for writers who want to explain more tiny details of Bucky's apartment and for readers who want to picture it in your heads while reading fanfics ♡.

Title: The Velvet Veil

Avengers!Bucky Barnes x Red Rood Stripper!Female!Reader

Warnings are for each part; not every part has the same warning.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: MDNI, Morally gray reader, angst, mentions of hydra, stripping, widows/red room, forced stripping, mentions of background OC’s for plot, spider-themed names, no use of y/n (in this part), pervy Bucky (if you squint), mentions of cigarettes and smoking, inappropriate language

A/N: Wanted to try something different, haven’t seen a lot of hydra! Readers. The next parts will be more explicit.

Part 1

“Ladies, gather up.” Victor’s voice cut through the silence. The club was about to open, and you tugged your silk robe tighter, turning away from the light-up mirror. Your makeup was finished, hair still in pins for curls. 

Victor was the club manager, a hydra handler with a fat belly and wearing velour tracksuits like every Russian mob man ever. He pulled up his pants, scanning the room. 

“My star ladies, you all work so hard. Just wanted to tell you the holiday rush is fast approaching, which means more money.” 

The club, The Velvet Veil, was a Hydra front in Manhattan, New York. They sold weapons out the back while stripping served as a cover. Any tips you all made, you've got to keep. Hydra made money from the bar and private rooms for paid sex. Another condition was no forced prostitution. You weren’t stripping by choice, but you didn’t have to do more than that. If you wanted extra money, you had that option. Security was tight, always making sure you women were safe.

You all are Red Room graduates, chosen for your looks. It was that simple. There were six of you in total. 

Brown Recluse, named after her light brown hair. Huntsman, because she was the tallest of the group. Red Back, named after her ginger hair and complexion. Banana, named after her bright blonde hair. Trapdoor is named after her powerful legs on the pole. 

And then there’s you: Tarantula. The favorite, the one all the regulars loved to see on stage. You earned the nickname because tarantulas are always the preferred pet spider.  

You all are like sisters, stuck in this club with no end in sight. You all could be the next Black Widow… if there was a way out. But you all stayed loyal; Victor was a good boss. He loved you ladies like family, gave good bonuses, and was never creepy. Hydra wasn’t in this business for creepiness. 

You don’t have phones, and you can never leave the club. When not dancing, there is a full kitchen and beds in the east wing, hidden behind a secret door. 

Victor didn’t linger after, just a quick Hurry up and he was gone. 

Banana sprayed more hairspray into her golden hair. A couple of you coughed, waving a hand in the air. You looked over at the other Widows, and they went back to getting ready. You let out a long sigh, pulling your hair from the rollers and making your way to the front. 

The club wasn’t open yet, and security stood by the doors counting down the minutes. Marco, the bartender, slid you a water on the bartop. You took it gratefully, and downed it in one go. You murmured a thanks and sat down. This was your favorite part, the calm before the storm. The quiet before the pervert men come in, either not knowing or not caring that you could kill them with a single stab to the neck. 

A lot of them talk, typically during a lap dance when they think you’re just some stripper, not a parrot for Hydra. 

The bass had barely kicked in when the doors unlocked. It was early, and not many would come in for a couple of hours. Not even the regulars. The main stage lights were dimmed to a soft red glow, just enough to make the chrome pole gleam.

Your costume tonight was simple, deadly: a barely-there black velvet bralette that laced up the front, a matching thong, and a sheer robe that you’d let slip off your shoulders the second the first customer walked in.

You swirled the last drops of water in the glass, ice clinking softly. Marco leaned on the bar, arms crossed, watching you with that same quiet respect he gave all the girls. He knew better than to flirt; he’d seen what happened to the last guy who tried.

“Big night?” he asked, voice low.

You shrugged, “Holidays.” 

Marco laughed, taking your glass and refilling it, “Ah, the Holidays. You ladies, could always use the extra money.”

An hour later, the first trickle of customers arrived. You slid off the barstool, letting the robe fall open just enough to tease. That was your cue to make yourself scarce until your stage time was on. The house lights came up slowly, bathing the stage in crimson and gold. The DJ dropped the first beat—something slow and filthy, heavy bass that vibrated through your bones. 

Banana was already climbing the pole like she was born on it, long legs wrapping around chrome, blonde hair whipping like a halo of sin. Huntsman took the smaller side stage, towering and graceful, her dark eyes scanning the room like she was cataloging every potential threat.

You sat backstage, cigarette between your manicured fingers. You wait until Banana is done with her set, but you’d rather just smoke than strip. What was the point of making money… if you didn’t think you’d ever leave?

A handful of men crowded the edge of the platform, tossing crumpled bills like they were throwing coins into a fountain. When a twenty fluttered down, you arched your back and offered the thin strap of your thong. They snapped the elastic against your hip with greedy fingers, the sharp sting making you smirk.

You didn’t need acrobatics: no wild spins or death-defying climbs. You circled the chrome pole slowly, hips rolling in lazy, liquid circles, letting your body do the talking. The song pulsed through you—deep bass vibrating up your spine, making your nipples tighten against the velvet bralette. You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering closed, surrendering to the rhythm for just a moment.

When you opened them again, three new shadows had claimed the VIP booth. Hoodies pulled low, postures too still, too watchful. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes sharp and half-lidded, and dropped into a slow squat—hand trailing down the cool metal pole like you were stroking something far more intimate.

You couldn’t make out their faces yet. The strobe lights and distance kept them shrouded.

A couple of minutes later, the song ended with a low, filthy fade-out. You held your final pose—back arched, thighs spread, hair spilling over one shoulder. Long enough for the last bills to flutter down, hands to shove twenties and fifties into your garter strap. The crowd gave their usual mix of whistles and groans, but you barely heard them. You straightened slowly, rolling your hips one last time, letting the crimson lights kiss your skin before you sauntered offstage.

Victor was waiting in the wings, but something was off. His face was pale, sweat beading on his upper lip despite the air-conditioned chill. He grabbed your arm—gentle, but urgent and pulled you close.

“Tarantula,” he whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. “VIP booth. They’re Avengers.” The word came out like it burned his tongue. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I don’t know why they’re here, but they keep glancing toward the east wing. The door. They’re watching it.”

“What do you want me to do?” You asked, putting your hands on your hips, “Want me to fight 'em or something?” 

“I need you to do your job and distract them.”

You huffed, plucking the money from your straps and any that you put in your bra. “Give me like five minutes.”

Victor waved you off, running to the bar, probably to tell Marco also to act normal.

Bucky’s POV:

Bucky Barnes had seen a lot of shit in his long, traumatized life—blood-soaked battlefields, frozen decades, women who tried to kill him in a hundred different ways—but nothing, nothing, had ever hit him quite like the sight of her on that stage.

The club lights painted her in deep crimson and molten gold, turning every curve into a weapon. She didn’t need the pole tricks or the flashy flips the others pulled. She just… moved. Slow. Deliberate. Like she knew exactly how to make every man in the room forget his own name.

And right now, she was making Bucky forget his goddamn mission. 

It wasn’t just how she looked, nothing but skin under the lights, or the way she slowly blinked at him; it was the way she carried herself like more than just a stripper. 

All of the strippers, for example, moved powerfully. Like Red Room powerful. 

He sat in the VIP booth, arms crossed over his chest, metal fingers flexing against leather. Steve was on his left, jaw tight, eyes scanning the exits like always, except there was a faint blush creeping up his neck. Sam was on his right, pretending to sip a beer while cataloging every face in the room. 

But Bucky? Bucky couldn’t look away from her.

She circled the pole with a lazy grace, head tipping back, eyes closed as if the music was putting her in a trance. Then she opened them—sharp, half-lidded. It was downright predatory. Then glanced over her shoulder straight at the booth at him.

That slow drop did it.

She sank down, thighs parting just enough to make his throat go dry, one hand trailing the chrome like she was petting something alive. The garters snapped against her skin with every inch she lowered, and the way her back arched—Jesus Christ. The black velvet bralette strained against her tits, the laces begging to be tugged loose. Sweat glistened on her collarbone, catching the light like liquid sin.

Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack.

He was supposed to be watching the east wing door, counting security, mapping the layout, and looking for Hydra signs. Instead, he was rock-hard under the table, pulse hammering in his ears, every muscle coiled tight.

The song ended. She held the pose—back bowed, thighs spread, hair spilling like ink—and the crowd lost their minds. Bills rained down. Hands reached. She let them tuck twenties into her garters, smirking like she owned every single one of them.

Then she straightened, slow and teasing, hips rolling one last time before she sauntered offstage like she hadn’t just ruined him.

Bucky exhaled hard through his nose. “Fuck.”

Steve shot him a sideways glance. “You good, Buck?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Just… keep your eyes on the door.”

But his eyes were still glued to the spot where she’d disappeared behind the curtain.

The sway of her hips and the slow blink of her sharp eyes burned into his retinas like a brand.

Sam leaned in, keeping his voice low under the thumping bass. “Alright, focus up, boys. We’re not here for the show—though damn, that one’s got moves that could start wars.”

Steve ignored the side chatter and kept his tone clipped, professional. “We’re looking for the east wing access. Intel says there’s a hidden door behind the bar or in the back hallway—it leads to the Hydra staging area. Weapons transfers happen between sets. We need eyes on any movement, any packages, any faces that match the dossiers. No engagement unless they force it. We’re here to observe and confirm, not raid.”

Bucky nodded once, jaw tight. “Got it.”

But he didn’t. Not really.

Because right now all he could think about was how her skin had looked under those lights—slick with sweat, flushed, begging to be touched. How her thighs had parted just enough to make his cock twitch like he was a teenager again. How she’d glanced right at him, like she knew he was watching, like she was daring him to do something stupid.

His dick hasn’t been that awake since pre-hydra, when he was busy chasing skirts in the 30s. 

Steve’s voice cut through the haze again. “Buck. You’re supposed to be watching the east wing, not the stage.”

“I’m watching,” Bucky growled, but his eyes flicked back to the curtain anyway.

Sam smirked. “Sure you are. You’ve been staring at that stripper like she’s the only thing in the room. Mission clock’s ticking, man.”

Bucky shot him a look that could’ve melted steel. “I said I’m watching.”

Steve sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We give it another twenty minutes. If nothing moves, we slip out quietly. No heroics. No distractions.”

Bucky’s metal fingers flexed against the leather couch, the faint whir barely audible over the music. Distractions.

Yeah. Easier said than done, because when the velvet curtain parted, there she was. Same lacy bra-and-thong set from the stage. Her sharp eyes tracked their eye movements, not just like a stripper should. It was calculating.

But Bucky was too distracted by the bounce of her boobs to notice anything else. 

He was so fucked. 

Dividers by @enchanthings

I rushed this. Not sure how much I like it, but it will be several parts. Trying to see how popular this series will be. I added Bucky's POV now to make it more interesting. I hope you all like it! Starting a new fic is always the hardest.

Day 23: Angry Sex

Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Warnings: MDNI, explicit smut, porn no plot

I'm not going into depth with the warnings. This is not canon Bucky so... enjoy the porn.

Word Count: ~700

“I cannot believe you right now!” Bucky said, slamming the front door behind him. The impact sends the framed pictures swaying. You scoffed, crossing your arms defensively. 

The argument started small and then spiraled out of control. You and Bucky went to a nice restaurant for dinner, something you rarely do since he’s a public figure. 

The waiter made just one comment that Bucky overreacted to. It wasn’t even that big of a deal—a simple compliment on your nails. Bucky isn’t a jealous person, but apparently, it’s the end of the world for you to smile at a compliment. 

“You are overreacting!” You said back, jaw tight as you tried to bite back what you really want to say. You want to tell him how fucking crazy he is, how he’s reading into it way too much. 

Bucky steps closer, crowding you, “I’m overreacting?” He asked, voice deeper than usual, “You’re mine.”

Any fight left in you fizzled out as his hands came to your hips. He leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Turn around.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, blue and determined. He was pissed, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl you’re well aware of, but he never does it towards you; this time is different. 

You weren’t sure you heard his command, but he repeated himself, “I said turn the fuck around.”

His harsh tone sent a lightning bolt straight down to your clit like an electric shock. You inhaled sharply. He didn’t wait for you to do it, hands still on your hips as he turned you himself. 

You spun fast, your back to his chest. His breath was hot on your neck as he stood straight. 

“You want attention that bad?” he growled, putting a hand between your shoulder blades, bending you across the back of the couch, “Fine. You’ll get it from me.”

You were still in the dress you wore at dinner, his hands clutching the fabric and pulling it up and over you. He yanked your panties down all at once, leaving them around your knees. You were soaked, the cold air doing nothing compared to what he’s about to do to you. 

His hand comes down hard on your ass, your face buried in the couch cushion, muffling your scream. Fuck, you loved this side of him. He smacked the other cheek, matching it with two red handprints. 

He was making sure you couldn’t sit for a week. 

Just as you were getting your breath back, he freed himself with a rough jerk of his zipper, thick cock slapping heavy on your sore ass.

You gripped the couch like a lifeline. He gave no real warning, no teasing; just the blunt head forcing its way in, stretching you open in one brutal thrust that punched a cry from your throat. 

“Fuck—” you gasped, hands tightening on the fabric. 

“That’s it,” he snarled, hips snapping hard enough to jolt harder into the couch. “Take your punishment.”

You were wet, but Bucky wanted more. So you heard him spit, just enough to land on his shaft as he continues driving into you—the fact you couldn’t see it turned you on even more if that was possible. 

Every thrust slammed you against the backside of the couch, nipples rubbing against your dress. His metal hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite down on the curve of your neck. Your mouth hung open as he fists your hair, completely ruining you. 

“You smile for anyone else again,” he rasped between thrusts, “and I’ll fuck you in front of them so they know exactly who this cunt belongs to.”

The possession in his voice, the brutal pace, the way he hit so deep your vision blurred; you shattered fast, pussy clamping down, coming around his cock, milking him in tight spasms. He didn’t slow. Just growled, tightened his old on your hair, and pounded harder.

“Mine,” he snarled, slamming into the root. “Say it.”

“Yours—” you sobbed, coming again, harder, the second orgasm ripping through you like fire.

He followed with a guttural roar, burying himself deep, cock pulsing as he flooded you. It already leaked out from the angle you were in. 

He stayed inside you, chest heaving, lips brushing your back. 

“Never again,” he whispered, voice raw. 

You laughed, shaky and wrecked, clenching around him just to feel him shudder.

“Jealous looks good on you, Bucky.”

He nipped your ear. “Wait till we get to the bedroom.”

Day 24: Morning Sex

Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Warnings: MDNI, explicit smut, porn no plot

I'm not going into depth with the warnings. This is not canon Bucky so... enjoy the porn.

Word Count: ~500

It was one of those mornings where the birds chirped, the sun through the blinds, and a warm super soldier snuggled into your back like he belonged. 

Because he did. 

Bucky was already awake, breath warm on your neck where he had it buried, breathing you in. He was hard too, pressing into your ass cheeks. Both of you were still naked from the night before. He fucked you so hard you slept through the night. 

You smiled into the pillow, shifting your hips to grind on his cock. He sucked in a breath, arms tightening around you. 

A low, sleepy rumble vibrated through his chest. “Mornin’, doll.”

His voice was gravelly, rough from sleep, and telling you to come multiple times on him last night. You hummed in acknowledgment, grinding again on him. The movement dragged the head of his cock by your slick and ready cunt. 

He didn’t ask, didn’t have to. Just took a free hand and guided himself inside you. He flexed his hips, slow and lazy. The stretch made you gasp softly; he swallowed the sound with a kiss to the nape of your neck, metal fingers tightening on your hip.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

He started moving. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that kept him buried to the hilt, grinding against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. The pace was languid, almost gentle, but every thrust pressed your cervix and dragged his cock along your wall in a way that had your breath hitching. 

You were half lying on your stomach, a leg bent and the other stretched out. This angle was different, soft and lazy for the morning. 

You held onto the edge of the bed. He kissed your shoulder, metal hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb rolling your nipple until you whimpered. 

“That’s it, baby, take my cock.” he whispered on your skin, hips still moving. “Love wakin’ up inside you,” The words, the warmth, the slow drag of him; it built soft and steady, pleasure coiling low in your belly.

Your face stayed buried into the pillow, moaning every time he knocked at your uterus like he was asking for an invitation. He didn’t need one; his cum was the RSVP. 

His flesh hand went from holding your hip to between your thighs. His fingers found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing slow circles that matched his thrusts. How you were lying made him have to press into the mattress to get a rhythm going. Luckily, his hands didn’t get tired, even his flesh digits. 

The dual sensation sent you over quietly, beautifully, cunt clenching around him as you came with a soft, broken moan into the pillow. 

He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, a low groan against your neck as he spilled deep, pulsing hot inside you. He stayed there, buried and softening, arms tightening around you like he never wanted to leave.

Minutes passed in lazy silence, just breathing and the faint hum of the city waking up outside.

Eventually, he pressed a kiss behind your ear. “Coffee?” he mumbled, voice still sleepy-rough.

You laughed softly, clenching around him just to feel him twitch. “In a minute. Don’t you dare move yet.”

He smiled against your skin, metal arm pulling you impossibly closer.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Day 11: Light Choking, Spitting, and Hair Pulling

Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Warnings: MDNI, explicit smut, porn no plot

I'm not going into depth with the warnings. This is not canon Bucky so... enjoy the porn.

Word Count: ~700

It was your idea. You asked him at dinner, when his mind was half occupied by cutting carrots and half on the way you were in his shirt. He told you he’d think about it, given his past. You understood. 

It was the next night when you found out how much he thought about it. 

Bucky had you pinned against the wall before the latch clicked shut, one hand fisted in your hair at the roots, the other already sliding up your throat. His tac vest was still zipped, sweat and gun oil clinging to his skin; you tasted both when he crushed his mouth to yours.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he growled against your lips, tugging your head back by the hair until your throat arched. “Need to mark you up, doll.”

You gasped, the sting blooming sweet. “Just like that!” A moan slipped out as he pulled. 

His flesh hand tightened around your neck—not hard, just enough pressure to make your pulse thump against his palm, to make the world narrow to his grip and the heat of his body. He watched your eyes, constantly checking. 

“Color?”

“Green,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

He smiled, dark and filthy, and spat into your open mouth. You swallowed on instinct, the act raw and possessive, and he groaned like you’d just handed him the world. His thumb pressed under your jaw, tilting you higher.

“Open again.”

You did. He spat once more, slower, letting it drip onto your tongue before sealing his mouth over yours, licking the taste of himself from your lips. The kiss was messy, teeth clashing, his grip in your hair tightening until your scalp prickled.

He spun you back to his chest, one arm banding your waist while the other kept that steady pressure on your throat. His hips rolled, cock hard through his pants, grinding against your ass. 

You reached back, nails digging into his thigh, and he yanked your head to the side by the hair, teeth sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“Fuck!” You screamed out, pain and pleasure confusing your brain. He bit like he was starving for your skin.

“Quiet,” he rasped, breath hot against the bite mark. “Take it.”

His hand slipped under your skirt, fingers shoving your panties aside, finding you soaked. Two plunged in without warning, curling hard, the heel of his palm grinding your clit. The chokehold flexed with every thrust of his fingers, light but constant, making your head swim.

Your eyebrows pulled together, hand braced on the wall for support. You came fast, a sharp cry muffled against his forearm as your pussy clenched, squirting down his wrist. He knew exactly where to press to get you going. He didn’t let up, hair pulled taut, throat still in his grip, riding you through it until your legs buckled.

Only then did he ease off, spinning you again to face him. His pupils were blown, lips wet with your release. He spat once more, this time onto your tits, where your shirt had ridden up, then smeared it with his thumb, marking you.

“Mine,” he snarled, voice ragged. “Every. fuckin’. inch.”

You laughed, breathless, grabbing his vest to pull him down. “Prove it, Sergeant.”

He did. Carrying you straight to the bedroom, you didn’t even remember how he got his clothes off and the rest of yours. He eased off the second he tossed you on the bed, flipping you on your stomach.

Your perfect tight ass begged him to bite, squeeze, and bury himself between it. But he kissed up your spine, licking and spitting as he went. His hand followed, spread wide and into your hair, grabbing a fistful. He didn’t yank back; he pushed your head into the mattress instead. He slid back in like he belonged, your cunt squeezing around him at this angle. He set a deep and slow pace, hips slapping into your asschecks, the sound bouncing off the walls between your moans and his grunts. 

He came first with a guttural moan, burying deep, flooding you, the pressure on your hair as your cheek pressed into the blanket, you came when he smacked your ass. 

After, he kissed the red marks he left, the faint bruises blooming under your jaw. His voice was soft now, reverent.

“Still green?”

“Greener than ever,” you whispered, nipping his lip. “Next time, I'll spit in your mouth.”

His grin was slow, wicked. “Yes, ma’am.”

Day 12: Phone Sex

Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Warnings: MDNI, explicit smut, porn no plot

I'm not going into depth with the warnings. This is not canon Bucky so... enjoy the porn.

Word Count: ~600

Bucky has been gone for three days. In those three days, you haven’t heard a single thing from him. You knew he had to be radio silent, doing a mission that could put him in danger if you called. You waited. Three fucking days of nothing, not even a ‘hey doll’ or ‘miss you so much’ 

You missed him, his voice, his hands, his cock, and just him. If your cunt was missing him this much, you knew he was wrecked. 

That’s why he had to call you when you had your PJs on, knuckle deep in a bag of chips while watching trash TV. You put the phone to your ear, “Hi, baby.” 

He groaned, low and wrecked. “Fuck, I missed you.”

You licked salt off your fingers, eyes on the flickering TV. “Yeah?” One housewife threw her drink in her cheating husband's face after finding out he got the nanny knocked up. 

“Yeah.” Zipper teeth hissed on his end, fabric shifting. “Miss me too, doll?”

“So much.” You let your voice drop, breathy. 

He groaned, “What are you wearing?”

You glanced down at the stained shirt from the ice cream you had three hours ago and the sweatpants that had bleach stains, “your favorite black lacy underwear, no, bra,” you lied, biting your lip. You had to give the man something.

Your cunt did throb, but you weren’t feeling very sexy right now. So you focused on him and decided to lie straight through your teeth. Before he left for the mission, he got four orgasms out of you to make sure you didn’t forget him. The fourth one was an extra precaution. 

“Yeah? Tits out in the open for me?”

“Mhm.” 

“Touch yourself for me, sweetheart. Slide those panties aside. Tell me how wet you are.”

You stood, chips abandoned, padding to the bedroom, bare feet filling the relatively quiet apartment, “Soaked, baby. Dripping for you.” You rolled your eyes. Right now, this was an inconvenience because you didn’t need to be doing this; you just wanted a damn text from him that he was alive. He can fuck you when he’s actually here. Which is why you went to your bedroom for your vibrator. Because if you were going to do this, at least you wanted to cum quickly. 

Your fingers are not going to do it like his do. The drawer slid open, soft wood on the rollers. You palmed the rose-gold vibrator, thumbing it to life—a low buzz humming against your thigh. You climbed onto the bed, lying on your back with your knees drawn up, feet planted. 

“Put me on speaker,” he ordered, voice rough. “Want both hands free.”

You did. Putting the phone to your ear. You slipped the rose toy inside your sweats and panties, as it kissed your clit you actually moaned this time, legs snapping together. Typically, Bucky would hold your thighs open while he continued his attack, but he wasn’t here.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Fuck yourself with it. Slow. Imagine it’s my tongue.” Your eyes stayed closed, head pressing into the pillow as your toes curled. The buzz kicked up. You rolled your hips, chasing friction, but he cut in sharply.

“Stop. Old-fashioned tonight. Fingers only. Want to hear you earn it.” Your eyes shot open, and your jaw clamped shut. Was he fucking serious right now? You were absolutely not doing that. 

You were stubborn, so instead you switched it off and sat up. 

The rest of the phone call was you moaning when needed, him groaning on the other line. Then the sound of him coming and his ragged breaths. At least someone is coming tonight.

Then the sound of a door opening and a groan of a different kind came through, “Barnes! Are you serious? Put your pants on!” You giggled, biting your lip. You knew that voice; it was Sam Wilson. 

“Love you, Doll. Two more days.” He said quickly, then hung up. 

You sat there for a moment, then clicked the rose back on

Y'all ain't ready for day 13.