenting—and you come. Hard.

Your vision goes white. Your cunt clamps down on him hard, spasming, your legs shaking so hard that you would've collapsed if he wasn't pinning you to the wall. A sound tears out of you—louder than before—and he withdraws his metal fingers so his hand can clamp over your mouth again, swallowing it, muffling it, and he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. He fucks you through it while you shake apart against the concrete.

When you come down from the orgasm—if you come down at all—he's still moving. Faster and rougher this time, chasing his own release. So you let him use you. You're loose. Pliant. The aftershocks are still rolling through you, your cunt still fluttering, oversensitive and aching and his.

He comes with a low grunt that sounds like it's been torn from his throat. The sound is almost feral, nothing like the controlled efficiency of his fighting or the flat assessment of his training. For a moment, his entire body goes rigid against yours—the metal arm spasming, the flesh hand gripping the wall so hard, you actually hear the concrete crack under his fingers. Then he shudders, a full-body tremor that runs through him and into you, and he pumps his load deep inside you, claiming you in a way that has nothing to do with the Red Room or Dreykov or any of the programming that brought either of you here.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both just breathing and suspended in the aftermath. His forehead is pressed to your back now, his weight still pinning you to the wall, and you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your spine even through his tactical vest. It's the most alive you've ever felt him, the most human, and the thought terrifies you almost as much as the way your body is still responding to his, still clenching around him inside you.

Then, he pulls out. At once you feel his come dripping down your thighs and you know you should clean up, should get to medical, should pretend this never happened the way you always pretend.

But he's still behind you, still trapping you against him. His forehead has moved to rest against the back of your neck, his stubble scraping your skin, and his breath hot and damp against your spine. You feel him shaking—barely, minutely, the kind of tremor no one else would notice—but you're trained to notice such things.

"Don't..." he starts, then stops. You wait, but he doesn't finish the sentence. You don't know if he was going to say don't move or don't go or don't tell anyone, and you'll spend the next twenty-three years wondering that.

For exactly seven seconds he stays there. Not moving. Not pulling away. Just... present. His breath syncs with yours. You memorize the rhythm.

You want to turn around. You want to see his face. You want to know if he looks as broken as you feel, if this breaks him open the way it breaks you. You want to see what he almost said.

You don't move.

Then he steps back.

You hear him fixing his clothes. The rustle of fabric, the zip of his tactical gear. You don't turn around. You're not sure what you'd see if you did.

"Medical," he finally says, in the same flat voice as before. Like nothing happened.

You manage to nod. You pull your suit back up, ignoring the ache between your legs, the throb of your shoulder, and the taste of blood still fresh in your mouth. You swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to wipe away the evidence.

When you turn around, he's already gone.

The door is unlocked. The hallway is empty. Four hours until the next session.

You start walking toward medical again.

This time, you make it.

The mark is late. If you had enough free will to care, you'd be annoyed by this. But you don't.

Your tactical watch reads 17:42 when you check it—it's 2016, the wind biting at any exposed skin. Budapest, rooftop overlooking the Danube, the river dark below and the Parliament lights reflecting like broken glass on the water.

You've been in position for forty-three minutes. The wind cutting through your tactical gear. The temperature dropping rapidly, as soon as the sun sets. These are facts. You catalog them the way you catalog everything—distantly, clinically, filed under mission parameters.

Facts are all that your world contains, ever since your training had been complete and your mind subjugated. Ever since, you've been a puppet, dancing to the tune of your handlers. Living separate to your own body, watching from the outside.

And yet, it's still you.

Anya's voice crackles in your ear, and that familiar, cold tone of hers snaps you back to focus. "Status," she demands.

"In position," you reply.

"Target approaching from the east. ETA two minutes."

You adjust your scope accordingly. Your sight lines are clear. The exit routes are mappe and the contingencies planned. You're efficient. You've always been efficient.

My best work, General Dreykov had once called you, a proud glint in his beady eyes. That praise was like a drug to you, a high like no other that you chased after every successful mission—

—there's movement in your peripheral vision. It's coming from the wrong direction. Not the target. Someone else.

You pivot, weapon coming up, and that's when you see him.

He's on the adjacent rooftop. Thirty meters out and watching you, the same way you're now watching him.

Your training catalogs the threat automatically. Male, approximately 1.8 meters, heavy build, tactical gear, metal left arm. The way he moves—controlled, purposeful, combat-trained—triggers something in your memory that your programming immediately suppresses.

You don't know him.

No. You do know him.

That contradiction doesn't compute. You push it aside and sight in on his centre mass.

He doesn't take cover. Doesn't draw a weapon. Just stands there, watching you with an expression you can't read.

"Interference," you report to your fellow Widow. "Neutralizing."

But Anya doesn't respond and you don't have the time to wonder why that is.

The man on the other rooftop moves before you can squeeze the trigger. Not toward you—toward the fire escape, dropping down to street level with the kind of efficiency that makes your muscle memory scream with recognition you're not allowed to have.

He's coming for you.

You abandon the mark, dropping your rifle and running. Training dictates threat prioritization; unknown combatant in close proximity supersedes all. You move to intercept, dropping through the access hatch into the stairwell.

He's already inside the building.

You know this because you can hear him. Footsteps—measured, deliberate, not trying to hide. Like he wants you to know where he is.

You clear the third-floor landing and he's there, standing in the corridor, hands visible and non-threatening.

Withdrawing your sidearm, you put three rounds centre mass.

He moves. Fast—too fast for someone his size—and the shots go wide. Concrete dust explodes from the wall behind him, and despite the pistol holstered at his hip, he doesn't return fire.

"Stop!" He yells instead. You don't stop. You never stop. You close the distance, planning to disable him permanently, but he's faster than you expect. His metal hand sweeps out and knocks the pistol from your grip before you can fire again. The weapon clatters across the concrete floor, out of reach.

Disarmed. But your training adapts, always adapts. You engage hand-to-hand without hesitation.

He blocks your first strike with his right hand—precise, controlled. Your second he meets with the metal arm, the impact vibrating up your bones in a way that's terrifyingly familiar. Your third strike he redirects, using your momentum to spin you out of range, and the movement is so familiar your body completes the counter before your brain catches up. The same counter he taught you on the training mat in 1993.

You've fought this man before.

No. That's impossible. Your handler would have briefed you. Your files would show it.

And he's not attacking you, not really, not in the way he should. He's defending—blocking, redirecting, burning down your energy—and the whole time he's talking. "You don't have to do this," he says.

Incorrect. You do have to. That's what you are. What you're for.

You go for his throat. He catches your wrist—flesh hand, not metal—and the grip is controlled, not brutal. You twist, break his hold, drive your knee toward his solar plexus. He absorbs it with a grunt.

"I know you're in there," he continues. "Deep down. Let me help."

You don't know what that means. Of course you're in there, in your mind, caged by unseen bars. You drive your elbow toward his face. He blocks it with his metal arm and the impact vibrates up your bones and suddenly you're on a training mat, bleeding from a split lip, and—

—no. You shove the fragment away. Focus. Mission. Eliminate the threat.

But he's not fighting like a threat. He's fighting like someone trying not to hurt you, and that doesn't make sense, nothing makes sense. Your conditioning is screaming at you to disengage but your body won't stop fighting.

Your next strike falters. He doesn't capitalize on it. He just stands there, bleeding from somewhere—you must have landed a hit, you don't remember—and looking at you like you're a person instead of a weapon.

"I'm not going to fight you."

He sounds so resigned to this fact.

You hit him anyway. He takes it. Doesn't block or redirect. Just lets your fist connect with his jaw and he rocks back on his heels, the impact jarring his entire frame. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth—your blood, actually, from when your knuckles split against his teeth.

You're breathing hard. He's breathing harder, like he's been running. He's bleeding from somewhere—his temple, maybe, or his ribs where you landed a solid knee strike. Neither of you is winning. Neither of you is trying to win in the traditional sense.

He reaches into his vest slowly, deliberately, giving you time to react. His eyes never leave yours.

You tense. Gun. Knife. Weapon. Your hand drifts toward the knife at your ankle, the backup blade they always make you carry.

But his movements are too slow for a weapon draw. Too careful. He pulls out a small vial, no bigger than his thumb, and holds it up between you. The liquid inside catches the fluorescent light of the stairwell.

It's red.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice cracks on the word. Then he crushes the vial in his metal hand, and a crimson veil descends.

For a moment, nothing happens. The red dust hangs suspended in the air between you, glittering in the fluorescent light like deadly confetti. You tense to retreat, to escape, but his hand shoots out—his red-flecked metal fingers wrapping around your upper arm—and he yanks you forward into the cloud fully.

You try to hold your breath, try to fight, but his other hand comes up to hold the back of your neck, squeezing hard enough that it panics you into inhaling. The dust floods your lungs—sharp, burning as it goes down—and you struggle against him, but it's too late. He's stronger than you, and he's not letting go.

Then, it hits you—

—like waking up. No, like remembering you were asleep. No, like drowning and surfacing and the air is too bright, too sharp, too real—

—the Red Room the training floor the Asset his hands his mouth the cold the counting the thing without a name—

—Madame's voice Dreykov's conditioning the handlers the marks the missions the blood that wasn't yours the blood that was—

—his name your name the names you swallowed the words you never said the four seconds with his forehead against your neck and you thought please but you never said please stay—

—1993 to now every locked door every mission every kill and none of it was you it was the thing they made you and oh God oh God oh—

—he releases you and your knees hit the ground, hard.

The world is too loud. Your body is shaking. There's blood in your mouth but it's old blood, twenty-three-year-old blood, and you can taste the iron and the split lip and the way he never kissed you on the mouth because that would have meant something.

Someone is crying. You don't know if it's you or not, but it must be, because the tears are hot on your cheeks.

Then there's hands on your shoulders—you flinch away from the touch, your training screaming threat threat threat—but they don't tighten and they don't hurt. The hands just steady you, hold you together while you shake apart. Slowly, so slowly, you're adjusted until your head is pillowed by a metal arm and your back is pressed against a warm, solid chest.

Your vision is swimming. You can't see him, can't see anything but the red dust and the fluorescent lights overhead and the way every memory you thought you'd buried is clawing its way back to the surface.

"I've got you. You're safe. I've got you." It's like a mantra, whispered in your ear, over and over as you're rocked, slowly. "I looked for you. I looked for you everywhere."

His lips brush your temple, a feather-light kiss that you barely feel. Your senses are completely overblown right now, and every sound, every touch, every smell is amplified a hundredfold as the red dust burns the poison out of your mind.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Finally, your eyes focus. He's so close, his face inches from your own. The Asset, you recall dimly. It's the Asset who is holding you now.

Bucky Barnes understood it better than people may have assumed. He knew the haunted shell you came from, and somewhere deep inside of him, he wanted to help you.

The good he had done would never amount to the lifetimes he had destroyed once upon a time. He knew you weren't a charity case. He knew even his head still suffered from his past. But meeting you? It had been one of the best parts of his life since he pulled away from his dark past. 

When you weren't panicked, you were phenomenal. A light in the dark. A bright, plastered poster that caught his attention each and every time he passed it by.

Small, hurried conversations turned into grabbing coffee. Bucky ordered for you. Out of everything you believed he would judge you for, he kept surprising you by doing the exact opposite. 

He would praise you for your very existence though there were so many opposing forces in the recesses of your mind refuting his claims.

He didn't mind that it took you forever to warm up to him. He had yet to even warm up to himself, nightmares plaguing his every moment unless he was with you. It was like that one damned romance novel he read said—when you find someone you truly cared for, they would make the rest of the world fall away.

Perhaps that was what pulled him into you. Into the idea of you. Just the thought of you eased his mind. And while it may not have been the same for you at first, the thought of having Bucky around more often didn't sound like a bad idea. He was the first true friend you had in years. The first true friend you felt as if you could have something more out of life with. 

Crowds were still difficult even with him. Ordering food had become a mantle Bucky took in stride. But the judgement you thought you would have received from Bucky never came. If any, he "judged" you for the way you held your coffee cup or your favorite beverage when you ordered takeout. He "judged" the way you organized your clothing, and the background on your cellphone (because seriously, what is that?). He "judged" the blankets you kept in your house, the scent of your favorite candle. Never once had he judged you for something so controlling of your every decision. Never once did he make you feel as though you were a villain for the way your mind worked, for the fear you felt in just existing. 

To your sweet, nervous heart, Bucky was everything.

And to Bucky's frozen, damaged one, you were the most important thing that had ever happened to him—and he had been saved from the very bane of his existence. 

As a consequence of the care you both felt for one another, no matter how secretive you tried to be with it, you now sat before Bucky, the small silver key in your palm held out to him as if it were the key to your very heart and not just your apartment. 

The coffee shop patrons continued to drone on in the background.

Bucky stared at the key in your hand, his heart skipping a beat. He'd claimed to be acclimated to the way of the world, but just the act of you procuring your key made him pause. This was not something he took lightly, and neither had you. This meant so much more than what you already were to one another, but the look on your face? Oh, he knew it was time. You were ready to give him access to the one place you safely escaped to day in and day out.

He had you. You had him.

You may not have been "official" on any regard, but the silver piece did so much more than just clarify your feelings. No, it set it in stone. The stone guiding your future, the very thing that you had once been so afraid of. 

You could face it all with the help of your dearest confidant, and for that, you were eternally grateful.

Bucky hesitantly held his hand out for the key. Bucky didn't do hesitant. The only hesitation in his life led to danger and pain. But this? 

"You're already at my apartment pretty often, so I figured a key might help you out some," you said, words so nonchalant he wondered if you even heard yourself. A small smile played at your lips. "I don't have a rock to hide it outside in, so giving it to you is the next best thing."

A smile blossomed on his own handsome face. "Next best thing, huh?"

You nodded and dropped the key into his palm. He pulled out his key ring, eyeing you for a moment before attaching the key to his multitudes of others. 

You raised a curious brow. "How do you tell which key is which?"

"Magic," he simply said, stuffing it back in his pocket. "Speaking of, did you... did you still want to the bookstore? Find that one book you mentioned?"

You wracked your brain for any kind of fantasy or magical book you mentioned recently, and then you smiled at him, giving a small nod. 

"I mean, if you're up for it..."

"Always," he blurted, a bit too quickly. He perked up. "I was thinking of checking out The Silmarillion."

"Did you read the others?"

"I read The Hobbit a long time ago," he said, to which you hummed a quick 'I know.' "I finished the last book for The Lord of the Rings just the other day."

You leaned against your hand as you watched him, your drinks long since forgotten beside of you.  

"Maybe you can use your key for the first time and we can have like... a reading marathon today."

He raised a curious brow. "A reading marathon?"

"Yeah. Where we try to finish our book in one sitting."

He snorted. "That won't take me very long and you know it."

Your heart leapt to your throat at the sound of a rather loud patron, flinching just a bit as you looked over to find the culprit. 

Bucky downed the rest of his lukewarm coffee. "Come on," he said. "Let's get your book."

"Our books?"

He smiled at the implication. Our. He knew he was being redundant, but he enjoyed the sound of it regardless. There was so much that he wanted to say, so much he wanted to do. For now, though, he stood up and held his right hand steadily holding out for you to take it. 

Your eyes widened at the sight, slowly reaching out and taking it. 

So that was it, then, hm? Just a key, but there was so much more behind the silver metal piece than meets the eye. Were you too brash to think you had given him the key to your heart, the key to changing the way your life worked as you knew it?

soft!dom!bucky who eases you into subspace during your first scene. the scene itself is nothing too extreme, just some new toys and a few silk ropes added to the mix, as well as the quiet understanding that bucky isn't just 'in charge,' he's there to give you all the pleasure you deserve, and it will be intense. bucky lives and breathes to make you happy, so he takes his time in tying your hands to the headboard, kissing your lips every so often and mumbling look at me, princess, need to see those beautiful eyes because he wants to make note of all the minute changes in your expression, ready to stop if your lips even twitch downwards.

soft!dom!bucky who is the king of consent. sometimes, to the point of frustration. he'll have three fingers stretching you out, pressed in all the way to the third knuckle, and he's stopping to ask your color - always green, by the way. he brings you to orgasm twice before he actually fucks you, and somewhere along the way he can see the way your eyes start to glaze over, how your moans turn to pathetic whimpers, how you can't stop mumbling daddyyyyyy, please, yes!, making bucky so so so proud of you for trusting him enough to hand over full control, knowing that he won't hurt you.

soft!dom!bucky who finally cums after your fourth orgasm, grunting and groaning praises even though he's sure you can't really understand what he's saying. when his hips finally still, his eyes locked on the way drool trickles out of the side of your mouth, he feels an overwhelming surge of love, the need to protect and covet you so that no one can hurt you. he hurries to grab a glass of water and a damp cloth, setting the glass on the nightstand and carefully wipes between your legs, shushing and cooing at you when you whine at the overstimulation.

soft!dom!bucky who cuddles you close to his chest after tossing the rag onto the floor, content to worry about it later, after you're back to your senses and not so vulnerable. he's kissing your forehead, your hairline, cheeks, nose, anywhere he can reach without moving too much, murmuring praises the entire time. did so good for daddy, princess. so so good, 'm so proud of you, thank you. he massages your shoulders, running his hands up and down your arms and back, loving on you properly because it's what you deserve. and bucky swears that you've never looked more beautiful than you right now, looking up at him like he's your whole world with shining eyes and a hint of a smile. somewhere along the way, he makes a mental note to ask you later if he can take a picture of you if you decide you want to do this again.

soft!dom!bucky who feels you start to slowly come back to him after nearly thirty minutes of floating. you start squirming a little, letting out little whines, starting to blink faster as though you're just now realizing where you are. bucky continues kissing you and mumbling reassurances, wanting to have the first words you hear to be about how utterly perfect you are for him. but his heart drops a little when you whimper brokenly, your bottom lip wobbling and your squirming becoming a little more frantic. he can hear how your breath hitches, your body shaking slightly. in an instant he knows what's happening; you're dropping.

soft!dom!bucky who coos at you a little louder, assuring you that you're okay, you're safe, daddy's got you, but he can tell your mind is reeling. he knew what happened was intense, considering you've never experienced subspace before, and he knew this was a possibility, but that doesn't mean his heart doesn't hurt when tears start streaming down your face. he feels actual pain when you whimper out daddy? and look at him, eyes glassy now but for a different reason. even in the midst of worry, bucky recognizes that you're turning to him for comfort, that your trembling hands reaching out for him means that you need him closer. he ends up laying half on top of you, hoping that surrounding you with his body, feeling his bare skin pressed against you, will help ground you.

soft!dom!bucky who breathes a sigh of relief when you settle after a few minutes. your noises taper off, and your tears stop streaming down your cheeks, your hands no longer gripping his shoulders for dear life. he keeps his body over yours, though, just until you tap his arm, prompting him to lift up and lay next to you, propping himself up on his elbow and placing one hand on your stomach to keep the contact. you're still quiet for a few moments, focusing on steadying your breathing, but once you seem mostly calmed down, he presses a brief kiss to your forehead before staring into your eyes as he asks you okay, princess?

soft!dom!bucky who nods reassuringly when you mumble I think? he understands that you're vulnerable and emotional, and he wants you to know that it's okay to feel like that. he wants you to know that it's okay to have negative emotions, as long as you don't let it consume you. you talk about how you felt during the scene and afterward, listening with rapt attention as you recount how blissful floating like that was, but coming out of it was a little scary because it felt as though you would never feel like that again and you wanted to hang onto it for as long as you could. but also, you've never experienced subspace before, so bucky assures you that it's normal to feel anxious after coming out of it, that the change in sensation can be overwhelming. that makes you feel better, and you tell him that, and after a little more talking, you both agree that you want to try it again, but bucky makes a mental note to talk with you in depth later and come to a mutual agreement on what bucky can do to make that transition easier.

soft!dom!bucky who has never felt prouder of you, nor has he ever felt so lucky as to have you trust him enough to get you through a subdrop. he cherishes that trust, and promises you that he'll always keep you safe, won't let anyone or anything touch you, because it's his responsibility and honor as your dom to protect you.

But that was just it…it wasn’t real.  It wasn’t a real relationship.  He was paying her.  She was fulfilling a contract.  In the moments where he would say things like, “I’m yours,” “My pretty girl,” and “Mine,” her heart would flutter with hope that maybe he felt something more for her.  But that was nothing new.  She had clients in the past who said the same things in the heat of the moment like he did, so she would hurt her own feelings and crash back down to reality and remind herself that she was being kept.  That he may enjoy her company, enjoy making her feel good and her making him feel good, but not to get too wrapped up in the intimacy.

Which was easier said than done.  Bucky was attentive, a good listener, always making sure that she was pleasured well before himself, and even seemed to thrive in giving her pleasure more than getting it most of the time.  He cared for her, not just in the bedroom.  He was always making sure she had everything she wanted or needed, that she was comfortable, happy and heard.  It was the best non-relationship she had ever had.

One day Bucky approached her looking a little hesitant.  “Mamas,” he greeted her quietly.

Y/N smiled at him and patted the spot next to her on the couch, which he quickly took and put his arm around her.  “What’s up?” she asked, angling her body to face him and lean more into him, keeping their faces close.

Bucky sighed through his nose and swallowed harshly, making her frown in trepidation.  “Um, I was wondering if you wanted to be my date to a wedding?” he asked.

Her eyebrows shot up and she smiled, feeling pleasantly surprised.  “Really?” she asked.

He smiled bashfully and nodded, nuzzling her nose with his own.  “Yeah,” he said.  “It’s my friend Sam’s wedding, do you remember him?”

“Yeah I remember,” she said, leaning forward to kiss random spots on his face.  “I’d love to.”

Bucky smiled and sighed heavily as he tilted his face whichever way she wanted.  “Thank you,” he whispered.  “It’s cocktail dress, whatever that means.”

Y/N smirked as she reached up and scratched his beard affectionately.  “Mmh, can we go shopping and I’ll help you pick something out?”

He chuckled and kissed her lightly.  “I could use all the help I can get.”

***

After Y/N had taken a look at Sam’s wedding invitation, she was rather proud of the outfits she had chosen for herself and Bucky.  He was wearing a dusty, light blue suit, a white dress shirt that had the first few buttons open and brown loafers, his hair recently trimmed and layered so it lay nicely just along his shoulders and a full beard that he had almost shaved but Y/N threatened him within an inch of his life.  

She was wearing an off-shoulder, long and flowy dress that was the color of a cherry tomato, with long sleeves and a hem that ended in ruffles with bright, cobalt blue wedges that appeared under the dress with each step she took.  Their outfits complemented each other well, and as she held his hand and walked into the ceremony space she smiled and admired the decorations.  It was evident that Sam and his soon-to-be-bride, Misty, were party people, and as she peeked into the next room where the reception would be held and she could tell that they loved a good old New Orleans festival.  Y/N was excited to have a chance to dress up and go out, but even more so that it was with Bucky.

He led her over to her spot to sit amongst the guests before he walked to the front as one of the groomsmen.  Thankfully everything was on time, and she watched as Sam stood at the front, looking handsome in his suit, and then Misty looking amazing in her dress.  The vows were sweet and cheerful, and she watched Bucky looking on at his friend with a proud smile.  When it was over they all moved into the reception area, and Bucky held her hand as he guided her to one of the front tables to their assigned seats.  

The live band started playing and food, drinks and dancing commenced.  It was a great party, and Y/N laughed, danced and enjoyed herself.  As she and Bucky were sitting down for a breather he was laughing at a joke someone at the table told when he glanced at something beyond the table and suddenly froze, the smile slipping off his face.  Y/N noticed the change in his demeanor immediately and frowned as she looked at him.  “Buck,” she said quietly, putting her hand on his forearm.  “What’s wrong?”

He blinked hard and looked at her in shock.  “She’s here,” he breathed.

“Who?” Y/N asked, looking around in bewilderment.

“Sharon.”

Right as he said it she saw her and scowled.  Sharon, the ex-wife, the cheating, lying, pathetic sack of shit that had hurt Bucky, was here on the arm of one of the guests from Misty’s side of the family.  Y/N didn’t let herself react and instead sat in front of Bucky, blocking his view of her as she cupped his face in her hands and forced him to focus on her.  “Hey honey,” she said sweetly.  His eyes softened as he stared at her, blinking rapidly.  “It doesn’t matter that she’s here,” she said quietly, her thumbs rubbing along his cheekbones.  “We’re here to celebrate Sam.  This is his day, and not even an awful ex-wife is gonna get in the way of that, okay?”  He nodded, his breathing evening out as his hands gripped her wrists gently.  “Though if you say the word I will gladly beat her ass,” she said with a smirk.

Bucky laughed, and her heart relaxed at seeing him start to settle down.  “I’d like to see that,” he joked.

“Don’t test me, pretty boy, I may be big but that makes me a big bitch.  I’m scrappy,” she teased before ruffling his hair then smoothing it as she kissed his cheek.

“I bet you are,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles.  “I’m okay, I was just surprised.”

“Me, too,” she nodded.  “Just focus on me.  You don’t have to even look at her or talk to her if you don’t want to.  If she wants to start shit we can just leave.  I’m here for whatever you want to do.”

He smiled fondly at her.  “Alright,” he agreed.  “Thank you, Mamas.”

Y/N did her best to ignore the new dark cloud hanging over the occasion, focusing on Bucky, his friend Steve, Sam, Misty, and talking to Clint and Natasha who had been invited as well.  At one point she went to the bathroom to relieve herself, and when she was washing her hands Sharon walked into the bathroom.  They stared at each other for a moment before Y/N smirked at her.  “Sharon,” she said coolly, grabbing a towel to dry her hands.

“Y/N,” Sharon greeted her before walking to the mirror and looking at herself.  “I saw you’re here with Bucky.  Hope he’s doing well.”

“Much better now,” Y/N said, looking herself over in the mirror before heading toward the door.  

Of course Sharon couldn’t help herself before blocking Y/N’s way.  Y/N rolled her eyes and sighed heavily as she met Sharon’s sharp gaze.  “I don’t know how much ‘better’ he could be with a sex worker,” she jabbed, her nose crinkling at the title.

Y/N snorted a laugh.  “Think about what you just said,” she said with a smile.  “I think anybody would be doing better with a sex worker than being in a relationship with an emotional-verbal-sexual abuser, liar and cheater.  But what do I know?” she shrugged and stepped around her.  “I’m just the one he fucks until I scream, squirt, or both.”  Sharon’s eyes bulged and her mouth dropped open as she watched her leave.  “Have the life you deserve, bitch,” Y/N said in mock sweetness, flipped her off then sauntered out of the bathroom.  She walked back to their table to find Bucky sitting alone as the rest of the table was up on the dance floor.  She used the moment alone to plop herself on his lap, making him humph in surprise before she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

Bucky hummed, his hands automatically moving to hold her in a way so she wouldn’t fall as he kissed her back.  When she pulled away he smirked as he looked up at her.  “Well hello to you, too,” he chuckled.  

She smirked back at him and took a deep breath to calm herself.  It wasn’t that she was angry, necessarily, just annoyed and frustrated.  “Wanna find a quiet spot?” she asked lowly.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised and his eyes slightly widened.  “What…here?”

She shrugged playfully.  “Why not?” she teased, nuzzling his nose as her fingers scratched the nape of his neck.  “You look absolutely delicious in this suit, honey.”  Her hands moved to his shirt, unbuttoning two more buttons before his metal hand stopped her as he blushed.  “I’d love nothing more than to suck your pretty cock until you cum down my throat as these perfect fingers fuck my fat pussy.”

He shuddered, his eyelids fluttering as his hips slightly jerked beneath her ass.  “Y/N,” he said in a warning tone, looking around for eavesdroppers.  “Fuck, I…I don’t know if now is a good time or p-place—”

“Okay, then wanna get out of here?” she asked, subtly bringing his metal hand up to her face and licking the tip of the pointer finger before wrapping her lips around it and sucking it softly.  “We could park somewhere secluded or—-”

“Did something happen in the bathroom?” he asked teasingly.  

“Nothing that matters,” she said, kissing the tip of his finger.  “I just want you.  I always want you.”

That seemed to stun him momentarily until there was applause that interrupted the moment and he laughed breathlessly.  “Okay, um, yeah we can go—”

“Alright everybody, our lovely couple is ready to head out on their honeymoon!” Sam’s other friend Joaquin announced from the stage.  “Let’s head out to the front to bid them farewell!”

Y/N kissed Bucky’s nose before standing up from his lap.  “It’s okay, let’s see them off,” she said.

Later when all was said and done Bucky held her hand as he led her back to his car so they could head home.  Before opening the door for her he looked around then pushed her against the car, pressing into her before leaning down and kissing her lewdly.  Y/N giggled against his lips, wrapping her arms around his waist as he held her by the back of the neck with his metal hand and his flesh hand reached down to grab her ass.  They made out for a while until they heard footsteps, but Bucky didn’t stop, surprising her.  She subtly opened her eyes just enough to see who it was that was approaching and saw Sharon with her date, who was averting his eyes and opening the door for her at a car a little ways away from them.  Sharon looked like she wanted to say or do something, but Y/N caught her eye and winked at her before moaning as she licked into Bucky’s mouth.  Sharon’s face turned red and she quickly sat in the car.  Y/N heard them eventually drive away and smiled.

“Did you know she was coming?” she asked between kisses.

“Maybe,” he teased, his flesh hand moving to wrap around the front of her throat while his metal hand still held her by the back of her neck, like he was anchoring her to the spot.  Even in this vulnerable position, she had no fear as she looked up at him with a proud smile and he watched her with adoration.  “Thank you for tonight,” he said quietly.  “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”