Come as you are.

The sea continues its tantrum. Helplessly, Bucky watches as it ravages the last remaining bits of the grand ship he was sailing on only moments ago; the dark water swallowing it whole and dragging it down to its murky prison.

Tales as old as the sea itself passed down from generations caution what would become of those who dared to attempt passing through these wicked black waters. There is no mercy. There are no saviors. Only death.

He warned them. He warned them all of the dangers of sailing in these waters. But before Bucky had the chance to convince his captain to turn back around, the song began to play. The alluring tune quickly claimed the men on board; their bodies and minds falling victim to a voice so sweet and pure it was hard to believe anything awful could come of it. But Bucky knew better, and they didn’t believe him.

It took his friends. It took his father. And now it seems it will take him, too.

With the few ounces of strength he has left, Bucky decides to fight back until he no longer can. If he’s doomed to an afterlife spent in the form of an unforgiving watery grave, he will at least go down with his pride still in tact. But before he begins to battle his way to shore, he takes a moment to honor his lost captain; a noble man Bucky proudly served for nearly four years.

Looking out into the vast, now empty, sea, Bucky tucks his thumb against his palm and touches his aching fingers to his forehead in a shaky salute. “Rest well, Captain Wilson,” he bids. “May you have fair winds and following seas for all eternity.”

He gives one last, longing glance to where the U.S.S. Avenger once sailed. Then, Bucky focuses his attention to the jagged edges of the faraway shoreline. Taking a strong grip of the damp wood keeping him afloat—he thinks it could be part of a door—he begins to vigorously kick against the defiant current.

Cold water repeatedly splashes in his face, blinding him temporarily until he shakes it off; strands of dark hair stick to his forehead in abstract patterns as a result. The weight of his soaked uniform threatens to pull him under with every kick; the wool fabric thick and burdensome. Heavy breaths are forced through his cracked lips as he pushes on and wades through the violent undulations of the sea tossing him around with ease. But as much as it seems he’s fighting against all of Mother Nature, the wind appears to be on his side. Large gusts throw him forward, over large waves and closer to the shoreline; closer to salvation.

In the distance, Bucky can see the silhouette of a lighthouse through blurry vision. A powerful flash of lightening illuminates the sky and accentuates the stone cylindrical building. The sight brings forth the last remaining shreds of hope he thought had gone down with the ship. Adrenaline surges through him, erupting down his limbs and giving Bucky just enough energy to fight through the final few yards of vicious sea.

Once he reaches the rocky shore, Bucky is relieved, but he knows his fight isn’t over quite yet. He struggles to pull himself onto the large boulders surrounding the land; their surface too smooth and too wet to get a proper grip. The tips of his boots slip several times before he finds a divot deep enough to slide his foot into. With a deep breath, Bucky pushes off the rock and hoists himself up, reaching and clawing his way to the steady earth above as the waves continue to whip angrily behind him.

The feel of grass and gravel is welcoming on the palms of his hands when Bucky finally reaches the top. He crawls onto the flat surface, collapsing and rolling onto his back to catch his breath. The rain is relentless as he lays motionless, his heaving chest the only indication he’s still alive. A burst of white followed by a booming clash of thunder rattles Bucky; his heart nearly rupturing at the sudden outburst. Another gust of wind swirls around him, the chill of it seeping through his damp clothes and settling deep into his bones. It’s a reminder that the fight for survival carries on and he must seek shelter now.

A low groan resonants in his chest when he twists onto his side. Slowly, he pushes himself onto all fours, his limbs heavy and tired. When he finally manages to stand on unsteady feet, Bucky glances up to the old lighthouse before him; a stony godsend luring him in for a much needed respite from the merciless storm. Then, with slow, paced steps, he staggers through the darkness to the front door—a deteriorating slab of wood once painted a vibrant red but has since faded to a sinister crimson.

It barely budges when he attempts to push it open with his hands. Taking a deep breath, Bucky squares his shoulder against the door, counts to three in his head, and slams into it. Once, twice, then on the third hit the old door finally gives and Bucky nearly falls inside. He kicks it closed, the sudden silence almost as deafening as the roaring sea and thunder beyond the walls.

The lighthouse is definitely abandoned; cracks blemish the cement floor, paint peels off the walls to expose the brick underneath. As Bucky walks further into the room, torn papers crinkle under his boots; broken glass and leaves crunch wherever he steps. He spots a black wood burning stove in the corner of the room and an immediate rush of relief takes over him.

Quickly, he scrambles over to it. Falling to his knees before the cast iron appliance, Bucky frantically searches for matches and any wood to stuff inside.

“Please, please,” he mutters mostly to himself, but also pleading and begging with the higher power who brought him here to see him through just a little bit more.

It doesn’t take him long to find a half-empty box of matches under the stove, reaching for it with a blind hand. When he pulls it out, Bucky sighs at the sight of it. A soft chuckle falls from his lips, tears begin to well in his eyes as he finds humor in being grateful for something so small, so trivial in any other circumstance.

“Thank you,” he whispers, placing a thankful peck on the sodden cardboard box before sliding it open.

He’s pleased to find five matches still inside—crisp and ready to use—and he lets out another sigh of content. Without wasting anymore time, Bucky slips out of his thick, damp uniform coat, throwing it over the top of the stove, and begins shoving dry logs into the oven. After the inside is stuffed full, Bucky snatches the box of matches and attempts to light one.

His hands are cold and shaking, his fingers numb, and it takes him several tries before finally, a spark ignites. The red tip of the match is quickly engulfed in a bright yellow flame; warm and magnificent. An almost hysterical laugh echos around the stony room when he sees it, causing him to nearly fall over in excitement. Bucky watches the small flame dance for a few moments before laying it amongst the wood.

Gradually, the fire eats away at the bark until eventually, a steady blaze grows, and Bucky is satisfied enough to shut the door of the stove. Standing, he rubs his hands together before holding them over the warming fire, listening as the storm rages on outside. Then, he decides to better inspect his new home for the night.

On the old wooden table by the doorway, Bucky spots a lamp with just enough oil to give him light for a few hours. Reluctantly, he strikes another match to start it up, using the lantern to guide him through his exploration. Taking slow steps, he walks around the circular room, occasionally glancing up towards the distant roof of the lighthouse when a drop of rain falls on him. A spiral metal staircase snakes up the walls to the top of the building, but Bucky is far too wary to chance climbing them. The rust covered screws and the chunks of broken railing lead him to believe it’s safer to stay on solid ground.

As Bucky searches through the cabinets, a white glint outside catches his eye. It causes him to stop and stare; his movements stalling as he waits for it to happen again. It wasn’t lightning, he’s sure of it. The flash was too small, too precise, over the water; almost like a spark reflecting off a mirror.

“Come on,” Bucky whispers, eyes squinting and straining to see the sudden flash again.

Just as he begins to doubt himself—his mind telling him it was nothing—it happens again. Quick, sharp, and almost blinding against the inky midnight sky.

In a flurry, Bucky rushes to the front door. His heart pounds wildly against his ribcage, bewildered and full of adrenaline. Is it a fellow sailor? His captain? The thought of another survivor—of not being alone—brings him a small bout of relief and he’s desperate to figure out what it is.

But then Bucky remembers where he is, why he’s stranded in this lighthouse. Could it be something much worse luring him to his death?

Whipping open the front door, pellets of icy rain instantly bite into his skin. Bucky raises a protective arm to block it before shouting into the dark of night. “Hello?! Who’s there?!”

The only response he receives is the howls of the wind and the crashes of the wild sea below.

Frustrated, because he knows he saw something, Bucky tries again, “Come out and show yourself!”

“I’m not hiding, sailor,” a sultry voice speaks evenly from behind him.

At the unexpected sound of another, Bucky’s heart drops to his stomach as he falls into the door. He quickly turns around to face the mysterious voice, but is only met with the sight of a dim, empty room.

“Who…who said that?” He stammers, holding the lantern out in front of him.

“Come inside, sailor,” the alluring voice speaks again. “It’s cold out there.”

Not because he wants to, but because he feels the bitter chill of night scraping into his flesh, Bucky reluctantly abides the unknown being. Slowly, he takes timid steps back inside the lighthouse. The lantern hangs over his head, illuminating his way and guiding him to his dubious fate.

Suddenly, a fierce blow of wind slams the door shut behind Bucky. The force of the unexpected action causes him to stumble over his feet, the lantern falling briefly to his side. But then, he regains his composure. Lifting the lamp back up, the yellow flame brightens the room and highlights the lower half of the iron staircase.

And there, standing on the landing before him, is something so surreal, it makes him question if he’s still alive. A creature he’s had the fortune of only being acquainted with through tales and stories of sailors before him.

Until now.

Instantly, he knows what you are: death in the form of immaculate, destructive beauty.

Every nerve ending in Bucky’s body goes numb. The soles of his boots fuse with the cement floor as shock holds him in place. His senses struggle to make sense of what he’s seeing, momentarily becoming deaf and blind. The lantern still in his hand begins to shake, his arm weakening from fatigue and fear. And as you begin to descend the stairs towards him, Bucky can only stand and helplessly watch.

As you draw closer, the flame of the lamp reflects off the ornate gold jewelry you wear. The orange light highlights the iridescent glow of your skin, revealing a subtle pattern of scales along your arms and legs. Bucky remains motionless; his heaving chest and roaming eyes the only moving parts of him as he continues to take in your ethereal being.

A sheer white cloth—ripped and torn at the edges—covers your body and does little to hide what’s hidden beneath it. Bucky gulps at the unsuspecting view of your nearly exposed bust and the outline of your waist. He’s entranced by the sway of your hips, undulating like the sea you come from.

For a moment, he’s tricked into falling for your innocent aura, trusting you mean him no harm. But then, a loud clap of thunder snaps Bucky from his mild daze and he remembers what you are. Irritation prickles over his cold skin at the sight of you, a ripple of anger warming him as it sears through his veins. Cautiously, he takes a step back.

“Stay away from me,” he warns. “I know what you are.”

“You do?” You ask with a slight quirk to your brow. A pause before you add, “So then you know I’m the one who saved you.”

At the ignorant declaration, Bucky barks out a sardonic laugh. “Saved me? Saved me?” He asks rhetorically, his body alight with a fury he’s never known before. It makes him feel bold, daring, and it spurs him on. “You didn’t save me! You’re the reason why my ship is now at the bottom of the ocean!”

“Is that what you think, sailor?”

“It’s what I know,” Bucky seethes, clenching his jaw to fight the urge to continue yelling.

He watches you closely when you start to circle around him. The lantern he still holds never strays too far from where you step.

“It is true,” you slowly begin in a meticulous tone, “I am the reason why you’re here. I saw your ship go down, and I helped guide you to safety.”

The confession stuns Bucky. A realization colder than the ruthless sea dawns on him, constricting his chest and twisting his stomach. Suddenly, he wishes he would’ve succumbed to the riptide; falling to the ocean floor to rest for all of eternity.

This lighthouse is not his salvation. It’s his damnation.

“You brought me here,” Bucky finally says in recognition, his voice so low he barely hears it himself. “You made sure I survived and, and you brought me here…” The words trail as he suddenly recalls the fight against the current made easier with the wind; the gusts practically blowing him in the direction of the lighthouse.

“You evil, vile creature,” he spits. “Stay away from me!”

Even in the dim glow of the room, Bucky is able to see the flicker of black that takes over your eyes at his insults, but just as quickly as he notices it, it’s gone. The white returns and your pupils are back to the serene color they just were.

“Sailor, I saved you. You must believe me,” you calmly plead, taking slow steps towards him.

When you reach a hand out to him, Bucky steps back, bringing the lantern before him to thwart your advances.

“I said, stay away from me.”

He only registers the beginnings of a low growl before you let out a shriek of vexation, rushing towards him at an inhuman speed. The abrupt action causes Bucky to trip, the backs of his knees bumping into the edge of a chair. Before he can catch himself, he’s falling backwards, slumping into the wooden seat as the lantern slips from his grasp and clatters to the floor.

“You should be grateful for me,” you snarl as you tower over him.

The dominance you exert has Bucky’s heart racing in fear. The lowlight of the lantern casts an ominous glow upon your once angelic features, and his eyes widen in panic as he looks up to you, uncertain of what your next move will be. A lump begins to form in his throat and he attempts to swallow it down when he sees you crawling onto his lap. With his hands suspended in midair, Bucky is unsure of what to do. Too afraid to anger you again, he remains still and allows you to straddle his hips.

At Bucky’s relinquishment, your aura is relaxed, composed once again, and that fact brings him only a small bit of comfort. He remains rigid as your hands run up and down his torso, the muscles taut under your frightening touch. With wide eyes, Bucky frantically scans your features, noticing the faint tint of violet on your lips when they twist into a sinister smirk.

Brushing the loose strands of hair from his face, your head tilts in apparent wonder. “Do you know how beautiful you are, sailor?”

You pose it as a question, but Bucky is sure you aren’t looking for an answer. Still under your inspective gaze, he only dares to breathe as you continue on.

“Eyes like the ocean,” you muse, trailing a slightly webbed hand along his stubbled jaw. Then, you bring a gentle thumb to his bottom lip, swiping over it as you lean closer to him and whisper, “Flesh like pearls.”

A fog begins to cloud Bucky’s consciousness the longer he remains wrapped up in your presence; his body and mind no longer working as one. Like a drug, your touch takes over, his eyes fluttering closed at the almost euphoric feeling.

“I’m not…” he sighs, licking numb lips with a heavy tongue, “I don’t want to touch you.”

“Are you sure about that, sailor?” You tease, raising a brow and glancing to the pair of large hands that have found their way onto your shimmery thighs.

Your words pull Bucky from his stupor, eyes snapping open to see that his hands have somehow ended up grasping your legs. Baffled and disgusted, he quickly pulls them away before he begins pushing you off of him.

“I told you to stay away from me,” he weakly argues.

As he attempts to stand, the ground beneath him shifts, a bout of dizziness causing him to stumble into the decaying table beside him. With shaking hands, he clutches his head, scrunching his eyes closed as he waits for the lightheadedness to pass.

“See, you aren’t well,” you try, stepping towards him and sliding your hands up his biceps. “I can help, let me help you.”

“No!” Bucky bellows, ripping his body away from yours.

Spinning around to glare at you, his chest rises and falls erratically, nostrils flaring as he tries to even his breathing. But the moment he catches sight of your trembling bottom lip, he feels his boiling temper immediately begin to simmer.

You remain quiet as you stare back at him with eyes full of dejection. Then, you turn and methodically walk to the other side of the room. Bucky’s gaze is firmly set on you, watching closely as you stop in front of one of the small windows to peer out at the stormy night.

His stare never wavers, and after a few tense minutes, you finally break the silence.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you softly say with a muted sniffle. “I’m by myself all the time, and it just gets so lonely out here,” you confess in a saddened tone.

A deep, frustrated sigh forces itself from Bucky’s lungs, his gaze dropping in defeat to the dirty floor. Shame consumes him like a heavy weight settling over his shoulders at the thought of upsetting you, and it’s riddled with regret at raising his voice. With your back still facing him, he looks up to where you stand, and like a moth to a flame, he begins to take slow strides in your direction.

He knows he should fight it. He knows he should care that you’re tempting him. And he knows he should try and stop the wicked manipulation in the form of your sweet voice and heartbreaking words, but in this moment, he doesn’t.

The pull Bucky feels is too strong. The growing want—need—to have you coaxing him closer, luring him into the haunting abyss of your being and to what he is certain will be his death. Beguiling ideations continue to devour him with every step he takes until he breaks; a complete fracture of the body and mind.

Is this how you took all the others before him? With empty promises and false hope? It’s a chilling thought, but the warmth he feels from your enchanting presence ceases any further contemplation on the matter, and all he knows now is you.

The silhouette of your delicate frame—poorly hidden under the thin garment you wear—is all he sees. The cool, slick texture of your unearthly skin under his fingertips is all he feels. Sinking his nose into your damp hair, the scent of ocean and air is all he smells. And when he finally brings his lips to your neck, the zesty saltiness of the sea is all he tastes.

Is he dreaming? He doesn’t remember where he is or how he got here; no end or beginning as the lines between reality and fantasy blur together.

As he stands behind you, Bucky can’t get enough. His hands roam from your waist, up along your arms to reach around to your front. Eagerly, they sink under the milky fabric covering your chest, desperate for a feel of your bare skin. He closes his eyes and breathes out a contented, relieved sigh into your hair at the contact.

No longer in control of his actions, he grazes his lips over the shell of your slightly pointed ear to whisper, “I’m sorry.”

In an instant, you’re spinning around in his arms. Your lips meet his in a desperate kiss; strong, forceful, almost as if you need him as much as he needs you. Bucky pulls you into his body, your thigh brushing against his growing erection, and it elicits a needy whine that gets trapped in his throat. A pained tingling sensation shoots through his body, and a growing hunger claws at his insides as Bucky deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue past your lips to entwine with yours.

He can feel his mind going hazy again; feels the dizziness returning with each kiss and touch of your hands on his skin, sucking the life from him and draining his soul. But Bucky doesn’t care.

He’s ravenous, and his aching appetite can only be satiated by you.

Blindly, Bucky reaches for your backside, firmly gripping it in the palm of his hands before they seek the suppleness of your chest. A groan rumbles in the back of his throat when his palms brush over the peaks of your hardened nipples. As he gently rubs his thumbs over the sensitive buds, soft whimpers fall from your amaranthine lips; the sound a beautiful melody to Bucky’s ears.

Then, he feels your fragile hands trailing down his arms, tugging his shirt open and roaming over his exposed chest, leaving goosebumps in their wake. And it isn’t long before they reach below his belt, palming at his erection that’s straining painfully against his trousers. The sensation drives him wild, and he’s panting desperately against your mouth.

He needs more. He needs to appease the yearning desire to be yours or he thinks it’ll kill him.

With gentle hands, Bucky guides you to the tattered mattress that sits beside the iron stove. Tenderly, he lays you down, kicking off his boots and removing the remainder of his clothes before crawling on top of you. The warmth of the fire soothes his bare figure almost as much as your touch.

Loose strands of his dark hair fall forward as Bucky hovers over you, body and lips trembling in anticipation. The tip of his member nudges at your slick entrance before he feels your soft hand wrap around the shaft, guiding it inside you. A chorus of pleasured moans and satisfied sighs pass between your open mouths at the indescribable sensation. Slowly, Bucky pushes himself fully inside you, pausing once he reaches the hilt.

Everything around him seems to still in that moment. The storm outside ceases its outburst; the wind stalls to a gentle breeze, and all Bucky can do is stare down at you, mesmerized and enraptured by the feel and look of you.

“Sailor,” you whisper with the hint of a smile, reaching up and tucking an errant lock of hair behind his ear.

With his hands firmly planted on either side of your head, he looks down to where your bodies connect and watches himself slowly appear from inside you. Then, without warning, he snaps his hips forward before picking up a steady rhythm.

Your silky walls grip him tightly with each stroke; the ridges along them creating a pleasant friction against his stiff member. Bucky feels himself getting deeper, deeper inside you, and a pressure begins to build in his lower abdomen.

“Yes,” you sigh, snaking your hands up his arms and around his neck, pulling him down and guiding his lips to yours.

He kisses you, hungrily and passionately, as he chases his release. A moan falls from his dry, chapped lips as he continues to thrust into you. And just as he feels himself reaching his peak, a clap of thunder rattles the windows and shakes the floor. The vibrations of it resonate deep into his bones, halting his movements as the deafening sound startles him—the heavens warning him of the trap he’s been lured into.

Blinking and shaking his head several times, Bucky frees himself from your trance. The harsh realization of where he is, what he’s doing, is a heavy blow to his chest, dousing him in icy horror. Disgust warps his features as he looks down at his naked form on top of yours.

“What is this?” He snarls, pulling himself out and scrambling off of you. “What have you done to me?!”

“Sailor?” you solemnly call, leaning up to look at him. A sadness darkens your features, but it does nothing to mar your devastating beauty.

“Don’t,” Bucky snaps, brow creased deeply in indignation. “Be quiet.”

The fire crackles beside him, red and dying. He can feel the sharp stings of his body and mind becoming one again; a poignant reminder of what you’ve done to him, what you will do to him.

You remain on the mattress below him, poised and taunting with a coquettish smile—not at all intimidated by his obvious outrage towards you. This infuriates Bucky even more.

He knows this is a game to you. A sick and twisted game of trifling with his thoughts and emotions, with his destiny. And as he stares down at you, still glowing in the fading light of the fire, he mourns the life he didn’t have.

A home in the country. A lover to call his. A family of his own.

How can something so beautiful be so unequivocally evil?

The remnants of a coy smirk lingers on the corner of your amethyst stained lips as you hold a hand out to him. “Come back to bed, sailor.”

“Ahhh!”

A feral growl rips through Bucky’s lungs at the sound of your gentle yet wicked voice as he leaps toward you. A blinding fury tears him apart, burning his eyes with unshed tears.

“I said quiet, you foul creature!” He shouts, falling back to the bed and on top of you.

Roughly, Bucky clamps a strong hand tightly over your mouth, determined to silence you. A crazed look takes over his features, distorting and clouding the blue of his eyes as pure, unadulterated rage fills him up. It quickens his pulse, igniting his veins and scorching through him right down to the marrow. Looking down at you, he stares intently into the cold depths of your eyes.

He sees the face of his father. He sees the face of Captain Wilson and the rest of the men he’s sailed with. He sees his world crumbling.

“Is this what you want?” He snarls, tone vile and nearly unrecognizable. “Is this what you want, stupid bitch?!”

Gripping the base of his member, Bucky guides it back to your entrance. The edges of his vision burn red, nausea churning in his gut as he slams into you. A muffled cry bleeds from your violet lips and the pitiful sound only spurs him on more. Harsh and unrelenting, Bucky forcefully drives into you over and over again.

The fringes of his sanity begin to unravel again; coming undone to the point he doesn’t know who he is or what he’s doing anymore. Except this time, there are no mind games or heady persuasions.

He can feel your walls beginning to flutter around him; can hear your breathy, wanton moans spilling from your glittery lips, and he hates it. He hates that you’re enjoying this.

But he hates it even more that he is, too.

“Shut up,” Bucky barks at you, each syllable punctuated with a sharp snap of his hips.

He withdraws his hand from over your mouth and replaces it with his lips. Strained and forceful, the kiss is nothing of that between two lovers.

As his release draws closer, the muscles of Bucky’s abdomen begin to tighten, his stomach clenching. Faint tingles shoot through his body with each thrust deeper inside you and he breaks the kiss to catch his breath. He slumps over you, resting on his elbows by your head.

The cool sensation of your hands on his arms, on his neck, sends a prickle of goosebumps over his skin. But the sound of your voice—soft yet so powerful—against the shell of his ear sends a shiver down his spine.

“Be mine, sailor.”

He chokes on a cry, burying his face into the curve of your neck as he regrettably accepts his wretched fate.

“I’m yours.”

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you.

Exhaustion immediately consumes him as his mind works to bring him back to reality. Still on top, he can feel the pounding of his heart; the streaks of tears on his cheeks; and when he pulls back to remove himself, his world tilts. It flips upside down, black bleeding from the corners of his vision until his entire world is consumed in darkness; a blank picture of nothingness.

Bucky wakes the next morning to the bitter pang of a headache. Sharp and unforgiving, it nearly splits his skull in two. A tired groan resonates deep in his chest as he attempts to sit up, but then he ultimately decides against it and resolves to laying on his back, eyes still closed.

In the distance, he can hear the rhythmic lull of the sea; the songs of passing seagulls. And for a moment, he pretends he’s back on the ship, waiting for Captain Wilson to call down for him to get his sorry ass out of bed and up on deck with the rest of the men.

But it doesn’t come.

Reluctantly, Bucky pries his eyes open. The fire in the stove is out and the space beside him is empty. The vacancy brings a crease to his brow, and it deepens when he peers down at his clothed form.

Was his mind just a victim to the hysteria of being lost at sea? His dreams seized and held hostage by the perilous night?

It’s a pleasant thought, a wishful thought, that he settles into for only a moment until his attention is snatched by the creaks of the opening door. Sunlight pours into the room, bright yet not at all welcoming, because there, standing over the threshold, is you.

Bucky blinks a few times, raising an arm above his head to shield his eyes from the blinding light. It halos around you, casting a celestial glow, and if he didn’t know any better, he would think you were an angel taking him to the gates of heaven.

But you are no angel, and there will be no pearly white gates where you’re taking him.

Slowly, you raise a confident hand, reaching it out to him.

“Come sailor,” you say, voice soft, gentle, and full of the dulcet tunes that have brought so many men to their knees. “Let’s go home.”

Bucky is silent; there is no argument and there is no fight.

Steadily, he rises to his feet. The sound of his boots scuffing on the floor echoes off the cement walls, but he doesn’t hear it. His body and mind have had enough—completely surrendering to you. And when he slips his hand into yours, it’s a callous touch; no rush of butterflies in his stomach, no stutter in his heartbeat. No anguish or regret.

There is simply nothing.

You lead him out to the rocks, guiding him down to the sea. On the horizon, dawn begins to kiss the sky, burning an ominous glow of red.

At the shoreline, Bucky pauses. He looks to the sky once before turning his gaze to you.

“Fuck me,” you grumble with a sigh, hands perched on your hips.

“As you wish,” a voice from behind replies in a teasing tone.

The comment elicits another sigh, a deeper one this time, full of frustration at the situation and annoyance for who you’re stuck with. Turning on the ball of your foot, you shoot daggers at your partner before rolling your eyes.

Bucky laughs at your exasperation, and it only spurs his teasing on more.

“Could be worse,” he muses, kneeling down in front of the old fireplace. He quickly gets to work on placing a few logs in the center, dousing them with lighter fluid and igniting a match. The room is instantly bathed in a warm, yellow glow.

“No,” you remark sternly, “It cannot be worse. This is my literal nightmare.” Each word is punctuated with the rough shrill of velcro coming undone as you walk away from the window. The sound slices through the air, along with the clicks of buckles before you remove your tactile vest completely and toss it harshly onto the worn couch in the middle of the room. “And to top it all off, tonight is date night.”

“Oh, date night?” Bucky asks in a mocking tone, complete with a faux puppy-dog pout.

Your leather gloves are ripped off your hands and slammed onto a small table by the couch, evidence of your dwindling patience. “Shut up.”

“What?” He chuckles, clearly enjoying the irritation emanating from you. “I just don’t understand what you see in the guy.” He casually walks over to the wooden dining table that sits off to the side.

Another ice cold stare, irritation hardening your jaw and the corners of your eyes. “Enough.”

This time, Bucky rolls his eyes and mumbles something under his breath you don’t quite catch. He turns around to begin sorting through the documents the two of you recovered from the Hydra base.

Gently chewing on the inside of your cheek, you take a moment to watch him and wonder how the two of you ended up here—and you don’t mean snowed in and trapped in a safe house for the night.

The bitter wall of resentment that’s been built up between you over time has left you emotionally drained and, if you’re being honest, deeply hurt. It wasn’t always this way, though. At one time, Bucky was your sole source of all things love and happiness, but he’s always known exactly what buttons to push.

Being partners stuck in a safe house is one thing. Being exes and stuck in a safe house is a whole different ballpark.

You now wish you would’ve agreed with Steve’s initial hesitancies to send you and Bucky on this mission alone, despite your reassurance you’ve both managed to maintain a professional relationship. Which is true.

Flashbacks to the earlier mission attest to that—your seamless fighting styles and communication haven’t been affected by the fallout of your relationship. Each mission is completed smoothly and efficiently with as little damage taken as possible. If only the two of you managed to figure out how to make it work outside the field, too.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice brings you back to the present, “are you gonna help me with this? I”m not doing all this paperwork by myself.”

“Yes, I’m gonna help,” you grumble, marching over to him and snatching the paper he holds. “I want this done before we leave so we don’t have to worry about it when we get back.” You plop down into a chair, pulling out a Stark tablet from one of the black duffle bags, and begin the tedious task of documenting the details of the mission.

“And why is that?” Bucky questions nonchalantly, taking the seat across from you. “So you can go see what’s-his-face the second we get back?” He leans back in the chair, interlacing his fingers and placing his hands behind his head.

“You know his name,” you reply flatly, not even bothering to spare him a glance.

“Oh, right, Todd.”

“Tom.”

“Whatever.”

Finally, you look up to him from the tablet you hold. “What is your problem with him?” You ask, frustration lacing around the syllables, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity hidden between the words.

“No problem,” Bucky replies smoothly with a shoulder shrug. “I just don’t think he’s good enough for you.” He holds your stare, daring you to look away as he speaks with conviction.

There’s a slight quirk to your brow, a sardonic laugh falling from your lips at his words. “What? And you were?”

Bucky’s hands fall to his lap, a tight clench growing in his jaw as he sighs deeply through his nose. He holds your gaze for a moment longer, serious and slightly sad, before he drops it to the table and responds, “Let’s just finish this.”

An hour or so passes, and you’re only halfway through the post-mission reports. You’ve silently cursed Steve for sending you on this mission only once or twice, but you’ve lost count of the times you’ve cursed SHIELD and their repetitive documentation. Bucky, in his typical fashion, has been minimal help with the true detailing of the mission happenings; usually only offering elaborate recalls of his super human abilities.

“You did not take down five Hydra agents with one bullet,” you comment evenly, continuing to type and ignoring his false recounts.

“Sure I did,” he responds. He sits back in the small wooden chair, propping his feet on the table as he tosses a small vial in his hands. “You were looking the other way.”

You suppress an eye roll, placing the tablet onto the table. “Stop fucking around before you break something,” you snap, fed up with his uselessness.

“Will you relax,” he replies calmly. “I’m not going to—“ but the rest of that sentence gets stuck in the back of his throat as he overshoots a toss and misses the glass cylinder.

It all happens in an instant—the vial catches on the tips of Bucky’s fingers, both jumping to your feet, yelling to not let it break. But as the vial crashes to the floor, the red liquid inside spilling onto the aged wooden floorboards, it feels like time slows to a complete standstill.

Silence settles over the cabin then. The faint crackling of the fire is the only noise as you and Bucky stare in shock at the small pool of scarlet. Waiting for something, anything to happen, but nothing comes.

“What the fuck, Bucky?!” You cry, the sound of your voice slicing through the thickened air. “What is wrong with you?!”

“It was an accident!”

“I told you to stop and look what happens! Why don’t you ever listen to me?!”

“Will you just re—“

“Don’t,” you retort, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Do not tell me to relax. We have no clue what was in that vial and now it’s all over the floor, and probably seeping into the air as we speak.” A gasp falls from your lips, slipping through a shaky hand that covers them, as panic begins to settle in. “Fuck, Bucky, we don’t know what was in there! What if it kills us?!” Your eyes grow wide, tears brimming at your lower lash line.

He sighs heavily. “Sweetheart, please take a deep breath. We’re not going to die.”

Any other time the pet name would’ve had you stopping, tossing a snide, and probably hurtful, remark at him to not call you that—that he can’t call you that anymore. But in this moment, it falls on deaf ears, and you unknowingly ignore the squeeze in your chest his terms of endearment always elicit.

“You don’t know that!” You feel a tear slip down your cheek and you step away from Bucky and the stain, beginning to pace in front of the fireplace. “Fuck, this is so bad.”

“Everything is going to be okay,” Bucky begins, reaching for his coat and sliding his arms into the sleeves. “I’m gonna go get the hazmat kit from the Quinjet, and I’ll clean it up.”

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you look to him and nod.

“I’ll be right back.”

You watch as he slips out the front door, a gust of icy wind sweeping through the small living room. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around yourself in an effort to warm yourself and calm your nerves.

Bucky returns not even five minutes later with a hard, black case. In an attempt to save yourself from any of the harmful effects of the liquid, you remain on the other side of the room, and allow Bucky to clean up his literal mess. He removes his coat and places a mask over his face before slipping on a pair of rubber gloves. From inside the case, he pulls out a few microfiber towels and spray bottles. With your thumbnail lodged between your teeth, you anxiously watch him work in silence.

“Okay,” Bucky sighs, dropping the last towel inside a black bag. “It’s all cleaned up.” He gives the floor one last spray before taking the trash bag to the front door and tossing it outside. Then, he turns to you. Concern colors his features, crinkling his brow and softening the corners of his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Still in a slight state of shock, you can only nod, eyes wide in worry.

“Do you feel okay?” He presses, slowly walking towards you.

You quietly nod again.

When he gets about a foot away, he places two large hands—one warm, one cool—on your upper arms. A gentle squeeze from both to ensure you’re still with him, his eyes searching yours. “Y/n,” he tries, “tell me you’re alright.”

Blinking several times, you can feel traces of rogue tears trailing down the skin of your cheeks, but then you’re nodding your head and taking a deep breath. “I’m…I’m okay.”

His hands don’t move, and you would never admit it, but his touch has always been a source of comfort for you. Even now, when you no longer can seek him out for it. With one final squeeze to your arms, Bucky drops his hands to his side and he lets out a breath.

“Maybe we should call it a night.”

Bucky turns to walk back over to the table to begin collecting the files and tablet, sliding them into a bag. A weight still sits on your shoulders, your feet like lead, holding you in place by the fire. It heats your legs; the warmth seeping through the fabric of your tact pants, and it would be unbearable, except, you’re more concerned with the heat spreading from within.

“Y/n,” Bucky softly calls out to you, “bed?”

“Ye—yeah,” voice sticking, you clear your throat and try again, “Yeah, bed.” Without giving Bucky another glance, you sweep a shoulder against him. When you reach the door to one of the bedrooms, it shuts with a definitive slam.

On the other side, you stand with your back against the wooden slab, chest heaving as you try to ignore the obscure feeling that something is off. Instead, you kick off your boots and crawl into the bed. Normally, you would’ve whined and complained about the hard mattress and scratchy sheets, but your mind is miles away from this small cabin. It isn’t until you hear the distant sound of the other bedroom door closing that you attempt to get some sleep.

__________________________________________

It’s hot. So unbearably hot.

Your shirt and tact pants were discarded hours ago, leaving you only in your underwear and tank top; the blankets kicked off soon after. Even with the single window open in the middle of a snow storm, your body is still on fire. Sweat soaked through the thin sheets, dampening the fabric an uncomfortable amount. And as you continue to toss and turn, limbs thrashing from discomfort, you realize the sheets aren’t the only thing that’s damp.

You tried to ignore it. Tried to forget and tell yourself that’s not what this is. But as the minutes ticked by and your body grew hotter and hotter, the aching between your thighs screamed at you that this is definitely what you so desperately wished it wasn’t.

A fucking sex tonic.

Of course the one vial Bucky had to fuck around with consisted of a serum designed to make its recipients sexually aroused beyond reason; a feral experience until the ache is satiated.

You almost had enough sense to chastise yourself for not recognizing it sooner. The serum was only a myth until Steve and Nat found remnants of it on a mission a few months ago. Bruce was able to run some tests on it, and the findings even made the Hulk squirm.

But your mind is clouded with unquenched desire, the ache between your legs radiating into your lower abdomen now. A throbbing cramp has you curling over into the fetal position, a weak sob wracking through you as you press your face into the damp pillow, willing it all to stop.

From what you can remember of Bruce’s presentation, your options are very limited. You could wait for the serum to run its course, with the small chance it won’t send you into a pain induced coma. You could try to satiate the need yourself, but he warned this could also have a counter-effect, making the pain so unbearable you end up in a coma anyways. Or, and really what seems to be your only option, you engage in coitus.

Another cry rips from your lungs, the piercing pain continuing to uncomfortably pulsate under your skin, as you realize the only person who could help is the last person you would want to ask. Instead, you have a brief moment of lucidness and you allow your stubborn nature to take over.

Slowly, you shift to lay on your back, tears slipping out of the corners of your eyes and trailing down your temples. With a shaky hand, you slide it under the elastic of your underwear in search of some relief. The fabric, damp and tacky with your arousal, brushes against your knuckles, but the second the pad of your middle finger touches your swollen clit, a sharp sting shoots up your body. It rips you apart, like a knife stabbing mercilessly at your insides and slicing you open; punishment for not doing what the serum is designed for.

A pitiful whine falls from your lips followed by a cry. It’s the only thing you can do as you roll back onto your side, pinching your legs together. The lust induced fever reaches unbearable heights, your consciousness waning when a new prickling sensation of needles all over your body takes over. It immediately has you resenting your stubbornness.

Then, a rough, almost desperate, knock breaks you from your thoughts. Through your delirium, it takes you a moment to gauge if it was real or not. But when you hear it again, you deduce it wasn’t a hallucinated side-effect of the serum.

On trembling limbs, you manage to get out of the bed. As you stand upright, you take a moment to grasp the nightstand. Dizziness swirls around your head, the room spinning as you attempt to discern up from down before taking the five, agonizing steps to the door.

With great effort, you turn the knob and pull the door open. On the other side, Bucky appears. Through blurry vision you can see he’s drenched in sweat, too. His long hair sticks to the sides of his face as a sheen of sweat glistens off his forehead. A flush like a blooming rose stains the shiny skin across his chest, reflecting off the moonlight as it rises and falls in rapid motions.

He clenches his hands into fists, but overall, he seems in a bit more control of his body than you, most likely in due part to the other serum that flows through his veins. But when you meet his gaze, there’s a burning, untamed desire spiraling in the depths of blue, blowing his pupils wide, and you realize his control is holding on by a feeble thread.

Seeing him ignites a new fire within you, and it takes you back to before. To a time when things were simple, and there were no defensive walls between you. To a time when you called him yours.

It forces you to let your guard down, and you nearly fall into his arms, whining, “Bucky…”

He catches you, scooping you into his arms and carrying you back to bed. Gently, he lays you atop the drenched mattress, his sinewy figure hovering over yours. He’s close, so close, and that fact alone is enough to make you lightheaded.

A blinding wave of lust crashes over you when you’re hit with a scent that you can only describe as him; musky with a hint of spice. But there’s a trace of something tangy you pick up on, and when you glance to the bulge in his boxers, you know it’s his arousal. The thought induces an uncontrollable throb to pulsate through your core, its effects rippling with pain and you cry out instinctively.

Bucky can only stare at you as he assesses the situation. He’s in his own world of discomfort, you’re sure of it. He can smell you on any normal given day, so you can only imagine what kind of restraint he’s using in this moment when his senses are in overdrive.

“Sweetheart, please tell me you didn’t try to touch yourself,” he pleads when he realizes how much agony you really are in.

Sobbing, you can only nod. A pattern of crescent moons indent into the clammy skin of his back as you dig your fingers into it, an attempt to hold onto something to ground yourself and take the pain away.

He lets out a sigh, one you think is mixed with slight frustration at your refusal to never ask him for help and genuine concern over your wellbeing.

“Please,” you cry again. “Help me.”

Biting through his bottom lip, Bucky can taste copper. His hands clutch at the sheets on either side of your head. The whirs of his left arm fill the heated space as it incessantly grinds from tension; the muscles of his right arm almost bulging out of their flesh confines. A rush of conflicted emotions scatters over every inch of his face; desire, guilt, a tortured sadness, love.

He wants to help you. Hell, he needs help himself, but even through the fierce blaze of pain his body is going through, his moral compass remains strong, and he doesn’t want to make you do anything you would regret.

“I don’t want…I can’t…” he stammers. “You’re with somebody else.”

“Bucky, I don’t give a fuck about that!” You scream, finding your voice through the pain. “If this doesn’t stop soon, I’ll kill you myself before this fucking serum can do it.” Sweat continues to build along your hairline, beading and dripping. Gripping his face, you hold him an inch away to ensure he hears you loud and clear. “I need you.”

The remaining shreds of hesitancy and decency Bucky clung to instantly flies out the open window, catching in the freezing wind and lost to the blizzard. With a firm hand, Bucky reaches behind your neck and crashes his lips to yours. The cool metal of his hand alleviates some of the feverishness, a brief moment of respite, but it’s the feeling of his lips moving against yours, the knowing of what’s to come, that brings you most relief.

A light brush of his clothed erection against your leg has Bucky on the verge of crying, skin crawling with need. His symptoms started after yours, he deduced by the looks of your state when you answered the door, but it doesn’t mean he’s in any less anguish. Everything from the angry red tip of his cock to the sensitive skin around his sac aches in the most unpleasant way.

Leaning closer to you, Bucky rests his chest against yours, only feeling slightly satiated as his body begs for more. But the pressure has you pulling back, sucking in a pained hiss through clenched teeth.

“It hurts,” you whine, eyes scrunched closed in hopes to mentally will the pain away.

Bucky glances down to your covered torso. Through the thin fabric of your tank top, he can see your peaked nipples straining against the white cotton. Without another thought, he slides his hands underneath and removes it one quick motion. In the next, he swirls his hot, wet tongue over one bud before encasing his lips around it, gently sucking at the needy flesh.

“Ahhh!” You cry breathily.

Desperate fingers tangle in his sweaty locks, pulling at the scalp as he tends to one breast then the other. The ache in your abdomen is beginning to subside, but it’s still not enough. Instinctively, you start bucking your hips up to meet his.

“I need it, please. I need you,” you whine into the top of his head, taking a deep breath as his delicious pheromones continue to invade your senses.

Stopping his motions, Bucky brings his lips back to yours for another bruising kiss. His flesh hand immediately begins to descend over your stomach, slipping under the hemline of your panties. He feels how wet you are; how incredibly, impossibly wet you are, and his cock jumps in his boxers at the feel of your warm arousal covering his digits.

This time when your clit is touched, there is no shooting pain, only a blooming sense of relief, and it sends a wave of goosebumps over your entire body. A choked moan sticks in your throat, tears welling in your eyes and spilling out.

“Yes,” you sigh.

Fingers still twisted in his hair, Bucky tends to your neck with sloppy kisses, the short hairs of his stubble scratchy against your skin. Small ripples of satisfaction pulse through your core at Bucky’s continued ministrations, the squelching sound of two thick fingers moving in and out of your heat condenses the heavy air. But it only lasts a few minutes before your body is burning up again; twisting your insides and reprimanding for not giving it what it needs.

“Bucky.”

Releasing the hold you have on his hair, your hands trail down his sides to his lower abdomen. The bristly hairs below his naval tickle your palm as you slip a hand under the elastic of his boxers. His cock is achingly hard when you wrap your fingers around it, thick and heavy, velvety soft in your hold. It’s the hardest you’ve ever felt and you wonder how he’s been able to restrain himself for this long. Gently, you sweep your thumb over the weeping tip, his pre-arousal hot and sticky.

A guttural groan, deep and pained, erupts from his chest, reverberating against the skin of your neck. Bucky shudders on top of you, body going slightly limp as he allows himself to bask in the brief moment of respite. God, he missed being touched by you.

“Please.”

Finally, Bucky picks his head up. His eyes are wide, a crazed, animalistic look glazing over the usual calm ocean blue, but there’s a flash of concern that cracks through.

“Are you ready? I don’t wan—“

“Yes, I’m fucking ready,” you grit out. “Now stop acting like you aren’t also dying for this and fuck me already.”

In a blur of heady movements, Bucky removes his boxers and rips your panties off, leaving you both stark naked together for the first time in a long time. Settling between your thighs, Bucky lines himself up at your entrance, your core already throbbing in anticipation. He easily sinks in, a chorus of moans breaking out when he passes the threshold, the first sense of real relief you’ve both felt all night.

When he bottoms out, it's the fullest you’ve ever felt. It’s an unexplainable feeling that has you wanting to claw your skin off at how amazing the sensation is; the ache almost satisfied.

Bucky nearly collapses on top of you. Also momentarily blissed out from the euphoric sense of relief, his forearms catch himself just before he crushes you with his weight. You’ve always been tight, but this, this has his toes curling and fingers gripping desperately at the headboard, willing himself to keep it together and not manically drive into you.

“Fuck,” he groans, and you can feel his body trembling against yours.

Nails dig into the slick skin of his lower back, pulling him into you briefly before demanding, “Move.”

Without having to be told twice, Bucky lets go and retracts his hips before relentlessly pounding into you. A scream rips from your lungs, and you think you could be on the verge of passing out. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes around the room, blending with muffled grunts and strangled moans.

“Always so tight,” Bucky groans against your open mouth. “So good for me.” He peppers kisses over your face, wiping a gentle hand over your forehead to remove some of the sweat that’s built up before using it to cradle the back of your head.

Your body is alight with a tingling desire, tuning you into every minute feeling; each veiny ridge of his cock drags against your silk walls, the coarse hairs at the base tickling your slick folds each time he reaches the hilt, a delicious full pressure filling you up. It creates a burning friction that has you already clenching around him, and your only reaction is to bury your face into his neck, nipping at the flesh there.

Bucky growls, his chest vibrating against yours. Blindly, he reaches for your right thigh with his metal hand, hiking it high over his hip. The new, deeper angle has you pulling your mouth away from his neck to blissfully cry out. The springs of the cheap mattress continuously prod at your lower back as Bucky shifts his weight to increase the force of his thrusts.

Above you, Bucky is teetering on the edge of losing all control and giving in to the innate primal urge clawing its way out, begging to be released. But the super soldier serum allows him to keep one hand on the wheel, and he’s grateful for that. At least one of you can keep a semi-level head in this situation—one that he’s to blame for. As he watches you, though, squirming under him from uncontrollable need, feeling you clench down around him over and over again, whimpering in a blissed out daze, his willpower is faltering.

With every rough snap of his hips, he feels you getting closer, the tip of his cock repeatedly hitting the sweet spot inside you. He’s mindful to not leave any marks; a partly coherent piece of him still aware enough to not leave any physical traces on you of this god awful event. The vibranium grip he has on your thigh loosens.

He’s careful to not leave a mark, but he lets you. From the bruising kisses already purpling on his neck to the harsh red lines scratched down his back, he lets you. And he silently curses the serum’s rapid healing effects, knowing he’ll only have these reminders for a short while. To remind him when you were his again, even if it isn’t in the way he wanted, he could still fool himself.

Two trembling arms snake around Bucky’s neck, your quivering thighs tighten against his hips. There’s a new throbbing ache, a building soreness, between your legs, but this time, it’s welcomed. Your insides begin to twist, the chord of pleasure straining for release.

Bucky momentarily frees your thigh from his hold to slip his metal hand between your sweat covered bodies. The typically cool metal is hot against your swollen clit as he rubs generous circles over it, pushing you closer to the edge of euphoria.

“Don’t stop,” you pant against the shell of his ear. “Please don’t stop.”

It takes only a few more rapid thrusts before your skin begins to prickle with the sensation of pins and needles. A contradiction of pain and pleasure emanating from your core, overwhelming you as the chord snaps and your entire body engulfs in flaming elation. It ceases your breathing, has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, vision blurred and whited out.

“Fuck, yes!” You cry out between strangled sobs, arms and legs securing firmly around Bucky.

Tightly clenching around him, Bucky nearly chokes on air, the tightest you’ve ever been, and he’s determined to reach his own release. His skin is on fire, body blazing with need and his rational mind slips as he finally gives in. Viscously snapping his hips into you, he’s so close he can almost taste it. A wild rush courses through him, egging him on and clouding his mind.

“My best girl,” he pants by your ear, face buried in the pillow you rest on, “my only girl.”

He continues to pound into you, his thrusts faltering every now and then when he feels a fluttering aftershock of your orgasm. “Love you,” he breathes between nips and kisses along your slack jaw, one hand gripping the back of your neck, the other gripping onto the underside of your thigh again, “so much.”

The words dissolve into the mist of your sex fueled haze and they’re quickly forgotten about as you blindly agree you love him too. He bites down gently on the skin of your shoulder, a feral growl reverberates through his entire body as he releases inside you, and he forces himself in as deep as he can go. So much for not leaving any marks.

The two of you stay like that for a moment, bodies trembling and hearts thundering wildly in your chests, competing against one another as you come down from the intense high. Like a thick fog, the lustful intoxication of the serum dissipates, clearing your minds and allowing the harsh reality of the situation to settle in.

A chill fills the room, a breath of wind spilling in from the open window, causing you to shudder beneath him. It’s the only thing you can really feel as a numbing after effect consumes you.

Bucky feels you slightly shaking and lifts up, letting go of your thigh and you let it limply fall to the mattress. Resting on one hand, Bucky uses the other to grip the base of his cock, slowly removing it from inside you. You both watch as he reappears covered in your mixed juices. Pained hisses cut through the silence when he’s fully out, taking a piece of you with him; or maybe it’s one he’s always had. An uncomfortable emptiness leaves you feeling hollow in more ways than one.

Then, Bucky is looking to you. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He searches your eyes for any indication that you’re in any form of discomfort.

You don’t respond; only stare blankly up at him for a moment before sliding your legs out from under him and gently push off the bed. Silently, you gather your clothing that was discarded in a feverish state of pain and desire, not even bothering to take the time to search for your underwear Bucky carelessly threw somewhere. As you move around the room, the warm stickiness of his spend begins to trail down your inner thigh, hastening your effort to get cleaned up. Without another glance in his direction, you slip out of the room and into the bathroom across the hall.

Cool, refreshing water cascades over your skin, simmering the boil of surging emotions inside. Anger at Bucky’s carelessness; guilt at cheating on your partner; and confusion at the newfound adoration you thought was buried long ago, when you and Bucky decided it was no longer working between you.

It’s difficult for you to discern when your feelings towards Bucky started blossoming again. You could easily brush it off as a lingering side effect of the serum—a slight emotional attachment to the person who took your pain away. But you know it’s so much more than that. If anything, tonight has brought to light all the feelings you’ve been trying to suppress for far too long.

Moments of catching yourself staring longer than you should; being secretly excited when assigned on missions together, despite outwardly protesting your discontent for the situation; nights spent wondering about the what ifs and could have beens.

The raging storm of confusion elicits a deep frustrated grumble. Slipping your head under the running water, you pray for it to help make sense of everything swirling around inside it.

The pipes squeak and groan as you cut off the water, drying off and redressing. But before you slip your shirt back on, you catch sight of a reddened mark on your right shoulder in the mirror. Grazing light fingers over it, you harshly bite down on your bottom lip to stop the threat of tears. Quickly, you drag your shirt over your head and cover it up, trying to forget that Bucky had been yours once again, if only for a moment. But there’s still a dull ache throbbing between your legs, radiating up into your chest and clamping around your heart, and you pull on every fiber in your being to not cry at the thought of it.

Opening the bathroom door, you peek out into the hallway, searching for any sign you’re not alone. When you don’t see one, you step out but stop before going back into your room.

The door hangs open, a clear view of tangled sheets and a fading imprint on the mattress the only remaining signs of what just occurred. The ache slightly intensifies the longer you stare at it. Instead, you opt to sleep on the couch in the living room.

The fire burned out hours ago, the room only illuminated now by the bright moon hanging outside the window. Laying on the couch, a numbness settles over your body, glassy eyes staring at the pulsating glow of the small pile of embers. Only a few minutes pass before you finally cave, crumbling into yourself as you allow the new wave of internal pain to take over, and you cry.

__________________________________________

A soft weighted sensation stirs you from your sleep the next morning, and you have to quickly reach out to stop the blanket that covers you from slipping onto the floor. Gripping it, your brows knit together as curious eyes scan over the fabric. You don’t recall getting the blanket at any point during the night, and you slowly sit up to place it on the cushion beside you.

The front door opens, and you snap your head in the direction to see Bucky’s large figure appearing in the room, stomping his feet to rid his boots of snow. Instinctively, your eyes squint from the brightness of the sun reflecting on the whiteness outside, raising a hand to shield it. When Bucky catches sight that you’re awake, he stops his motions and stares at you.

His cerulean eyes are always brighter in the morning, something you remember from before, but no longer allow yourself to bask in. This morning, however, they’re a sad shade of grey; dull, puffy, and slightly red around the rim. A flicker of remorse flashes across his features as he notices your own disheveled state.

He uneasily clears his throat, dropping your gaze to remove the gloves from his hands. “The Quinjet is all packed. I figured you’d want to leave as soon as possible.” He clutches both gloves in one hand, looking to you once again. “I’m ready when you are.”

Blinking away the tears that burn the back of your eyes, you nod your head. “Okay.”

Almost like a hangover, you’re still a bit lightheaded from the after effects of the serum and your night of crying, wobbling a bit when you stand on two feet. In hopes to steady your equilibrium, you press the base of your palms into your eyes, taking a few deep breaths.

“Are you okay?” Bucky softly asks, voice ripe with worry.

“I’m fine.” The words scratch their way out, your throat sore from crying.

Without another word, you collect your belongings and rush out to the Quinjet, leaving Bucky to follow behind you. Settling in, you choose to sit as far away from him as possible, your skin already crawling at the prospect of sitting in an uncomfortable silence for the next four hours with your ex-boyfriend.

Your ex-boyfriend who you reluctantly had between your legs no less than eight hours ago.

The faint throb returns, constricting your chest, and you shift to turn away from him. Even from the pilot’s seat, you can feel Bucky’s stare burning through you. You shift again, curling your legs up and tucking an arm under your head in an attempt to get comfortable enough to hopefully fall asleep, and ignore the awkward tension brewing between you.

Once you’re finally back at the Compound, you can’t get off the Quinjet fast enough. As you land, Bucky rhetorically tells you he’ll finish up the rest of the post-mission paperwork, ensuring you won’t have to worry about it. You only nod before leaving him alone to retreat back to your room.

Five long days pass in a blur.

Nat came to check on you soon after you returned home. You internally debated telling her what happened, but the more you tried to keep it to yourself, the more it ate away at you. Once the initial shock wore off, she insisted you go to the med lab to get checked out, and then asked what you were going to do now.

You could only answer honestly when you said, “I don’t know.”

You knew you had to talk to Tom. The thought alone created a rock of dread that sat heavy in your stomach, but it was nothing compared to the thought of having to talk to Bucky.

It’s on the sixth day you finally manage to muster up enough courage to talk to the man you’ve been avoiding for almost a week. You haven’t seen Bucky since you returned home, mindful to keep your distance and you’re sure he tried to keep his, too. A few times you heard him coming and going from his room, and you think there was one night he lingered outside your door before he decided against coming to you.

The sound of his door closing breaks you from your thoughts, head snapping in the direction of the wooden barrier currently between you. Gently chewing on the inside of your cheek, you ponder for another moment before you ultimately decide to just get it over with, rip the metaphorical bandaid off and be done with it. Standing up from the chair you sit on, you take a deep breath and go to him.

Hesitantly, you raise a fisted hand to his door, knocking softly. You wait, your fingers wringing together as anxiety curdles in your stomach, and you almost turn to leave, but the door suddenly whips open. Bucky stands before you with a slight dip in his brow, eyes uncertain as he regards you, waiting for you to speak.

“Um,” you begin, voice low and shy, “can we talk?”

He remains silent, stepping to the side to open the door for you to enter. You falter, taking a step before second guessing if this is even a good idea, and you almost run back to your room until you stop yourself. Stop being dumb.

Bucky closes the door once you’re inside, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of the fact you’re alone with him once again when he turns to face you. Goosebumps prick at your skin, the anxiety twisting your insides that much more.

“How are you?”

The weakness of your voice has you internally wincing. You’ve been with this man countless times before, fought with and against him, and all of a sudden you’re a fragile mess before him? No, you’re stronger than that. Pulling your shoulders back, you raise your chin as you wait for him to respond.

“I’ve been better,” he replies evenly.

You slowly nod. “I assume you went to see Bruce,” you begin, and continue once he confirms, “and I assume everything was okay?”

He nods.

“That’s good.” You pause to rub your lips together, crossing your arms self-consciously over your midsection. “I told him the tonic took a few hours to take effect, so he thinks it might’ve been old.” Another pause before you sarcastically add, “Still potent once it starts working.”

Pinching his lips together into a thin line, Bucky doesn’t say anything. You notice the dull blue of his eyes, reminding you of the sad, stormy grey they were the morning after in the safe house.

Swallowing thickly, you briefly look away as your brain scatters for something else to say. With your mind distracted by other things, and in your haste to get this whole ordeal over with, you gave little thought to what you would say to him. You open your mouth to say something, what—you aren’t sure—but Bucky beats you to it.

“I really am sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

There’s a sadness that pulls at the corners of his eyes, a sincerity in his voice, but his words flip a switch inside you. No longer a lost, fragile mess, red begins to cloud your vision, anger seeping into your veins.

“Oh, so you’re finally taking ownership for your actions?” You spit. “That’s nice.”

Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes as he looks to the ceiling. “Please don’t do this.”

You choose to ignore him, continuing with your verbal assault and unsubstantiated accusations. “Or did you do it on purpose? Trying to get back in my pants again to prove some kind of sick point that I’ll always be yours? Is that it?”

Incredulity creases Bucky’s brows, his eyes widening at your outburst. “What are you talking about?” He asks, annoyance threading through his rising voice. “How was I supposed to know what it was?”

Clenching your back teeth, you shake your head at him. “Forget it,” you begin, moving to step around him. “Forget I even came here. This was stupid.”

You only make it halfway to the door before Bucky is grasping your upper arm, stopping your movements and swinging you back around to face him.

“No,” he firmly states, “you came here to talk, so let’s talk. This isn’t gonna be like before. I’m not going to let you run away from this.”

“From what?”

“Us.”

A tense silence falls between you, chests heaving as you stare each other down. Finally, Bucky speaks again, releasing your arm and dropping his gaze to the floor.

“What did your boyfriend say?”

Taking another hard swallow, your voice is low when you respond, “We’re not together anymore.”

Bucky swiftly picks his head up to look at you, guilt shining over his pleading eyes. “Please don’t tell me he broke up with you because of my fuck up.”

“No,” you sigh, eyes downcast to the floor. “I broke up with him.”

There’s a brief pause as Bucky processes your words. “Why would you do that?”

The question is simple, but the answer has left you in a tangled mess of emotions. “Because,” you pause, taking another deep breath, “because I realized something.”

“What?”

Gazing back to Bucky, you choose to ignore your conflicted answer, and instead ask him a question of your own. A question you hope will help bring you some form of peace. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” His voice is low, nearly a whisper.

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, steeling your frenzied nerves, you finally respond, “When we were…together, you said you loved me. Did you mean it?”

Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise, clearly not expecting you to bring that up. It was a slip of the tongue, spoken in the heat of the moment as he was overcome with a crazed desire. He didn’t think you heard it, or at least, didn’t really comprehend what he was saying, but he did mean it. He’s silently loved you from afar every single day since he let you walk away, always too afraid to admit it out loud to himself, and to you.

But he does. He loves you and he means it, every word. And in this moment, he’d rather ingest the sex tonic all over again, allow it to destroy him, than let you slip away a second time.

“Yes,” he replies, voice strong and full of conviction. His eyes hold your stare, watching as they gloss over with unshed tears. “I meant it.”

The confession has a breath catching in your throat. The raging war of confusing thoughts and feelings comes to a cease fire, your inner turmoil surrendering as everything falls back into place.

Without an ounce of hesitation, you reach out for him. Both hands grasp along his jaw, lips crashing onto his. Bucky reacts instantly, gripping your waist to pull you in. His lips are fierce against yours, desperate like a man starved, and his tongue slips out seeking yours.

The kiss is a bittersweet taste of resentment and longing. Tongues gliding against one another as you both forgive and remember what it’s like to be together again. It tastes like home.

Breathless, you pull away, eyes searching his—no longer dull and conflicted, they shine bright with a spark of hopefulness.

“I’m sorry, too,” you softly say, “and I’m willing to try again if you are.”

Bucky lets out a deep, pleased sigh, the beginnings of a smile curling the corner of his mouth. Tenderly, he places a chaste kiss to your lips, your cheek, and wraps two strong arms around you, securing you into a tight embrace.

“I missed you,” he says, the words muffled, his lips pressed against your shoulder.

The beating of your heart stutters at his admission, a pleasant flip in your belly, because you’ve missed him, too. So much, and more than you allowed yourself to admit.

Tightening your arms around his neck, you softly tell him, “I love you, too.”

Readjusting the strap of your rucksack, your ears perk at the sound of an approaching vehicle from behind. Quickly, you spin on the balls of your feet. Your arm is thrown out to your side, thumb sticking up to the sky as a forced friendly smile is plastered on your face.

The small yellow car draws closer, seeming to slow down for a moment, before it speeds up again and swiftly passes by, leaving you in the wake of their dusty getaway.

“Fuck you,” you mumble with a brow creased in indignation. Your thumb falls and your middle finger rises, earnestly pointing it in the direction of the disappearing car. “Asshole.”

Dropping your arm, you sigh in defeat, begrudgingly continuing on with your trek under the scorching heat of the summer sun. Minutes pass in a tedious blur; an endless view of barren road and cloudless blue sky ahead. Bored, you count the kicks of the small rock you found a few miles back to occupy yourself until the unmistakable crunch of tire on gravel drifts from behind you.

Too tired and defeated, you don’t bother to turn around when you signal for a ride this time. With your arm held out, an old pick-up truck passes by, and you only look up when you hear it come to a stop a few yards ahead. Then, at the sight of the small group occupying the bed, you stop too; locking eyes with a pretty redhead.

“Hey,” says the redhead, voice a little deep and sultry. A hint of a coy smile plays on her full lips as she stares you down.

“Hey,” you reply.

Folding her arms, she leans over the tailgate as she asks, “Where ya headin’?”

Pausing, you raise a hand to shield your vision from the relentless sun. In the back of the truck, you see another young woman and two men—their eyes all intently on you. From where you stand behind the truck, you think you can see two more people in the cabin.

“Depends,” you counter, dropping your hand. “Where’re you goin’?”

The redhead appears pleased by this response, and her smile spreads across her lips, slow like a honey drip. Awkwardly, you stand in silence before her as you wait for her to say something else; your skin prickling in unease under her intense gaze. Then, a devilish look flickers across her face.

“Turn around for me, doll,” she says simply.

Caught off guard by her random request, you don’t respond right away, and simply stare dumbly at the redhead as she rests her chin on her arm, waiting. Glancing around to the others again, they don’t seem at all surprised or put off by the request; instead, looking to you expectantly.

Over the course of your travels, you have met many different types of people and have been asked to do many different things. So although this request isn’t the worst thing that’s been asked of you, it still strikes you as a little odd. But you wouldn’t have gotten to where you are now by saying no.

With a slight shake of your head in disbelief and a breathy laugh at the unusualness of the situation, you decide to entertain the group of strangers. You pick your arms up and hold them out, slowly turning your feet to spin in a complete circle. When you’re facing the truck again, you stop and let your arms fall back to your sides; locking eyes with the alluring redhead once more.

“Good enough?” You ask with a quirked eyebrow and tone ripe with sarcasm.

The redhead is very pleased now, emerald eyes twinkling with an impish glint in the bright sun. “More than,” she says with a sly smirk. “Want a ride?”

You don’t immediately accept the offer, and remain where you stand to assess the obscure group of people. Gently gnawing on the inside of your cheek, your gaze shifts from the redhead to the other three strangers, and the little voice in the back of your mind begins to speak up—warning you something is off with them and you should pass. But again, you wouldn’t have made it this far without taking a few risks.

Approaching the back of the truck, the redhead perks up, and the rest of the group makes room as you climb in. When you’re settled, the redhead pounds her fist to the outside of the tailgate several times to signal to the driver, and then you’re coasting down the gravelly road; the sun not as unforgiving with the wind whipping around you.

On your left is the other woman, who scoots closer to you. She begins to trace her slender fingers along the side of your face and through your hair, and your body goes rigid at the unexpected contact. Instinctively, you pull away, giving her a forced amiable smile in hopes to not offend her. Fortunately, she takes the hint and drops her hand, but remains a little too close for comfort.

Across from you, the redhead sits with a pleased smile that twists the corner of her mouth.

“I’m Natasha, by the way.”

“Y/n,” you reply.

“Pretty,” the woman beside you comments with a smile.

You awkwardly glance to her before you’re looking back to Natasha, a knowing smirk on her face.

An intricate braid falls over her shoulder, a white daisy tucked into the strands above her left ear. As your gaze trails lower, you notice a mark—a brand—on the upper part of her left arm. It’s too difficult to tell what the mark is from the angle you currently have, and you don’t get the chance to ask her about it because your attention is stolen when she speaks again.

“This,” Natasha begins, gesturing to the man on her right, “is Sammy.”

Playfully, she wraps her arms around his large biceps, resting her head on his shoulder. Watching them closely, you wonder if they could be together when you see the way Natasha’s face lights up as she gazes at him.

“Sam is just fine,” he chuckles, a pair of kind brown eyes looking to you as he nods in greeting. He takes a hit of the joint he holds then offers it to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/n.”

Without question, you reach for it; pinching the end and bringing the white paper to your lips to take a quick hit before passing it back to Sam.

“Thanks.”

“I think Sammy is better, but whatever,” Natasha quips. “Anyways,” she starts, sitting up again to continue introducing you to the rest of the group, “The big guy driving us is Thor, and beside him, Clint. That’s Pietro”—she points to the other man across from Sam and you lean forward to acknowledge him—“and his sister, Wanda.”

Looking to the woman beside you again, Wanda’s smile widens when you make eye contact. Her long auburn hair nearly touches her legs when she tilts her head, seeming to admire you more closely, and the initial unease you felt from her unwanted proximity dissipates under her thoughtful gaze.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you say, glancing around to each of them with a smile. Then you ask, “So, where are we going?”

Wanda slips her hand into yours, lacing your fingers together as she replies, “Home.”

It’s an odd response, but you don’t think too much of it. Instead, you take a few more hits of the joint and happily enjoy the ride.

Eventually, the sparse greenery begins to thicken; large clumps of trees becoming more frequent the longer you travel the dirt road. After another mile or two, the truck begins to slow as it turns down an uneven, rocky path. It leads you to what looks to be an old camping site. A series of run down cabins are scattered around, and you spot the biggest one towards the back of the property, slightly away from the rest. But despite the dying appearance of the buildings, the whole place is alive with people.

You pass them walking along the path; see them coming in and out of the cabins. Some sit around fires cooking while others take down laundry from clotheslines. You spot a group of about eight tending to a garden off in the distance. Peace signs are being thrown around left and right, and although you know it’s a symbol for love, you can’t ignore the ominous feeling twisting in your gut that there’s something more sinister lurking behind all the friendly gestures and smiles.

Finally, the truck comes to a stop, parking beside a very old well, but you remain unmoving.

“Y/n!” Natasha calls, snapping you out of your mild daze.

Looking to her, you quickly realize you’re the only one left in the truck.

“Oh, look at you!” Thor exclaims, holding a hand out for you when you stand to exit the bed.

Natasha’s viridescent gaze shines with pride as she gazes up at you. “He’s going to be so pleased, don’t you think?”

“I’ll say,” Clint remarks, giving you a once over. “Welcome to Valhalla, kid.”

“Come, I’ll show you around!” Wanda cuts in, taking your hand the second you’re out of the truck and dragging you towards one of the cabins.

Your head feels as if it’s on a turntable as you try to take in everything at once. “What is this place?”

“A place for love and acceptance. A place for family!” Wanda beams, glancing over her shoulder.

The long strands of her hair cascade down her arm, but when she turns back around, you see it—a brand.

You open your mouth to ask her about it, but you don’t get the chance to when she starts talking again.

“This is where I stay with Nat and a few other girls,” she says, opening the door to one of the nicer looking cabins.

Inside, you find four beds and two dressers. Small, makeshift tables sit beside the beds, each one covered in their own personal trinkets.

“You can stay here with us,” Wanda offers as she sits on one of the beds. “But I have a feeling you might be staying with him tonight.”

“Who’s him?”

“The White Wolf.” She says it with a lovestruck look on her face and it has your brow wrinkling in confusion.

“Who?”

“He’s the one who brought us here.”

“Where is ‘here’ exactly?”

Wanda sighs, but she keeps her patience as she answers your questions. “Valhalla, our home.”

“Okay,” you drawl. “Tell me, does everyone get a mark like that when they come to Valhalla?”

You point to the brand on her arm—a skull with six tentacles. It’s hideous, and not something you want just for showing up here.

“No,” she replies, mindlessly rubbing the scar, “not everyone.”

“Good.”

Wanda gives you a hesitant smile before she stands again, reaching for your bag and putting it on her bed. “Cmon, we have to help prepare for the celebration tonight.”

Once again, she takes your hand to pull you along.

“A celebration of what?” You ask in ignorance.

“You!”

Black paints the sky, the darkness illuminated by the speckle of stars; however, their shine is dulled by the blinding fire before you. The flames warm your skin; your head and body light as you dance around it. Your veins tingle with the aftereffects of the drugs you smoked, lowering your inhibitions and fracturing the defensive wall you built when you first arrived. The last few hours gave you the chance to get to know everyone a little bit better, and you realized they were mostly harmless.

Wanda slips her hand into yours, twirling you around before swaying the two of you to the tune of Sam’s guitar. Laughter bubbles inside you as you look to the youthful redhead, and for a moment, you feel at ease. But as you spin around again, you notice a figure approaching and it has you stopping, staring in ignorant wonder. Glassy eyes attempt to focus as the person draws closer, your vision blurred and wavering until they come to stand right before you. The fogginess that clouded your sight dissipates, leaving you with a clear view of a tall, blond man.

“Are you the White Wolf?” You wonder aloud, convinced this man has to be of some importance.

The fire sparkles in his sky blue eyes, a boyish smirk etching its way into the corner of his pink lips. “No,” he chuckles. “My name is Steve.”

A crease forms between your brows as your mind works to figure out this man’s relevance.

“I’ve come to bring you to the White Wolf,” Steve states with a hand held out to you.

Although he offers you a seemingly kind smile, wariness begins to trickle through you, holding you in place. It isn’t until you look towards Wanda, who gives you an encouraging smile and nod that you finally take the hand waiting for you.

Steve leads you away from the fire; the group of people parting like the Red Sea as he brings you to the large cabin that sits away from the rest. Realizing now, this is the home of the White Wolf, it all makes sense.

Gently, Steve opens the door and ushers you inside. “He asks you wait here for him. He’ll only be a few minutes.”

Before you even have the chance to ask one of the thousand of questions swirling in your head, Steve is leaving you with a smile that disappears behind the closing door. The silence of the cabin envelopes you as you stare dumbly at the door; the quiet laced with the distant sound of music and laughter, but the benign tones do nothing to balm your unease.

Swallowing thickly, your high begins to wane as the reality of how bizarre this place is returns. Your gaze shifts from the door to the rest of the space, taking in all that you can. It’s the largest cabin on the grounds, yet it’s still just as rundown as the rest of them.

The rotting of the floorboards is concealed by a dirty rug in the center of the room, along with a wooden dining table. The surface is splintered and the legs are visibly decaying. On the opposite wall of the door is a brick fireplace, an old couch facing the small fire that crackles in the stone concave. The oddity of someone having a fire in the middle of summer is a fleeting thought as you continue to survey the cabin.

There’s a queen sized bed in the corner of the room; a tattered mattress with a thin white sheet. It doesn’t look comfortable in the slightest and appears to be more of a glorified cot. Beside it, there’s a small table with a pile of books and a lamp. Bringing your attention back to the fireplace, you see a record player, and spot a stack of albums underneath it. You take one step towards it, but stop when you hear the sound of the door opening behind you.

From the other side of the door appears a man, one you don’t recognize seeing around the commune. Without a word, he closes the door behind him and steps further into the room. Even in bare feet, the man is tall, his long legs covered by a pair of snug blue jeans. His sinewy figure is exposed through the open front of his white button down shirt, and the necklace he wears glints in the light; a gold star resting over his sternum.

“You must be the White Wolf.”

It’s not a question, and you don’t pose it as one, because even your drug riddled brain can feel the confidence this man exudes.

He laughs softly, running a hand through his long brown hair. “That is what they call me, yes.”

The sound of his voice is oddly soothing; a deep rumble with a gentle edge to it. You try to ignore the pleasant shiver it sends down your spine.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Tea, perhaps?” He’s gesturing to a small table beside the door, a chipped porcelain teapot and some glassware on top of it.

You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were until he mentioned it; licking around your mouth with a dry tongue. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

Silently, he prepares your drink, and you shamelessly watch in awe as his taut back muscles ripple under his shirt.

Then, he’s walking towards you, glass in hand and an innocuous smile curling his lips. “It’s my own special blend.”

“Thank you, uh…”

“Bucky,” he says. “Please, call me Bucky.”

It’s a weird name, yes, and you would probably find it funny any other given time, but not here, alone in a strange place with a man you know nothing about.

“Thank you, Bucky.” Your voice is small, timid, because for some unknown reason this man intimidates you.

Glancing to the drink you hold, you try to keep a neutral expression. It looks like a cup of dirty water with bits of leaves and tiny flowers floating in it, but despite the off putting appearance, you reluctantly take a sip because your mouth is screaming for some moisture.

A tartness bites at your tastebuds, your face screwing up at the blunt flavor before it fades into a faint flowery aftertaste.

You look to Bucky, who has made his way over to the record player. A tune you recognize begins to float from the single speaker, but the small bit of familiarity doesn’t bring you much comfort.

“So, what is this place?” You ask, finally finding your voice again.

From over his shoulder, Bucky smiles at you. “This place is whatever we make it. Whatever we want it to be.”

Confusion warps your features at the vague response, brow creasing deeply. Bucky seems to notice this, because he’s turning to face you, leaning against the table behind him.

“Let me ask you something,” he begins, “Has the world been kind to you?”

Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out.

“Because from what I can see, it hasn’t been.”

With raised eyebrows and pinched lips, he pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle in before continuing. “You’re wandering the country alone; no family, no job, no real purpose.”

Although true, his words still slice through you; an unpleasant reminder that makes you feel oh so small. It has your voice sticking in your throat, and creates a burn in your eyes as you attempt to hold back tears.

“It’s okay,” Bucky assures, walking over to you.

He’s in front of you in a matter of seconds, closer than a person should be to someone they’ve just met. Before you can step away, he grasps your jaw, keeping you in place as he his steel blue eyes hold your gaze with an intense stare.

“We will be your family,” he says earnestly. “We will give you purpose.”

Wincing at the unwanted promise and the tight grip he has on your face, you manage to wiggle free with a few gentle pushes.

“Please,” you softly beg.

The drink, still in your hand, slips through your fingers and falls to the carpet beneath your feet; a dark puddle instantly forming as the liquid leaks into the fibers.

“There’s nothing out there for you,” you hear Bucky say, but it’s an almost distant sound. “Everything you will ever need is here, with me.”

He continues on, preaching about the ways of the world and his beliefs about a free society, but you’re having a hard time keeping up as his ramblings become even more erratic and a haziness settles in your mind, smothering any coherent thought.

Lightheaded, your body warms as something seeps into your veins, and you’re barely registering anything Bucky is saying now. All you can hear is a low muffled rant, your ears feeling as if they’ve been stuffed with cotton. When you attempt to take a step towards the door, you stumble like a newborn fawn learning to walk. Catching yourself on the table, you plant two hands solidly on the flat surface to help ground yourself; scrunching your eyes and shaking your head in hopes it’ll help make the room stop spinning.

You quickly recognize this is not like any high you’ve had before. “What…” you attempt, the word heavy on your tongue, “what did you do to me?”

Through semi-blurry vision, you watch as Bucky stops his pacing around the room. Sapphire eyes shaded in dark desire are set on you, a wicked smile curling his lips when he takes in your incoherent state. Then, he begins to methodically stalk towards you.

As you attempt to even your breathing, you feel his dominant presence come up behind you; fingertips brushing over your waist until you’re suffocating. A shudder runs down your spine when he leans in, whispering directly in your ear, “Let’s get a look at you, shall we, angel?”

“I think…” you begin with a deep breath, vision swirling in a sea of colors. Nausea surges through your gut, and you helplessly rub numb lips together to subdue it. “I think I should go to bed.”

Bucky hums in acknowledgment. “We will in a minute.”

Large hands slide around to your front and creep under your shirt, palming at your breasts. His touch is a dull sensation, your body continuing to absorb whatever drug he gave you, but it seems to react on its own accord; nipples pebbling as he gently massages the supple flesh.

“Mm, so soft,” he breathes into your hair.

The hold you have on reality is slipping through your fingers like precious grains of sand; delicate and nearly impossible to keep. Unable to do much of anything—mind and body on two separate wavelengths—you can only comply with whatever Bucky wishes to do to you. Heavy arms raise when he slips your shirt over your head; skin prickling as his hot breath fans down your neck. His soft lips trail kisses along your shoulder, dizzying and intoxicating.

Slowly, his hands move from your chest down to your bottoms; fingers splayed as to not miss a single inch of your body. A sigh falls from your lips when he unbuttons your jean shorts and snakes a hand inside, cupping your mound over your underwear. The firm, possessive hold has you pushing your backside into Bucky’s groin; his hardening length evident even through his pants.

At the action, a pleased groan rumbles in Bucky’s chest, the vibrations resonating through your entire being. Roughly, he pushes his fingers against your throbbing core, the damp fabric sticking to your folds.

Even with tainted blood and a mind diluted from rational thought, you know it’s wrong. You shouldn’t want his touch, yet your body continues to seek it out—desperate for more. And when he pulls away, a pitiful whine strains in your throat, but the agony is short lived.

Strong fingers hook under the hemline of your panties, gripping your shorts and shimmying them down. Gently, he encourages one foot, then the other to step out of your bottoms, the piece of clothing tossed mindlessly to the side. Now completely exposed and at his mercy, your body thrums with an unquenched desire while your mind begs you to run away.

An azure stare burns your skin as Bucky kneels behind you, appraising all that you have to offer him. His hands run up and down the expanse of your legs, taking in everything he can before he brings his fingers back to your damp heat. A quiet yelp escapes you as your body reacts to his ministrations, calloused digits dancing through your glistening folds and pinching at your aching clit.

“Oh, angel,” Bucky sighs, lips pressing satisfied kisses into your lower back. “You’re perfect for me.”

The want to be scared is there—your brain continuing to scream at you that what Bucky is doing is immoral—but your body is persistent on betraying you; opening up like a blooming flower, ready to accept his sunlit words and exhilarating touches.

Bucky’s fingers continue to toy with your sensitive core before he slowly slides one, then two fingers inside you. Instinctively, your legs spread to allow him better access. Bits of the wooden table splinter under your nails as you dig them into the hard surface, a groan of frustration erupting in your chest because you’re disgusted at your body’s compliance.

“Please…” you sigh in desperation, unsure if you’re asking him to stop or to get whatever he has planned over with.

Through the fog in your head, you hear the squelching sound of Bucky’s fingers moving in and out of you; tongue, teeth, and lips grazing over your thighs. He keeps his other hand occupied, resting it on the lower part of your stomach as his thumb gently swirls over your throbbing clit.

Your breathing is ragged as you struggle to fill your lungs, but when you feel a hot, wet tongue swipe over your clit, you choke on air and your mind goes blank.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses and you can only whine in response. “So tight, so sweet. I can’t wait to make you mine, angel.”

Defiantly, your legs begin to shake as he drags his tongue over your clit and through your folds a few more times; nausea beginning to curdle in your stomach at the conflicting wants and desires warring within you.

You’re drowning in a vicious sea of confusion, anger, and lust; your mind spiraling as it tries to keep up with everything that’s happening. But then, for a moment, your head breaks through the surface when Bucky pulls away, leaving you where you stand by the table. With your eyes closed, you take advantage of your brief respite and attempt to regain your composure.

Completely unaware of your surroundings, you don’t even realize Bucky has returned or that you’re moving until your back meets the soft mattress of the bed in the corner. Your fingers wrap themselves in the sheet that’s under you, gripping tightly as you brace yourself. From where you lay, Bucky’s presence looms over you as he stands at the end of the bed; slightly fuzzy but still very much intimidating.

At his own, tauntingly slow pace, he undresses himself; his eyes fixated on your figure as he continues with his appraisal of you. Then, he climbs onto the bed. His hands grip your ankles, caress your knees; fingertips dancing along your inner thighs as he encourages them to open so he can settle between them.

Tears slip out of the corner of your eyes, your breathing shallow as you stare up at him, waiting in nervous anticipation. With his thumbs, Bucky spreads your folds, running the tip of his cock over your wanting pussy.

“You were made for me, you know that?” he rhetorically asks, continuing to grind his hips and lubricate his cock with your arousal. A hiss passes through his clenched teeth as he drops his head back, eyes fluttering closed. “My angel. My perfect, little angel.”

Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you hold back a cry as an unwanted wave of pleasure ripples through you at his assertions. Because after being alone for so long, you can’t deny how good it feels to be wanted.

Suddenly, Bucky stops his movements, shifting his hands to grip your waist as he looks down at you. Blue crystalline eyes partly hidden behind hooded lids meet your watery gaze.

“No more waiting,” he says, taking a hold of his stiff member and guiding it to your entrance.

When you feel him nudge his tip against your throbbing hole, your legs tense and attempt to close on impulse at the intrusion, but Bucky forces them to stay open. He clicks his tongue in slight admonishment, shaking his head at you before pushing in further.

Gradually, Bucky’s thick member stretches you open; a pleasant burn radiating from your core that elicits a soft whimper as you attempt to adjust. With his bottom lip held mercilessly between his teeth, a deep groan of satisfaction resonants in Bucky’s chest when he’s completely sheathed inside you.

“Like I said,” he begins with a cruel smile, “made just for me.”

As he leans down, you raise your arms, unsure if you’re reaching out to bring him closer or to push him away, and before you even have time to react, he’s pressing his lips against yours; forceful and full of desperation.

Initially, you recoil at the unsuspecting action, but as Bucky’s soft lips move against yours; his tongue gently coaxing its way into your mouth, you give in. Dark locks curtain around your face as he hovers over you, and you mindlessly brush them away and sink your nails into his scalp as you continue to kiss him back.

A mewl spills from your mouth into Bucky’s when he retracts his hips and pushes back inside you. His pace is slow—agonizingly slow—and he’s everywhere around you to the point you feel like you’re suffocating. Breaking the kiss, you gasp for air as your nails claw down his back.

Bucky doesn’t stop. With his arms caged around your head, his thumbs caress your temples while his lips brush tender kisses to your cheeks between quiet praises. After several more thrusts, he reaches down to grip your thigh and hooks it over his hip. Deep and unforgiving, the tip of his cock reaches the spongy sweet spot inside you.

The hard springs of the mattress dig painfully into your back as Bucky continues to move. The slow drag of his cock through your velvet walls is overwhelming, and sooner than you thought would be possible, you feel the clench in your lower belly, but it’s not enough.

“Faster,” you beg through heavy breaths. “Please.”

The tightened grip on your thigh tells you Bucky hears you, but he does nothing to appease you. Slow and meticulous, like he wants to draw this out for as long as he can for his own sick delight, he maintains his languid pace, and continues to shower you with eerily sweet affections. It’s a tortuous climb, but the yearning for your release is close to being satiated.

Pleased moans bleed from your swollen lips, your eyes screwing shut as you wait for the riptide of ecstasy to pull you under, but just as you feel your climax within reach, Bucky withdraws himself and you’re left feeling empty and deflated.

“Not yet,” Bucky firmly says.

Too exhausted and strung out, you barely put up a fight when he’s pulling away and leaving you—naked and still wanting—on the bed. Sleep threatens to take you, and you blink heavily several times as you try to evade it, but then the bed dips and you’re being flipped onto your stomach.

Behind you, Bucky spreads your legs with his knees and sinks his cock back inside you. Immediately, you clench around him, delighted to be full once again. Then, you feel the weight of Bucky’s entire body on your back when he leans forward; pressing a kiss to your cheek as he slides an arm under you.

His lips brush against the shell of your ear when he asks, “Ready to become mine?”

A tired sigh falls from your lips, and with a nearly empty mind you submit. “Yes.”

In an instant, your entire equilibrium is thrown off as Bucky lifts you from the bed, bringing your back flush against his chest. His arm—strong and possessive—holds you tight as he begins to thrust inside you again.

The room spins and tears prick your eyes as you drown in Bucky and the pleasure he’s bringing you; puffs of warm breaths fan down your neck as he pants against your ear, the feel of his thick cock moving in and out of you. A pattern of crescent moons form in his skin as your nails dig into his arm, gripping harshly to help ground yourself.

Hot chords of pleasure tighten your abdomen as your climax rises and Bucky continues to fuck into you. And just as you’re about to fall over the edge, Bucky takes a vice-like grip to your left arm and pins it to your side.

“This is going to hurt,” he says lowly, “but it’ll all be over soon.”

A scream rips through your lungs, but it sounds foreign, distant. Your vision whites out, body seizing up, as your climax hits and you fall into ecstasy. But the rapture doesn’t last long.

You hear the sizzling of flesh before you feel it; bare skin melting into raw tissue under the hot iron of a brand. The stench permeates your nostrils, eliciting a profound gag as it ruthlessly assaults your senses; a revolting smell of burnt meat and charred blood. The pain is indescribable. Numbing and all consuming at the same time.

You scream again.

“Shh, shh,” Bucky soothes, his lips buried in your hair.

His hold on you doesn’t break, even when you claw desperately at his arm to make it stop; to make him stop.

“I know, I know,” he says, voice eerily calm and even.

And just as quickly as it began, it’s over.

The brand falls to the floor with a loud clatter, but the pain in your arm still lingers. Tears stain your cheeks and your lungs strain for air. Faintly, you feel lips brushing over your shoulder with soft kisses of approval.

“You did so good for me, angel,” Bucky commends, still continuing to move inside you. “So good.”

Gradually, black begins to bleed into the fringes of your vision; head light but too heavy to keep up on your own. It falls back, landing on Bucky’s shoulder, and you barely register the feral growl he releases against your neck as a warmth begins to spread within your weeping cunt.

Then, your world tilts; the indistinct sensation of Bucky’s lips on your temple the last thing you feel before everything goes dark.

A dull, throbbing pain radiating from your left arm is the first thing you feel when you come to. Slowly, you blink your eyes open to take in your surroundings; regrettably finding yourself still in Bucky’s cabin, but you aren’t alone.

Beside you, Wanda sits with a contrite look on her face as she tends to your burn with aloe and cool clothes.

“It’ll start to feel better soon,” she comments, but she has yet to meet your eye.

Anger immediately begins to simmer in your blood at her apparent nonchalance about the manner.

“Why?”

With just one word you’re asking for a multitude of answers and reasons, but she gives you none. Instead, the corners of mouth fall as she pinches her lips together, her attention still focused on caring for your new mark.

Following her line of sight, you look to the wound—the charred outline of a five-point star. “What does it mean?”

Finally, Wanda meets your gaze. She forces a reassuring smile, a reflection of tears beginning to gather on her lower lash line as she responds, “It means we’re his.”

The words make your stomach drop and bile to rise in your throat, and it’s then you realize she’s just as trapped as you are when you glance to the tentacled skull that mars her own arm.

A few silent beats pass before you ask your next question.

“Why is mine different?”

“Because you’re only his.”

“Wanda.” Bucky’s stern voice cuts through the room, startling the two of you.

Quickly, she gets to her feet, and you aren’t sure if you’re ready to pass out or throw up at the sight of him. He takes calculated steps into the cabin, gesturing with his head for Wanda to leave you. As she begins to walk away, you desperately want to reach out for her to stay, but you can’t. From over her shoulder, she gives you an apologetic look before she disappears behind the closing door and you’re left alone with Bucky once again.

The air thickens and your heart is ready to beat out of your chest the closer Bucky gets. When he sits beside you on the bed, you try to move away, but your limbs are like lead. He brings his hand to your forehead, lightly running his fingers over the damp skin. No longer influenced by whatever drug he gave you earlier, you’re frantic to get away from his horrid touch; your head pressing into the pillow beneath it.

When he looks to your brand, a sickening smile spreads across his lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, leveling him with a contemptuous stare.

Bucky clenches his jaw in vexation; the muscles twitching under his skin as he seemingly tries to keep his temper in check.

“Now, angel,” he begins, moving his hand to cup your cheek with a firm grip—a silent warning, “there’s no need for that.”

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice is small, the words shaky as you fight to hold back tears.

Bucky’s features are colored in pity at your naïvety.

“Because I want to,” he replies condescendingly, his thumb stroking along your face as he speaks. “Because I can.”

“You’re a monster.”

Bucky chuckles hollowly. “Maybe, but you’ll learn to love me. Just like all the rest.”

Sorrow settles heavily within your chest and creates a deep crease in your brow. Your bottom lips quivers as you give in to your emotions; no longer caring if Bucky sees you cry.

With his hand still resting along your cheek, his thumb catches a rogue tear. He wipes it away, bringing the digit to his mouth. “So sweet.”

Then, he leans forward and forces his lips on yours. It’s vile and nauseating, and you don’t respond to his slow movements. After what feels like an eternity, he finally pulls away.

“Get some sleep,” he remarks, adjusting the sheet that covers your naked body. “I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

Readjusting the strap of your rucksack, your ears perk at the sound of an approaching vehicle from behind. Quickly, you spin on the balls of your feet. Your arm is thrown out to your side, thumb sticking up to the sky as a forced friendly smile is plastered on your face.

The small yellow car draws closer, seeming to slow down for a moment, before it speeds up again and swiftly passes by, leaving you in the wake of their dusty getaway.

“Fuck you,” you mumble with a brow creased in indignation. Your thumb falls and your middle finger rises, earnestly pointing it in the direction of the disappearing car. “Asshole.”

Dropping your arm, you sigh in defeat, begrudgingly continuing on with your trek under the scorching heat of the summer sun. Minutes pass in a tedious blur; an endless view of barren road and cloudless blue sky ahead. Bored, you count the kicks of the small rock you found a few miles back to occupy yourself until the unmistakable crunch of tire on gravel drifts from behind you.

Too tired and defeated, you don’t bother to turn around when you signal for a ride this time. With your arm held out, an old pick-up truck passes by, and you only look up when you hear it come to a stop a few yards ahead. Then, at the sight of the small group occupying the bed, you stop too; locking eyes with a pretty redhead.

“Hey,” says the redhead, voice a little deep and sultry. A hint of a coy smile plays on her full lips as she stares you down.

“Hey,” you reply.

Folding her arms, she leans over the tailgate as she asks, “Where ya headin’?”

Pausing, you raise a hand to shield your vision from the relentless sun. In the back of the truck, you see another young woman and two men—their eyes all intently on you. From where you stand behind the truck, you think you can see two more people in the cabin.

“Depends,” you counter, dropping your hand. “Where’re you goin’?”

The redhead appears pleased by this response, and her smile spreads across her lips, slow like a honey drip. Awkwardly, you stand in silence before her as you wait for her to say something else; your skin prickling in unease under her intense gaze. Then, a devilish look flickers across her face.

“Turn around for me, doll,” she says simply.

Caught off guard by her random request, you don’t respond right away, and simply stare dumbly at the redhead as she rests her chin on her arm, waiting. Glancing around to the others again, they don’t seem at all surprised or put off by the request; instead, looking to you expectantly.

Over the course of your travels, you have met many different types of people and have been asked to do many different things. So although this request isn’t the worst thing that’s been asked of you, it still strikes you as a little odd. But you wouldn’t have gotten to where you are now by saying no.

With a slight shake of your head in disbelief and a breathy laugh at the unusualness of the situation, you decide to entertain the group of strangers. You pick your arms up and hold them out, slowly turning your feet to spin in a complete circle. When you’re facing the truck again, you stop and let your arms fall back to your sides; locking eyes with the alluring redhead once more.

“Good enough?” You ask with a quirked eyebrow and tone ripe with sarcasm.

The redhead is very pleased now, emerald eyes twinkling with an impish glint in the bright sun. “More than,” she says with a sly smirk. “Want a ride?”

You don’t immediately accept the offer, and remain where you stand to assess the obscure group of people. Gently gnawing on the inside of your cheek, your gaze shifts from the redhead to the other three strangers, and the little voice in the back of your mind begins to speak up—warning you something is off with them and you should pass. But again, you wouldn’t have made it this far without taking a few risks.

Approaching the back of the truck, the redhead perks up, and the rest of the group makes room as you climb in. When you’re settled, the redhead pounds her fist to the outside of the tailgate several times to signal to the driver, and then you’re coasting down the gravelly road; the sun not as unforgiving with the wind whipping around you.

On your left is the other woman, who scoots closer to you. She begins to trace her slender fingers along the side of your face and through your hair, and your body goes rigid at the unexpected contact. Instinctively, you pull away, giving her a forced amiable smile in hopes to not offend her. Fortunately, she takes the hint and drops her hand, but remains a little too close for comfort.

Across from you, the redhead sits with a pleased smile that twists the corner of her mouth.

“I’m Natasha, by the way.”

“Y/n,” you reply.

“Pretty,” the woman beside you comments with a smile.

You awkwardly glance to her before you’re looking back to Natasha, a knowing smirk on her face.

An intricate braid falls over her shoulder, a white daisy tucked into the strands above her left ear. As your gaze trails lower, you notice a mark—a brand—on the upper part of her left arm. It’s too difficult to tell what the mark is from the angle you currently have, and you don’t get the chance to ask her about it because your attention is stolen when she speaks again.

“This,” Natasha begins, gesturing to the man on her right, “is Sammy.”

Playfully, she wraps her arms around his large biceps, resting her head on his shoulder. Watching them closely, you wonder if they could be together when you see the way Natasha’s face lights up as she gazes at him.

“Sam is just fine,” he chuckles, a pair of kind brown eyes looking to you as he nods in greeting. He takes a hit of the joint he holds then offers it to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/n.”

Without question, you reach for it; pinching the end and bringing the white paper to your lips to take a quick hit before passing it back to Sam.

“Thanks.”

“I think Sammy is better, but whatever,” Natasha quips. “Anyways,” she starts, sitting up again to continue introducing you to the rest of the group, “The big guy driving us is Thor, and beside him, Clint. That’s Pietro”—she points to the other man across from Sam and you lean forward to acknowledge him—“and his sister, Wanda.”

Looking to the woman beside you again, Wanda’s smile widens when you make eye contact. Her long auburn hair nearly touches her legs when she tilts her head, seeming to admire you more closely, and the initial unease you felt from her unwanted proximity dissipates under her thoughtful gaze.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you say, glancing around to each of them with a smile. Then you ask, “So, where are we going?”

Wanda slips her hand into yours, lacing your fingers together as she replies, “Home.”

It’s an odd response, but you don’t think too much of it. Instead, you take a few more hits of the joint and happily enjoy the ride.

Eventually, the sparse greenery begins to thicken; large clumps of trees becoming more frequent the longer you travel the dirt road. After another mile or two, the truck begins to slow as it turns down an uneven, rocky path. It leads you to what looks to be an old camping site. A series of run down cabins are scattered around, and you spot the biggest one towards the back of the property, slightly away from the rest. But despite the dying appearance of the buildings, the whole place is alive with people.

You pass them walking along the path; see them coming in and out of the cabins. Some sit around fires cooking while others take down laundry from clotheslines. You spot a group of about eight tending to a garden off in the distance. Peace signs are being thrown around left and right, and although you know it’s a symbol for love, you can’t ignore the ominous feeling twisting in your gut that there’s something more sinister lurking behind all the friendly gestures and smiles.

Finally, the truck comes to a stop, parking beside a very old well, but you remain unmoving.

“Y/n!” Natasha calls, snapping you out of your mild daze.

Looking to her, you quickly realize you’re the only one left in the truck.

“Oh, look at you!” Thor exclaims, holding a hand out for you when you stand to exit the bed.

Natasha’s viridescent gaze shines with pride as she gazes up at you. “He’s going to be so pleased, don’t you think?”

“I’ll say,” Clint remarks, giving you a once over. “Welcome to Valhalla, kid.”

“Come, I’ll show you around!” Wanda cuts in, taking your hand the second you’re out of the truck and dragging you towards one of the cabins.

Your head feels as if it’s on a turntable as you try to take in everything at once. “What is this place?”

“A place for love and acceptance. A place for family!” Wanda beams, glancing over her shoulder.

The long strands of her hair cascade down her arm, but when she turns back around, you see it—a brand.

You open your mouth to ask her about it, but you don’t get the chance to when she starts talking again.

“This is where I stay with Nat and a few other girls,” she says, opening the door to one of the nicer looking cabins.

Inside, you find four beds and two dressers. Small, makeshift tables sit beside the beds, each one covered in their own personal trinkets.

“You can stay here with us,” Wanda offers as she sits on one of the beds. “But I have a feeling you might be staying with him tonight.”

“Who’s him?”

“The White Wolf.” She says it with a lovestruck look on her face and it has your brow wrinkling in confusion.

“Who?”

“He’s the one who brought us here.”

“Where is ‘here’ exactly?”

Wanda sighs, but she keeps her patience as she answers your questions. “Valhalla, our home.”

“Okay,” you drawl. “Tell me, does everyone get a mark like that when they come to Valhalla?”

You point to the brand on her arm—a skull with six tentacles. It’s hideous, and not something you want just for showing up here.

“No,” she replies, mindlessly rubbing the scar, “not everyone.”

“Good.”

Wanda gives you a hesitant smile before she stands again, reaching for your bag and putting it on her bed. “Cmon, we have to help prepare for the celebration tonight.”

Once again, she takes your hand to pull you along.

“A celebration of what?” You ask in ignorance.

“You!”

Black paints the sky, the darkness illuminated by the speckle of stars; however, their shine is dulled by the blinding fire before you. The flames warm your skin; your head and body light as you dance around it. Your veins tingle with the aftereffects of the drugs you smoked, lowering your inhibitions and fracturing the defensive wall you built when you first arrived. The last few hours gave you the chance to get to know everyone a little bit better, and you realized they were mostly harmless.

Wanda slips her hand into yours, twirling you around before swaying the two of you to the tune of Sam’s guitar. Laughter bubbles inside you as you look to the youthful redhead, and for a moment, you feel at ease. But as you spin around again, you notice a figure approaching and it has you stopping, staring in ignorant wonder. Glassy eyes attempt to focus as the person draws closer, your vision blurred and wavering until they come to stand right before you. The fogginess that clouded your sight dissipates, leaving you with a clear view of a tall, blond man.

“Are you the White Wolf?” You wonder aloud, convinced this man has to be of some importance.

The fire sparkles in his sky blue eyes, a boyish smirk etching its way into the corner of his pink lips. “No,” he chuckles. “My name is Steve.”

A crease forms between your brows as your mind works to figure out this man’s relevance.

“I’ve come to bring you to the White Wolf,” Steve states with a hand held out to you.

Although he offers you a seemingly kind smile, wariness begins to trickle through you, holding you in place. It isn’t until you look towards Wanda, who gives you an encouraging smile and nod that you finally take the hand waiting for you.

Steve leads you away from the fire; the group of people parting like the Red Sea as he brings you to the large cabin that sits away from the rest. Realizing now, this is the home of the White Wolf, it all makes sense.

Gently, Steve opens the door and ushers you inside. “He asks you wait here for him. He’ll only be a few minutes.”

Before you even have the chance to ask one of the thousand of questions swirling in your head, Steve is leaving you with a smile that disappears behind the closing door. The silence of the cabin envelopes you as you stare dumbly at the door; the quiet laced with the distant sound of music and laughter, but the benign tones do nothing to balm your unease.

Swallowing thickly, your high begins to wane as the reality of how bizarre this place is returns. Your gaze shifts from the door to the rest of the space, taking in all that you can. It’s the largest cabin on the grounds, yet it’s still just as rundown as the rest of them.

The rotting of the floorboards is concealed by a dirty rug in the center of the room, along with a wooden dining table. The surface is splintered and the legs are visibly decaying. On the opposite wall of the door is a brick fireplace, an old couch facing the small fire that crackles in the stone concave. The oddity of someone having a fire in the middle of summer is a fleeting thought as you continue to survey the cabin.

There’s a queen sized bed in the corner of the room; a tattered mattress with a thin white sheet. It doesn’t look comfortable in the slightest and appears to be more of a glorified cot. Beside it, there’s a small table with a pile of books and a lamp. Bringing your attention back to the fireplace, you see a record player, and spot a stack of albums underneath it. You take one step towards it, but stop when you hear the sound of the door opening behind you.

From the other side of the door appears a man, one you don’t recognize seeing around the commune. Without a word, he closes the door behind him and steps further into the room. Even in bare feet, the man is tall, his long legs covered by a pair of snug blue jeans. His sinewy figure is exposed through the open front of his white button down shirt, and the necklace he wears glints in the light; a gold star resting over his sternum.

“You must be the White Wolf.”

It’s not a question, and you don’t pose it as one, because even your drug riddled brain can feel the confidence this man exudes.

He laughs softly, running a hand through his long brown hair. “That is what they call me, yes.”

The sound of his voice is oddly soothing; a deep rumble with a gentle edge to it. You try to ignore the pleasant shiver it sends down your spine.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Tea, perhaps?” He’s gesturing to a small table beside the door, a chipped porcelain teapot and some glassware on top of it.

You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were until he mentioned it; licking around your mouth with a dry tongue. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

Silently, he prepares your drink, and you shamelessly watch in awe as his taut back muscles ripple under his shirt.

Then, he’s walking towards you, glass in hand and an innocuous smile curling his lips. “It’s my own special blend.”

“Thank you, uh…”

“Bucky,” he says. “Please, call me Bucky.”

It’s a weird name, yes, and you would probably find it funny any other given time, but not here, alone in a strange place with a man you know nothing about.

“Thank you, Bucky.” Your voice is small, timid, because for some unknown reason this man intimidates you.

Glancing to the drink you hold, you try to keep a neutral expression. It looks like a cup of dirty water with bits of leaves and tiny flowers floating in it, but despite the off putting appearance, you reluctantly take a sip because your mouth is screaming for some moisture.

A tartness bites at your tastebuds, your face screwing up at the blunt flavor before it fades into a faint flowery aftertaste.

You look to Bucky, who has made his way over to the record player. A tune you recognize begins to float from the single speaker, but the small bit of familiarity doesn’t bring you much comfort.

“So, what is this place?” You ask, finally finding your voice again.

From over his shoulder, Bucky smiles at you. “This place is whatever we make it. Whatever we want it to be.”

Confusion warps your features at the vague response, brow creasing deeply. Bucky seems to notice this, because he’s turning to face you, leaning against the table behind him.

“Let me ask you something,” he begins, “Has the world been kind to you?”

Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out.

“Because from what I can see, it hasn’t been.”

With raised eyebrows and pinched lips, he pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle in before continuing. “You’re wandering the country alone; no family, no job, no real purpose.”

Although true, his words still slice through you; an unpleasant reminder that makes you feel oh so small. It has your voice sticking in your throat, and creates a burn in your eyes as you attempt to hold back tears.

“It’s okay,” Bucky assures, walking over to you.

He’s in front of you in a matter of seconds, closer than a person should be to someone they’ve just met. Before you can step away, he grasps your jaw, keeping you in place as he his steel blue eyes hold your gaze with an intense stare.

“We will be your family,” he says earnestly. “We will give you purpose.”

Wincing at the unwanted promise and the tight grip he has on your face, you manage to wiggle free with a few gentle pushes.

“Please,” you softly beg.

The drink, still in your hand, slips through your fingers and falls to the carpet beneath your feet; a dark puddle instantly forming as the liquid leaks into the fibers.

“There’s nothing out there for you,” you hear Bucky say, but it’s an almost distant sound. “Everything you will ever need is here, with me.”

He continues on, preaching about the ways of the world and his beliefs about a free society, but you’re having a hard time keeping up as his ramblings become even more erratic and a haziness settles in your mind, smothering any coherent thought.

Lightheaded, your body warms as something seeps into your veins, and you’re barely registering anything Bucky is saying now. All you can hear is a low muffled rant, your ears feeling as if they’ve been stuffed with cotton. When you attempt to take a step towards the door, you stumble like a newborn fawn learning to walk. Catching yourself on the table, you plant two hands solidly on the flat surface to help ground yourself; scrunching your eyes and shaking your head in hopes it’ll help make the room stop spinning.

You quickly recognize this is not like any high you’ve had before. “What…” you attempt, the word heavy on your tongue, “what did you do to me?”

Through semi-blurry vision, you watch as Bucky stops his pacing around the room. Sapphire eyes shaded in dark desire are set on you, a wicked smile curling his lips when he takes in your incoherent state. Then, he begins to methodically stalk towards you.

As you attempt to even your breathing, you feel his dominant presence come up behind you; fingertips brushing over your waist until you’re suffocating. A shudder runs down your spine when he leans in, whispering directly in your ear, “Let’s get a look at you, shall we, angel?”

“I think…” you begin with a deep breath, vision swirling in a sea of colors. Nausea surges through your gut, and you helplessly rub numb lips together to subdue it. “I think I should go to bed.”

Bucky hums in acknowledgment. “We will in a minute.”

Large hands slide around to your front and creep under your shirt, palming at your breasts. His touch is a dull sensation, your body continuing to absorb whatever drug he gave you, but it seems to react on its own accord; nipples pebbling as he gently massages the supple flesh.

“Mm, so soft,” he breathes into your hair.

The hold you have on reality is slipping through your fingers like precious grains of sand; delicate and nearly impossible to keep. Unable to do much of anything—mind and body on two separate wavelengths—you can only comply with whatever Bucky wishes to do to you. Heavy arms raise when he slips your shirt over your head; skin prickling as his hot breath fans down your neck. His soft lips trail kisses along your shoulder, dizzying and intoxicating.

Slowly, his hands move from your chest down to your bottoms; fingers splayed as to not miss a single inch of your body. A sigh falls from your lips when he unbuttons your jean shorts and snakes a hand inside, cupping your mound over your underwear. The firm, possessive hold has you pushing your backside into Bucky’s groin; his hardening length evident even through his pants.

At the action, a pleased groan rumbles in Bucky’s chest, the vibrations resonating through your entire being. Roughly, he pushes his fingers against your throbbing core, the damp fabric sticking to your folds.

Even with tainted blood and a mind diluted from rational thought, you know it’s wrong. You shouldn’t want his touch, yet your body continues to seek it out—desperate for more. And when he pulls away, a pitiful whine strains in your throat, but the agony is short lived.

Strong fingers hook under the hemline of your panties, gripping your shorts and shimmying them down. Gently, he encourages one foot, then the other to step out of your bottoms, the piece of clothing tossed mindlessly to the side. Now completely exposed and at his mercy, your body thrums with an unquenched desire while your mind begs you to run away.

An azure stare burns your skin as Bucky kneels behind you, appraising all that you have to offer him. His hands run up and down the expanse of your legs, taking in everything he can before he brings his fingers back to your damp heat. A quiet yelp escapes you as your body reacts to his ministrations, calloused digits dancing through your glistening folds and pinching at your aching clit.

“Oh, angel,” Bucky sighs, lips pressing satisfied kisses into your lower back. “You’re perfect for me.”

The want to be scared is there—your brain continuing to scream at you that what Bucky is doing is immoral—but your body is persistent on betraying you; opening up like a blooming flower, ready to accept his sunlit words and exhilarating touches.

Bucky’s fingers continue to toy with your sensitive core before he slowly slides one, then two fingers inside you. Instinctively, your legs spread to allow him better access. Bits of the wooden table splinter under your nails as you dig them into the hard surface, a groan of frustration erupting in your chest because you’re disgusted at your body’s compliance.

“Please…” you sigh in desperation, unsure if you’re asking him to stop or to get whatever he has planned over with.

Through the fog in your head, you hear the squelching sound of Bucky’s fingers moving in and out of you; tongue, teeth, and lips grazing over your thighs. He keeps his other hand occupied, resting it on the lower part of your stomach as his thumb gently swirls over your throbbing clit.

Your breathing is ragged as you struggle to fill your lungs, but when you feel a hot, wet tongue swipe over your clit, you choke on air and your mind goes blank.

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses and you can only whine in response. “So tight, so sweet. I can’t wait to make you mine, angel.”

Defiantly, your legs begin to shake as he drags his tongue over your clit and through your folds a few more times; nausea beginning to curdle in your stomach at the conflicting wants and desires warring within you.

You’re drowning in a vicious sea of confusion, anger, and lust; your mind spiraling as it tries to keep up with everything that’s happening. But then, for a moment, your head breaks through the surface when Bucky pulls away, leaving you where you stand by the table. With your eyes closed, you take advantage of your brief respite and attempt to regain your composure.

Completely unaware of your surroundings, you don’t even realize Bucky has returned or that you’re moving until your back meets the soft mattress of the bed in the corner. Your fingers wrap themselves in the sheet that’s under you, gripping tightly as you brace yourself. From where you lay, Bucky’s presence looms over you as he stands at the end of the bed; slightly fuzzy but still very much intimidating.

At his own, tauntingly slow pace, he undresses himself; his eyes fixated on your figure as he continues with his appraisal of you. Then, he climbs onto the bed. His hands grip your ankles, caress your knees; fingertips dancing along your inner thighs as he encourages them to open so he can settle between them.

Tears slip out of the corner of your eyes, your breathing shallow as you stare up at him, waiting in nervous anticipation. With his thumbs, Bucky spreads your folds, running the tip of his cock over your wanting pussy.

“You were made for me, you know that?” he rhetorically asks, continuing to grind his hips and lubricate his cock with your arousal. A hiss passes through his clenched teeth as he drops his head back, eyes fluttering closed. “My angel. My perfect, little angel.”

Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you hold back a cry as an unwanted wave of pleasure ripples through you at his assertions. Because after being alone for so long, you can’t deny how good it feels to be wanted.

Suddenly, Bucky stops his movements, shifting his hands to grip your waist as he looks down at you. Blue crystalline eyes partly hidden behind hooded lids meet your watery gaze.

“No more waiting,” he says, taking a hold of his stiff member and guiding it to your entrance.

When you feel him nudge his tip against your throbbing hole, your legs tense and attempt to close on impulse at the intrusion, but Bucky forces them to stay open. He clicks his tongue in slight admonishment, shaking his head at you before pushing in further.

Gradually, Bucky’s thick member stretches you open; a pleasant burn radiating from your core that elicits a soft whimper as you attempt to adjust. With his bottom lip held mercilessly between his teeth, a deep groan of satisfaction resonants in Bucky’s chest when he’s completely sheathed inside you.

“Like I said,” he begins with a cruel smile, “made just for me.”

As he leans down, you raise your arms, unsure if you’re reaching out to bring him closer or to push him away, and before you even have time to react, he’s pressing his lips against yours; forceful and full of desperation.

Initially, you recoil at the unsuspecting action, but as Bucky’s soft lips move against yours; his tongue gently coaxing its way into your mouth, you give in. Dark locks curtain around your face as he hovers over you, and you mindlessly brush them away and sink your nails into his scalp as you continue to kiss him back.

A mewl spills from your mouth into Bucky’s when he retracts his hips and pushes back inside you. His pace is slow—agonizingly slow—and he’s everywhere around you to the point you feel like you’re suffocating. Breaking the kiss, you gasp for air as your nails claw down his back.

Bucky doesn’t stop. With his arms caged around your head, his thumbs caress your temples while his lips brush tender kisses to your cheeks between quiet praises. After several more thrusts, he reaches down to grip your thigh and hooks it over his hip. Deep and unforgiving, the tip of his cock reaches the spongy sweet spot inside you.

The hard springs of the mattress dig painfully into your back as Bucky continues to move. The slow drag of his cock through your velvet walls is overwhelming, and sooner than you thought would be possible, you feel the clench in your lower belly, but it’s not enough.

“Faster,” you beg through heavy breaths. “Please.”

The tightened grip on your thigh tells you Bucky hears you, but he does nothing to appease you. Slow and meticulous, like he wants to draw this out for as long as he can for his own sick delight, he maintains his languid pace, and continues to shower you with eerily sweet affections. It’s a tortuous climb, but the yearning for your release is close to being satiated.

Pleased moans bleed from your swollen lips, your eyes screwing shut as you wait for the riptide of ecstasy to pull you under, but just as you feel your climax within reach, Bucky withdraws himself and you’re left feeling empty and deflated.

“Not yet,” Bucky firmly says.

Too exhausted and strung out, you barely put up a fight when he’s pulling away and leaving you—naked and still wanting—on the bed. Sleep threatens to take you, and you blink heavily several times as you try to evade it, but then the bed dips and you’re being flipped onto your stomach.

Behind you, Bucky spreads your legs with his knees and sinks his cock back inside you. Immediately, you clench around him, delighted to be full once again. Then, you feel the weight of Bucky’s entire body on your back when he leans forward; pressing a kiss to your cheek as he slides an arm under you.

His lips brush against the shell of your ear when he asks, “Ready to become mine?”

A tired sigh falls from your lips, and with a nearly empty mind you submit. “Yes.”

In an instant, your entire equilibrium is thrown off as Bucky lifts you from the bed, bringing your back flush against his chest. His arm—strong and possessive—holds you tight as he begins to thrust inside you again.

The room spins and tears prick your eyes as you drown in Bucky and the pleasure he’s bringing you; puffs of warm breaths fan down your neck as he pants against your ear, the feel of his thick cock moving in and out of you. A pattern of crescent moons form in his skin as your nails dig into his arm, gripping harshly to help ground yourself.

Hot chords of pleasure tighten your abdomen as your climax rises and Bucky continues to fuck into you. And just as you’re about to fall over the edge, Bucky takes a vice-like grip to your left arm and pins it to your side.

“This is going to hurt,” he says lowly, “but it’ll all be over soon.”

A scream rips through your lungs, but it sounds foreign, distant. Your vision whites out, body seizing up, as your climax hits and you fall into ecstasy. But the rapture doesn’t last long.

You hear the sizzling of flesh before you feel it; bare skin melting into raw tissue under the hot iron of a brand. The stench permeates your nostrils, eliciting a profound gag as it ruthlessly assaults your senses; a revolting smell of burnt meat and charred blood. The pain is indescribable. Numbing and all consuming at the same time.

You scream again.

“Shh, shh,” Bucky soothes, his lips buried in your hair.

His hold on you doesn’t break, even when you claw desperately at his arm to make it stop; to make him stop.

“I know, I know,” he says, voice eerily calm and even.

And just as quickly as it began, it’s over.

The brand falls to the floor with a loud clatter, but the pain in your arm still lingers. Tears stain your cheeks and your lungs strain for air. Faintly, you feel lips brushing over your shoulder with soft kisses of approval.

“You did so good for me, angel,” Bucky commends, still continuing to move inside you. “So good.”

Gradually, black begins to bleed into the fringes of your vision; head light but too heavy to keep up on your own. It falls back, landing on Bucky’s shoulder, and you barely register the feral growl he releases against your neck as a warmth begins to spread within your weeping cunt.

Then, your world tilts; the indistinct sensation of Bucky’s lips on your temple the last thing you feel before everything goes dark.

A dull, throbbing pain radiating from your left arm is the first thing you feel when you come to. Slowly, you blink your eyes open to take in your surroundings; regrettably finding yourself still in Bucky’s cabin, but you aren’t alone.

Beside you, Wanda sits with a contrite look on her face as she tends to your burn with aloe and cool clothes.

“It’ll start to feel better soon,” she comments, but she has yet to meet your eye.

Anger immediately begins to simmer in your blood at her apparent nonchalance about the manner.

“Why?”

With just one word you’re asking for a multitude of answers and reasons, but she gives you none. Instead, the corners of mouth fall as she pinches her lips together, her attention still focused on caring for your new mark.

Following her line of sight, you look to the wound—the charred outline of a five-point star. “What does it mean?”

Finally, Wanda meets your gaze. She forces a reassuring smile, a reflection of tears beginning to gather on her lower lash line as she responds, “It means we’re his.”

The words make your stomach drop and bile to rise in your throat, and it’s then you realize she’s just as trapped as you are when you glance to the tentacled skull that mars her own arm.

A few silent beats pass before you ask your next question.

“Why is mine different?”

“Because you’re only his.”

“Wanda.” Bucky’s stern voice cuts through the room, startling the two of you.

Quickly, she gets to her feet, and you aren’t sure if you’re ready to pass out or throw up at the sight of him. He takes calculated steps into the cabin, gesturing with his head for Wanda to leave you. As she begins to walk away, you desperately want to reach out for her to stay, but you can’t. From over her shoulder, she gives you an apologetic look before she disappears behind the closing door and you’re left alone with Bucky once again.

The air thickens and your heart is ready to beat out of your chest the closer Bucky gets. When he sits beside you on the bed, you try to move away, but your limbs are like lead. He brings his hand to your forehead, lightly running his fingers over the damp skin. No longer influenced by whatever drug he gave you earlier, you’re frantic to get away from his horrid touch; your head pressing into the pillow beneath it.

When he looks to your brand, a sickening smile spreads across his lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, leveling him with a contemptuous stare.

Bucky clenches his jaw in vexation; the muscles twitching under his skin as he seemingly tries to keep his temper in check.

“Now, angel,” he begins, moving his hand to cup your cheek with a firm grip—a silent warning, “there’s no need for that.”

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice is small, the words shaky as you fight to hold back tears.

Bucky’s features are colored in pity at your naïvety.

“Because I want to,” he replies condescendingly, his thumb stroking along your face as he speaks. “Because I can.”

“You’re a monster.”

Bucky chuckles hollowly. “Maybe, but you’ll learn to love me. Just like all the rest.”

Sorrow settles heavily within your chest and creates a deep crease in your brow. Your bottom lips quivers as you give in to your emotions; no longer caring if Bucky sees you cry.

With his hand still resting along your cheek, his thumb catches a rogue tear. He wipes it away, bringing the digit to his mouth. “So sweet.”

Then, he leans forward and forces his lips on yours. It’s vile and nauseating, and you don’t respond to his slow movements. After what feels like an eternity, he finally pulls away.

“Get some sleep,” he remarks, adjusting the sheet that covers your naked body. “I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I know,” he stammers, flesh hand coming to rub at the back of his neck in slight embarrassment. “I just thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”

The bashful look he gives you is endearing, and your lingering smirk is hidden behind the lid of the coffee cup as you take a sip.

“Well, it’s very thoughtful of you,” you assure. “And you’re, right, I could use a pick-me-up. I’ve got quite the pile of paperwork to sort through, thanks to Wilson’s stunt on the last mission.” A slight eye roll in jest has Bucky chuckling.

“Well, I’ll let you get to it, then,” he replies, stepping away from your desk towards the exit. “See ya around.”

“Bye.”

Giving him a final smile and a little wave, you watch as he disappears from sight before settling into your desk. The mountain of paperwork taunts you from where it sits, but you don’t get the chance to start on it just yet.

A quiet hum in contemplation from behind has you swiveling your chair to face your desk mate, Carla.

“What?”

“Oh,” Carla says in mock surprise, “nothing.” Looking up from her desk and registering the pointed look you give her, she continues. “Just interesting how a one Bucky Barnes seems to be lingering around your desk a lot recently.”

A crease forms in your brows at her words. “We’re friends.”

“Mhm,” she hums again, “if you say so. It’s just a lot of coffee and snacks he brings up here.”

“He’s being nice.”

“Okay.”

Lips pinching together and the furrow to your brow deepening, you turn back around.

Bucky is your friend, and he is nice. The blossoming friendship you have with Bucky started a handful of months ago after he held the door open for you one day as you arrived to work. Of course you’d known who he was when he first arrived at the Tower, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t originally a bit intimated by him. Not because of the unkind and grossly unfair reputation that preceded him, but because he was an Avenger, and a handsome one at that.

But the friendly smile and considerate gesture opened the figurative door to your friendship with Bucky. After that day, he seemed to pop up more and more in your everyday life. There was the the time you were attempting to juggle a pile of papers and office supplies back to your desk. Bucky seemingly came out of no where from the conference room you passed to offer his assistance. There’s also been a handful of shared lunches in the staff cafeteria, and a few times, Bucky offered to help you file paperwork, claiming I don’t have anything better to do at the moment. And recently, as your ever observant desk mate pointed out, he’s been bringing you coffee or sweet snacks a few times a week.

Pondering the implication from Carla for another brief moment, you shake it from your thoughts. You work in administration, hardly exciting, and you aren’t oblivious to the model-esque women Bucky seems to unintentionally lure in at company parties. He’s Bucky Barnes, the Winter Solider, and you’re, well...you. It just makes sense he’s only looking for a friend, and besides, he’s never given any romantic indications towards you.

Finally, the week comes to an end. Replying to some last minute emails and filing a few bits of paperwork, you’re ready for the weekend at last. As you begin packing up your bag, and shutting down your computer, Bucky’s reflection appears on the black screen before you, a smile on his face.

Turning in your chair, you’re a little surprised to see him, but not at all put out by his presence.

“Well, hello there,” you greet. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this Friday afternoon?”

The smile on Bucky’s face stretches just that little bit more, and he’s quickly dropping his gaze to the awkward shuffling of his feet.

“Uh, I was just wondering if you’re not busy, if you’d wanna grab a coffee or something with me?” He pauses. “There’s a coffeehouse a few blocks down...”

It’s obvious he’s a little hesitant, nervous maybe. But you chalk it up to the fact it’s the first time he’s asking you to do something not during work hours and not in the comfort of the Tower.

“Yeah,” you say, “I could go for a coffee or something.” Giving him another smile, you stand from your chair and grab your jacket.

“O-okay, great,” Bucky breathes in content and possibly relief. “Are you ready now, or did you need a few minutes...”

“Nope! I am all done for today and ready to get the hell out of here.”

“Alright,” he chuckles, watching you slip on your jacket and reach for your bag. “Here, let me.” Without a second thought, he takes the bag from your hand and slings it over his shoulder.

“Oh, thanks.” A smile of appreciation is aimed in his direction. “Let me know if it gets too heavy for ya, my laptop’s in there.”

“I think I can manage,” Bucky replies with another soft chuckle. He holds his hand out in the direction of the exit, waiting for you to lead the way.

The streets of New York are unsurprisingly busy. Bucky gestures in the direction of the coffeehouse, and you begin the trek through the crowd. A somewhat protective hand finds it way to the small of your back. It’s subtle, but you know it’s there. Guiding you through the mass of people, there’s hardly a moment where you’re in discomfort as Bucky ensures no one gets too close.

The quaint coffee shops comes into view, and Bucky is quick to hold the door open for you to enter.

“There’s a small park across the way,” he states as you stand in line, “I thought we could get our drinks to go and maybe hang out there for a bit.”

“That sounds nice.”

You give him a reassuring smile, because it does sound nice. Being cooped up in an office all day, albeit an office with extremely large windows, the lack of fresh air can still make it a little stuffy and tiring.

After placing your orders, Bucky doesn’t hesitate to whip out his wallet to pay for everything.

“I asked you to come,” he says, “Only fair.”

The park isn’t too busy; you’ve managed to find that awkward time between the end of work and school so there are a few open benches to relax on. Sipping at your iced coffee, Bucky sits a modest distance away, but his body is open towards you.

“I can’t wait for summer,” he comments, eyes closed, allowing a gentle breeze to blow over his face.

Admiring his profile for a moment, you hum in agreement.

“It’ll be here soon,” you reply, “and then we’ll all be wanting winter back.”

“Nah,” he says, turning to look to you, “I don’t like the cold. Summer has always been my favorite.”

His comment is innocent enough, but from the knowledge you have of his past, you know there’s a deeper meaning, a heartbreaking reason, as to why this man doesn’t like the cold.

“Steve and I used to train hop from Brooklyn to Cony Island at least once a summer.”

His voice brings you out of your thoughts, focusing on him again.

“I haven’t been back in ages.” A wistful smile pulls at his lips and crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I’d love to go sometime.”

“Why don’t you?” The question flies from your mouth before you can even register it.

Startled, Bucky looks back to you.

“I mean, why haven’t you gone back?” You softly say in genuine curiosity.

“I don’t know,” he replies, “I guess I just haven’t made the time for it.”

The topic changes from there, and conversation flows until the sun begins its descent behind the large buildings. Again, there isn’t a moment of hesitation when Bucky offers to walk you home. Even though you assure him you could manage, he’s insistent.

“Thanks again for the coffee,” you say when you reach the door of your apartment building. “It was fun to sit and chat somewhere that wasn’t the Tower,” you add with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah it was,” Bucky agrees, lips etching upwards.

“Alright, well I’ll see you on Monday, I guess.”

One last look of appreciation before you’re turning to enter the building, but then the sound of his voice stops you.

“Hey,” he calls, words faltering as he realizes he’s gotten your attention and he needs to continue. A nervous energy radiates from him as you wait. “Would you wanna go with me?” A quizzical look contorts your features, eyebrows raising as you try to piece together what he’s offering. “To Cony Island, I mean. I know it’s still a little early in the season, but the rides open next weekend, and...it could be fun to go with you.”

To go with you.

The words induce a small fluttering in your belly, but it’s quickly squashed as you twist out the true meaning. It would be fun to go with you because you’re a nobody, and the chance of Bucky being recognized is significantly low. Going with Steve, or anyone else on the team for that matter, would most likely cause an uproar. You’re a safe option. A friendly option.

“Yeah, Buck,” you finally respond. “I’d love to go with you.”

A sigh of relief seems to pass through his lips, and a somewhat dopey smile takes over his features.

“Next weekend, you said?”

“Yeah, if that works for you?”

“I’ll put it in my calendar.”

__________

Returning from yet another lunch with Bucky, you still hold the small bundle of wildflowers he brought you because I don’t know, they just reminded me of you. As you approach your desk area, a knowing look is on Carla’s face when she sees the flowers.

“From Sergeant Barnes?”

Narrowing your eyes in the slightest at her suggestion, you pause before responding. “Maybe.”

A small quirk of her eyebrow, lips pressed into an unimpressed line, she turns back around without saying more.

You reach for a water bottle and one of the coffee mugs that’s taken up residency on your desk. Pouring just enough in the mug for the flowers, you place them inside, gently fluffing the little petals before setting it off to the side. But your attention doesn’t stray from the mound of color as you begin to question the friendship you’ve come to accept with Bucky.

When you step into the elevator a little later, you’re surprised to see Steve standing there. It’s not often the Avengers themselves make their way to this part of the Tower, but it does happen. He gives you a curt, friendly nod as you enter, and those thoughts of Bucky and your friendship take over again. So you decide to ask the original man out of time what it could all mean.

“Hey, Cap,” you begin, “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Back in your time,” a pause when you see the look he’s giving you, “I mean no offense, I’m just curious, how did you go about dating back then? I mean, how did one know when something was a date?”

His eyes narrow in intrigue. “Does this have something to do with Bucky?”

You nod in silence, pressing the folder full of papers against your chest.

“What happened?”

“He’s asked me to go to Cony Island with him this weekend.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s definitely a date.”

“What?” You ask in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

He turns, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the opposite wall to face you directly.

“Well, let’s look at all the facts,” he states. “Does he open doors for you?” A nod. “Does he bring you things?” Another nod. "Offer to help you with things?” A third nod. “Well, there ya go. He’s courting you, and he’s asked you on date.”

“I thought he was just being nice!”

“He is being nice,” he replies, “because he likes you.”

“Oh my god,” you softly groan. “What do I do?”

A shrug of his shoulders as he stands upright again. “That’s up for you to decide. Do you like him back?”

The question has you taking a moment, gaze falling to the floor as you contemplate. The idea was one you hadn’t fully considered because it just made sense Bucky was only looking for a friend. Protecting your heart and shielding your emotions, you never let it get to that point of falling for him. But as you think about all the little things he does for you, all the talks you’ve had, there’s only one answer to that question.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “Yeah, I do like him.”

“Then it seems like you know what to do.”

The doors open and he shoots you a wink as he steps out of the elevator, a playful smirk teasing the corner of his lips. Then you’re left alone with this new revelation.

By the time the weekend rolls around, you’re eager to see Bucky. He stopped by your desk a few times during the week, but it wasn’t the right time to ask him. To figure out if what Steve said in the elevator was correct and what Bucky’s intentions truly are. Of course you’d be happy to keep what you have with him platonic, he is a good friend. But for your sanity, you just need to know if that’s all he wants from you.

That’s why, on Saturday morning when Bucky comes to your apartment, you don’t hesitate to get it out of the way.

“Wait,” you begin, “before we go, is this a date?”

“Uh, I...um, do you want it to be a date?” He asks, an uncertainty in his voice, but he looks to you with wide, hopeful eyes, waiting.

A moment’s pause as you ponder your response. “I suppose I’m hoping that’s what this is.” A shy smile creeps across your lips, body heat rising as you look down at him from the top of the stoop.

The smile he gives you is breathtaking. Blue eyes twinkling in the mid-morning sun, a warm hand held out for you to take.