Enchanté.

Yelena rolled her eyes.  “Ugh, boring.  I wanna hear about something like tongue guy again.”

Y/N almost choked on her drink as she laughed harder before wiping her eyes and sighing.  “Oh tongue guy.  I miss him.”

They both laughed before they were approached by a few people.  The host of the party, Clint, was talking to two other people and smiled at Yelena and Y/N as he brought them forward.  “Ladies,” he nodded to them, “this is my work buddy, Bucky Barnes,” he introduced them to the man next to him, “and his wife Sharon Carter.”

Y/N smiled and shook Sharon’s hand since she was closest first, then turned to Bucky and had to stop herself from physically gawking at him.  He was easily the most beautiful man she had ever seen.  After Clint introduced her and Yelena to them she heard herself say, “Sharon, congratulations on bagging that,” as she nudged her playfully.

Sharon’s eyes widened, and there was a flash of annoyance on her face before she laughed.  Bucky laughed loudly, rubbing his face with his hand.  “Thanks, I consider myself very lucky,” Sharon said, squeezing Bucky’s arm.  As the conversation between them all continued Y/N couldn’t stop glancing at Bucky.  Every time he spoke he was quiet but assertive, and shyly funny, seeming surprised when people would laugh at his one liners or jokes.  She noticed he had a prosthetic, but it was the most advanced prosthetic she had ever seen, something that looked futuristic and worked just like his right arm.  The dimmed lights reflected off of it beautifully.  As Yelena and Sharon started a conversation and Clint excused himself to host around to other people, Y/N found herself alone with Bucky.

“So uh, what do you do for work?” Bucky asked her.

She inwardly grimaced, preparing herself for judgment.  “I’m an intimacy coach, certified cuddler and part time escort,” she rattled off, taking a quick drink when she finished.  His eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening as he looked at her.  “Oh, and some fat fetish stuff, but yeah.  I’m a sex worker,” she said with a smirk and a shrug.  

He huffed a laugh.  “Interesting.  How did you get into all that?”

She wasn’t expecting that question.  That wasn’t usually the follow-up she got to telling people what she did.  “Well, I was never really good in school, and I never found anything that I really wanted to do.  I kinda fell into hard times and came across a sugar baby website.”

“Oh, so you were a sugar baby for a while?” he asked, his full attention on her.

“Yes, for a few years.  Then I transitioned into the pleasure dominatrix space for a while, which I still do sometimes depending on the client, then that transitioned into fat fetish stuff, escorting and then I decided to get certified and officially trained in becoming an intimacy coach and certified cuddling.”

“Wow,” he smiled.  “What would you say is the one you're most booked with?”

She raised her eyebrows at him.  Another insightful question rather than a sexual one.  “Um, lately it’s been intimacy coaching and cuddling.”

“Really?  And would you say your clientele is more male, female, transgender, or…?” Bucky asked, his head tilting at her.  

She smiled proudly at him.  Boy was he asking the right questions.  “Honestly?  Mostly newly divorced men.”

“Really?” he asked with a frown.  “Why do you think that is?”

“Well, most of them have been with the same woman for over a decade.  They don’t know how to get themselves back out there into the dating world, or take that next big step, like sex, with a new partner.  So it’s just a way for them to get used to something, or someone, new and how to approach it without coming across as desperate or inexperienced, which seems to be what embarrasses them the most.  But also I’ve had a lot of them come to me because they’re lonely, which is completely understandable after having that one constant in your life for so long just suddenly gone.”

He nodded along with what she was saying, then smiled when she finished.  “That’s actually kinda sweet,” he said.  “In a weird way.”

Y/N laughed and nodded.  “It is.  My job is weird to most people.  But I like it overall.”

“What are the drawbacks?” he asked.

She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes, making him laugh.  “Oh you know, the occasional asshole trying to take advantage of the situation.  But I do extensive background checks, security deposits, and I make it clear that their information is being shared with a safe third party in case anything bad were to happen to me, so good luck getting away with it.  I’m also trained in self defense tactics and have a concealed carry permit, and I know how to use it,” she winked at him.

Bucky laughed again.  “That’s good.  Unfortunate that you have to do that, but good.”  Sharon suddenly approached and wrapped herself around his flesh arm, giving Y/N a glare.

“Hey babe, I’m ready to go,” she said in a sickly sweet tone, giving him a pointed look.

“Oh, well we just got here–” he started.

“We’re leaving,” Sharon said, her voice firm but still sweet.  She turned to Y/N and gave her a polite but thin smile.  “So nice to meet you,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Y/N’s head tilted at her, knowing that Sharon was angry with her talking to Bucky, having obviously found out from someone else what it was she did for a living.  But she smiled at her anyways.  “Yes, so nice to meet both of you,” she said, nodding at Sharon then looking at Bucky.  “Thanks for the questions,” she said to him with a kinder smile.

“Thanks for the stimulating conversation,” he thanked her, though his smile looked thin and guarded with Sharon nearby.  “It was nice to meet you.”

Sharon huffed then pulled Bucky away from Y/N, walking with him purposefully toward the exit.  Y/N watched them leave, shaking her head in annoyance.  “Jesus, she’s uptight,” Yelena said, sidling back up to Y/N.  “She asked me about you and I was just honest, then she–”

“It’s fine, babes,” Y/N said, linking her arm with Yelena’s arm.  “Her loss.  I’m quite a catch.”

“You are!” Yelena said with a wide smile.  

***

1 year later

“Oh!  And I have the juiciest news!” Yelena said loudly over the drinks and wings at their table.  They were at a local sports bar for their monthly girls’ night.  They normally wouldn’t go to a place like this, but this bar had the best wings in the city.  

Y/N took a swig of her cocktail before her eyes widened and she leaned forward.  “Spill,” she commanded.

“Oh it’s piping hot tea,” Yelena gushed.  “You remember Sharon and Bucky?  From that party a while back?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, making Yelena laugh.  “The uptight one with her fine ass husband she doesn’t deserve?  How could I forget?”

“Well, they’re divorced,” Yelena said.  Y/N’s mouth dropped open, her eyes widening.  “And from what Clint said, she cheated on him!”  Y/N’s mouth dropped even farther, her eyes comically wide and her eyebrows furrowing.  “I know right?!” Yelena squealed.  “Like how do you cheat on that?”

Y/N let out a loud scoff.  “What in the actual fuck?” she cried.  Men at a table nearby looked over with judgmental looks and one of them shushed her.  “Fuck off!” she turned and flipped him off.  “This is a sports bar, asshole.  Everyone is talking and yelling!”  He quickly looked away and Y/N rolled her eyes again before focusing back on Yelena.  “Why the hell would you cheat on the most beautiful man in the world?”

“Apparently she was really emotionally and verbally abusive to him at home,” Yelena said sadly.  “Clint said she cheated on him with his rival at work, too, so it was like a double whammy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Y/N grimaced.  “She’s certifiably insane.  Poor guy.”

“Right?  Clint said he’s been struggling with it ever since.  And I may or may not have reminded Clint about your work and gave him one of your cards to pass on to Bucky,” she said with a wicked grin.

Y/N’s eyes widened again, her own wide, wicked smile growing on her face.  “Yelena, you evil genius,” she complimented her reverently.

Yelena flipped her hair with a proud smile.  “Yes, yes, I am,” she said.  “I don’t know if he’ll actually reach out or not.  But I thought if anyone could help him, it’d be you and your sex magic.”

Y/N laughed loudly at her, making the men nearby glare at them again.  

***

Y/N was woken up to the sound of her work phone dinging.  She glanced at the alarm clock on her side table and groaned at the time glaring 6:45 a.m.  She didn’t need to wake up until much later, and groaned as she reached out and grabbed her phone off the charging dock and held it up to her face, wincing at the bright light as it turned on.  It was a text from an unknown number, and she pressed on the message in curiosity.

Hi, is this Y/N?

She sighed and typed back.

Yes, and this is?

This is Bucky.  I was given your number by Clint.  We met at his party a little over a year ago?

Y/N gasped and sat up straight in her bed, now fully awake.  The three bubbles popped up again as he continued typing.

I’m sorry to text so early.  I was just wondering if maybe I could schedule a consultation with you soon?

Y/N smiled knowingly at the text.

Absolutely.  What days and times work best for you?

! new ! ˚₊ · »-♡→ everything she wants @spdrveil

⤷ bucky barnes x shield agent!reader normalcy isn't something you've ever thought possible in the life of a shield agent, but for the first time in his life, bucky can see right through you and your desire for a future without blood and guns.

! new ! ˚₊ · »-♡→ you belong with me @elliestwoleftfingerss

⤷ bucky barnes x neighbour!reader bucky is afraid to tell you about his true feelings, scared to ruin what you have going on between you. a mishap makes him realise what he could be for you.

! new ! ˚₊ · »-♡→ On the Subject of Marriage @salty-tang

⤷ wedding-hater groomsman!bucky x planning-the-wedding bridesmaid!reader It was supposed to be simple: plan the wedding, survive the vendors, don’t strangle Bucky Barnes. But perfection cracks when an unexpected disaster hits, and in the quiet aftermath you discover the last thing you'd expect - that falling in love isn't exactly what friends do.

! new ! ˚₊ · »-♡→ Last Minute Gift @carvedmyheart

⤷ Bucky x Cage!Reader After the longest day of working, you sneak to the kitchen to whip up a quick gift for your Valentine, the Bucky Barnes.

! new ! ˚₊ · »-♡→ Not just your neighbor @its-in-the-woods

⤷ Bucky tfatw x you (male) You were his neighbor and friend. Then somewhere along the way, one Valentine's day, it became more.

˚₊ · »-♡→ The Shape of Home @navybrat817

⤷ TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Bucky's attempt at cooking your favorite meal in his apartment leads to an important and heartfelt conversation.

˚₊ · »-♡→ obsessed and in love @heldbybarnes

⤷ beefy!bucky barnes x reader a year on the run turns you and bucky into undefined, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other lovers—until a new recruit flirts with you back at the tower, and bucky proves exactly who you belong to by fucking you loud enough for everyone to hear… then admits he’s obsessed and in love with you.

˚₊ · »-♡→ Back Soonest, My Love @quantumbarnes

⤷ soldier!Bucky Barnes x commoner!reader A lover with a sword in his hand and his heart in his eyes. A lover who promises and always fulfills. When James Barnes gets back from war, he shows you his love written in the sky.

˚₊ · »-♡→ Our Coffee Shop @buckysdecaflove

⤷ Congressman Barnes x F!Reader After a couple of encounters in your usual coffee shop with Congressman Barnes you realize both of you are getting fond of each other.

˚₊ · »-♡→ A Bouquet of Flowers @badbitchsincebirth05

⤷ New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader Bucky Barnes has never missed a holiday. After Hydra, he wanted to celebrate every single one, especially once you came into his life. However, this year for Valentine’s Day, a mission pulled him away. Or did it?

˚₊ · »-♡→ The Start of Forever @dei-dreamz

⤷ Bucky x Cage!Reader You and Bucky tie the knot, let the honeymoon chaos begin.

˚₊ · »-♡→ Darling Mine @tw1sters

⤷ 40s!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader Your deep-rooted feelings for Bucky Barnes — beautiful and untouchable — were never meant to surface. However, when he kindly invites you to spend Valentine's Day with him, you also don't expect yourself to hope for more.

˚₊ · »-♡→ A misunderstanding @buckysdecaflove

⤷ Grumpy!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!F!Reader From the first time Bucky sees you he realize you're something different, but maybe eavesdropping is not his best ally at the moment. Now he has to remind himself not everyone is an enemy.

˚₊ · »-♡→ a rose a day @juniebjonesin

⤷ thunderbolts!bucky x female reader as the thunderbolts’ overworked assistant, invisibility comes with the job—late nights, impossible schedules, no recognition. so the single red rose waiting on your desk feels like a mistake. until another appears. then another. each morning brings a quiet gift, easing the exhaustion you’ve learned to carry. by valentine’s day, your desk holds a full bouquet—and far too many unanswered questions.

˚₊ · »-♡→ Don’t Wait For the Sky to Clear @singulartoast

⤷ Farmer!Bucky x Popstar!reader A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows?

He was already sitting at the table when you entered, cuffs clamped around his wrists and linked to a bolted chain that allowed him just enough movement to rest his forearms on the scarred wood. His hair fell in uneven strands that framed his face, his jaw dark with stubble. He didn’t look up when the orderly shut the door behind you and left, but you felt his awareness all the same—like the air itself had shifted to acknowledge your presence.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you began, your voice steady but quieter than you intended. The metal chair scraped as you sat down across from him. His head lifted at last, and blue eyes fixed on yours. They didn’t blink often.

He smiled faintly, the kind of expression that wasn’t warm but deliberate. “Doctor.” The word stretched out, like he was tasting it.

You nodded, keeping your hands folded neatly on the folder so he couldn’t see the slight tremor in your fingers. “I’ll be meeting with you regularly. Our goal is to understand what you’ve been experiencing, and to see what steps might help.”

“Steps,” he repeated, his voice low, threaded with an accent buried under decades. “Steps where? Out of here?”

“Steps toward treatment,” you clarified. Neutral, professional.

That was when he leaned forward, the chains clinking softly. He didn’t break eye contact. “You smell like lilacs.”

The clinical script in your head faltered. It was an odd observation, inappropriate, but his tone wasn’t mocking—it was almost contemplative. “That’s not relevant,” you said, sharper than you meant.

He smirked, leaning back just enough to make the chair creak. “It’s relevant to me.”

You took a slow breath and flipped open the file. “Your previous psychiatrist noted that you refused to engage in structured conversation. You spoke in fragments, and at times refused to answer questions. I’d like to try again, if you’ll allow it.”

His eyes flicked to the open folder, then back to you. “She wore red lipstick. Thought it made her look older. More serious. She stopped wearing it after I told her it made her look like she was trying too hard.”

Your chest tightened. There was no note about that in the file. “How do you know that would be important to her?”

His smile widened just slightly, but it wasn’t pleasant. “People tell you who they are when they think you aren’t listening. I listen.” His gaze dropped to your hands, still folded neatly. “You bite your nails. Not lately. You’ve been trying to stop. Two weeks now?”

You curled your fingers in against the folder without thinking. The urge to defend yourself warred with the instinct to redirect the session, keep the upper hand. He hadn’t seen you outside of this room—he couldn’t have. Was he guessing, or was it some uncanny perception? “You notice small things,” you said, trying to bring control back into your tone. “That can be a strength.”

“Or a weapon,” he countered, his voice quiet again. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator measuring the reach of its prey. “I know more about you already than you know about me. That makes you nervous.”

Your pen tapped once against the paper before you forced it still. “What makes me nervous is when a patient avoids direct questions.” You looked up at him firmly. “Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”

He chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “You tell me. You’ve got the file. The doctors who came before you decided what I am.” He leaned forward again, closer than before. The chain pulled taut. “What do you think I am?”

For a moment, the room felt too small, the walls too close. You remembered the orderly’s warning glance before the door closed. Dangerous. Manipulative. He was trying to unsettle you. Still, you met his stare. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

His smile thinned, sharp as glass. “Then I look forward to our sessions, Doctor. I think you’ll enjoy them more than you expect.”

The clock on the wall ticked loud in the silence that followed. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. His eyes never left you, not even as you stood, signaled for the guard, and the lock turned again. And even as you left, you felt it—the sense of being studied, catalogued, remembered.

The second time you saw him, the asylum felt heavier. It wasn’t just the damp chill of stone walls or the flickering bulbs in the hallways—it was the knowledge of him waiting, somewhere behind a door, replaying the way he’d looked at you the first time.

You’d told yourself not to think about it afterward. You’d gone home, poured a glass of wine you barely touched, sat on your sofa with a book that you never opened. But even then, it had felt like his eyes were still on you, cataloguing every flick of your fingers against the page, every sigh, every unfinished swallow. The thought had burrowed under your skin: He shouldn’t know. He couldn’t know. So how did he?

Your colleagues had noticed something. You caught the sideways glances in the break room, the muttered “brave” and “reckless” when your name was paired with his on the assignment list. One older psychiatrist had cornered you, his hand heavy on your arm. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He gets under your skin. That’s his game. Don’t play it.” You’d nodded, thanked him, and promised you knew the boundaries. But even then, part of you had bristled at the warning, as if he was questioning your competence instead of his danger.

Now, walking the long corridor toward the interview room, the sound of your heels echoed louder than usual. Two orderlies flanked the door, and when you nodded, they opened it with a glance that said everything they didn’t say aloud: good luck.

Bucky was waiting. He always seemed to be waiting. His posture was deceptively casual, chair angled back slightly, chains pooled loose around his wrists. He raised his head the moment you entered. No smile this time. Just that relentless stare. “Doctor,” he greeted, voice low.

You shut the door behind you, nodded at the guard who lingered just a moment longer than necessary, then took your seat. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“You didn’t sleep well,” he said, almost immediately.

You froze with your pen halfway out of your pocket. “Excuse me?”

His lips curved, faint, deliberate. “Your eyes. Tired. Coffee before you came here—two sugars, no cream. You only do that when you need the caffeine more than the taste. Means you didn’t sleep.”

It was nothing he could have witnessed. You felt a prickle race up the back of your neck. “You can’t know that.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “I notice things. It’s what kept me alive. Noticing. You’d be surprised what people give away.” His gaze lowered to your hands again. “Even you.”

Your fingers curled around the pen too tightly. “This session is about you,” you said firmly.

“Everything is about me now,” he countered, quiet but assured. He leaned forward, the chain taut. “You’ve been thinking about me.” The denial rose on your tongue, sharp, professional. But he kept talking, his words a blade sliding between your ribs. “You went home after last time. Poured yourself a drink, tried to read something, couldn’t focus. You replayed what I said about the lilacs, didn’t you? Wondered how I knew. Wondered if I’d been near you without you noticing.” His eyes gleamed, satisfaction curving his mouth. “You wondered if I could be right outside your door.”

The pen snapped against the paper as you slammed it down, voice tight. “That’s enough.”

His laugh was soft, humorless, echoing in the small room. “Touched a nerve.”

You forced yourself to breathe, to sit straighter, to let the silence linger long enough for control to return. “Tell me about the night terrors,” you said finally, forcing the conversation back to the file in front of you. “Your previous doctor noted you reported vivid dreams.”

He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch until you looked up, and then he said, “Dreams aren’t the problem. Waking up is.”

“Explain.”

“You wake, and for a moment you don’t know where you are. You reach for something—someone—that isn’t there. Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, your lungs burn, your body begs you to believe it’s all real. Then you realize it’s not. And you’re alone.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “You know what that feels like, don’t you?”

The words slid under your skin like ice water. “This isn’t about me,” you said, more brittle than you intended.

He smiled again, slow, certain. “But it could be.”

The orderly outside coughed, the faint sound of movement reminding you there were other people within shouting distance. That reminder steadied you. “That’s all for today,” you said, closing the file with finality.

He didn’t protest. Didn’t move. Just watched you stand, watched the guard unlock the door, watched you leave. But just before it shut, his voice followed, curling after you like smoke, “sweet dreams, Doctor.”

You kept walking, even though your pulse hammered in your ears. And all through the rest of the day, no matter how many files you reviewed, how many colleagues you nodded to in the hall, the words stayed with you.

Sweet dreams.

---

The rain had been relentless all morning. The kind of storm that rattled the barred windows of the asylum and left the halls reeking faintly of damp stone. You sat at your desk with his file open, the pages already softening at the edges from the number of times you’d turned them. There was a note from administration at the top in neat, block handwriting, consider termination of sessions if patient continues to escalate.

You traced your thumb along the margin where you’d written observations after your last meeting. He knew too much. Not just about his environment, but about you. That wasn’t in the manuals, wasn’t covered in your training. The textbooks didn’t explain how to handle a patient who seemed to look through you like glass.

Still, you signed your name on the attendance sheet, and when the orderly opened the door, you walked in. Bucky was already there. He always was. He sat with his chair angled slightly away from the table this time, his cuffed wrists loose in his lap. The posture was a show—you could tell. It was carefully chosen to look unguarded, almost lazy, but the line of his shoulders was taut. He turned his head toward you when you entered, eyes catching the weak fluorescent light. “Doctor,” he said softly.

You set the file down. “Good morning.”

He chuckled under his breath, leaning forward until the chain rattled against the table. “Is it?”

“Do you want to tell me why it isn’t?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his voice dropped into something almost conversational, intimate, as though you were two people speaking in confidence instead of psychiatrist and patient. “I dream about blood,” he said. “The weight of it. Not nightmares, not really. More like… memories with teeth.” He looked down at his hands, flexing the one still covered in faint scars. “I remember their faces. Not all of them. Just enough. Screaming, choking, going limp. And I liked it.”

The air left the room. You were careful not to move, not to flinch. “You liked it.”

He lifted his gaze back to yours, unblinking. “You’re supposed to say I didn’t. You’re supposed to tell me it was conditioning, that I wasn’t in control. But I was. At least part of me. You can’t take that away from me.”

You inhaled slowly. The words were deliberate, crafted to provoke. “Why do you want me to take it away from you?”

A sharp laugh burst from him, humorless and low. “Because if you say I wasn’t in control, then I get to walk around thinking I’m not a monster. And if you don’t…” His smile spread, thin and sharp. “Then I know exactly what I am.”

“Which do you want to be?” you asked, steadying your voice.

His eyes narrowed, the smile lingering. “Which would you rather I be?”

The question caught you like barbed wire. It was manipulative, designed to entangle, but some part of you felt the trap tighten around your ribs anyway. You forced your gaze down to the notes in the file. “This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You come here, sit across from me, ask your questions with that careful tone. But you’re listening. Really listening. The others—they just want to put me in a box, shove me full of pills until I drool. You want to understand.”

“That’s my job,” you said.

He leaned forward, closer, the chain pulling taut. “No. It’s more than that. You need to understand me. You want to know how deep the rot goes. You want to know if you can fix me.”

The silence stretched. The rain battered harder against the windows. Finally, you asked, “and can I?”

His mouth curved, slow, deliberate, like a knife sliding free from its sheath. “No one fixes me, Doctor. But you… you might be the one I let try.”

Your pen dug into the paper, the ink pooling in a sharp dot before you forced yourself to keep writing. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, redirecting before the weight of his words could sink too far. “Tell me about what they made you do.”

His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes changed. Darkened. “They stripped me down. Took away my name, my memories, my choices. Left the shell. You want to know what it feels like to stop being a man and start being a weapon?”

“Yes,” you said.

His stare burned into you, unflinching. “It feels like being fucked by ghosts. Every time you blink, there’s another one inside you, another command, another hand on the trigger. You don’t even know where you end and they begin. And then they’re gone, and it’s just you. With blood under your nails and no excuses.” The words made your throat tighten, the pen nearly slipping in your hand. And then, softer, more insidious, “sometimes I wonder what command I’d follow if it came from you.”

Your pulse jumped hard enough that you prayed it didn’t show in your face. “That’s not appropriate,” you managed.

He smiled, wolfish now, tilting his head. “That’s not a denial.”

The orderly’s knock on the door broke the moment, sharp and sudden. You blinked, tearing your gaze away, closing the file too quickly. “That’s all for today.”

But as the guards came in to unchain him, he didn’t move his eyes from yours. His voice followed you out, low and almost gentle, “you could tell me to do anything. Anything at all. And I would.”

The door shut behind you, and for a long time, you just stood in the hall, the storm hammering against the building as though it wanted in.

---

The lights buzzed overhead with their usual sickly hum, the pale fluorescence tinting everything in the asylum to the same washed-out shade of grey. You’d grown used to it, but sitting across from him it was suddenly oppressive, like the bulbs themselves bent lower, dimming the air between you.

He was quiet when you entered this time. No greeting, no smirk. Just a steady gaze as you set the folder on the table and sat down. His posture was too still, his hands folded neatly in his lap—an imitation of calm, you realized, rather than the thing itself.

You clicked your pen and began, “I’d like to continue where we left off. You said Hydra took away your choices. That you felt like a weapon.”

His eyes flicked down to your hands, then back up. “That bother you? Hearing me say that?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Because you want to believe you can talk me into being human again. You want to believe your voice is enough to overwrite years of programming.” His mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “Like a magic spell.”

You let the silence hang, writing a note you didn’t need to. He leaned forward. The chains rattled, but the sound was soft, almost intimate. “You ever think about control?” he asked.

Your pen stilled. “Control?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low now, coaxing. “How much of it you really have. Over yourself. Over the people in this place. Over me.” He tilted his head, and the fluorescent lights caught on his eyes, making them gleam faintly. “Do you think you control this room?”

“Yes,” you said carefully.

He smirked, leaning back, the chair creaking under him. “Then tell me to do something.”

Your chest tightened. “This isn’t—”

“Tell me.” His voice was firm now, almost a command. “Tell me to do something simple. Anything. Say it.”

You hesitated, pulse spiking against your throat. Every professional instinct screamed that you should redirect, shut the suggestion down. But your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it. “Sit up straighter.”

For a moment, his expression didn’t change. Then, deliberately, he slid his shoulders back and straightened, spine rigid, chin lifting. The movement was slow, measured, exaggerated just enough to show that it was no real obedience—it was a performance. “See?” His voice was a near whisper. “You could tell me to do worse than that. You could tell me to get on my knees, to beg. You could tell me to wrap these chains around your wrist and drag you across the table. And I would.”

The room shrank, air pressing tight against your lungs. “That’s not appropriate,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

He laughed, quiet and dark. “But it’s true. You don’t believe in control, Doctor. You believe in power. Difference is, power doesn’t ask permission.”

You gripped the pen tighter, fingers aching. “You said before you dream about blood. Do you dream about power, too?”

His eyes narrowed, studying you, and then he spoke with a soft kind of certainty that felt worse than shouting. “I dream about you.”

Your heart stopped.

“In the dark,” he went on. “Your face at the edge of the light. The sound of your voice when you try to keep it steady. I see your hands—always your hands. Holding the pen, the folder, the little twitch of your fingers when you’re nervous. And I dream about what else those hands could do.”

Your throat worked, but no words came out. He smiled, sharp and slow.

“You think I don’t notice how you avoid touching this table? Like it’s dirty. Like if you keep your hands on the file you’ll stay safe. But I see it. I see the way you sit straighter when I get close, the way you hold your breath.” He leaned forward again, the chain taut. “I see you, Doctor. Better than you see yourself.”

The silence was unbearable. Your pulse thundered in your ears, the rain from outside pattering against the window like a metronome. Finally, you forced your voice into the space between you. “Do you think these confessions help you?”

His smile dropped into something flat, colder. “They help me remind you who I am. And who you could be.”

The orderly knocked at the door. The sound made you jump. He saw it. Of course he did. “That’s enough for today,” you said quickly, snapping the folder shut.

The guards entered, stepping behind him to unchain his cuffs. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move his gaze from you. As the door swung shut, his voice followed, quiet enough that it felt meant only for you. “Next time, tell me something you’ve never told anyone. Fair’s fair.”

The door locked, the bolts sliding into place. But you walked the corridor with the weight of him pressing against your back, his words burrowing under your skin where no lock could reach.

---

The storm had passed, leaving the asylum damp and eerily quiet. The hall smelled of bleach and wet concrete, the kind of sterile rot that never quite left the walls. You sat at the table first this time, file open, pen ready, spine held deliberately straight. You told yourself the posture was for control.

When the door opened, he entered with the guards, his cuffs already fastened. He didn’t look at them. He looked only at you, eyes locking the moment the threshold was crossed. A faint curl of a smile touched his mouth as he sat down, the chain scraping against the table. “You came back,” he said softly.

“It’s my job,” you replied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “That’s what you tell yourself.”

You wrote the date at the top of your notes page, ignoring him. The scratch of the pen was loud in the silence. “Did you think about what I asked you?” His voice cut through the quiet. “About telling me something you’ve never told anyone.”

You didn’t look up. “This is not about me.”

“It is now.”

His certainty pressed against your ribs. You inhaled slowly, kept your eyes on the file. “We’re here to talk about your experiences. Your memories. You’ve mentioned dreams, nightmares, memories with blood. Today, I’d like you to tell me what you feel when you wake.”

He leaned back, smirk widening. “Cold. Alone. And hard.”

Your gaze flicked up despite yourself, and the deliberate spark in his eyes told you he’d been waiting for it. “That’s not appropriate,” you said evenly.

“But it’s true.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You want truth, don’t you? Isn’t that why you keep coming back, no matter what the others say? You want me to bleed the truth out for you.”

“Truth is not the same as provocation,” you countered.

“Provocation is just truth with teeth.” He leaned forward, chain rattling. “You want me to bare mine? I’ll do it. But you’ll owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“A piece of yourself.”

The silence stretched, taut. His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. Finally, you said, “what do you want me to tell you?”

He smiled faintly, victorious. “Something small. Something soft. Something human. Not your resume, not your degrees. Something real.”

You shifted in your chair, the file heavy in your lap. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only way you’ll ever understand me. You can’t stand behind that glass forever. You want me to confess? Then you confess too.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “You show me your pulse, I’ll show you my knife.” Your throat tightened, words caught behind your teeth. He saw it, of course. His smirk deepened. “You’ve never been married,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You don’t wear a ring. No tan line. You don’t talk about anyone waiting for you at home. You go back to an empty apartment, don’t you? One glass of wine, sometimes two, maybe a book you don’t finish. You fall asleep with the TV still on so you don’t have to hear how quiet it is.”

Your chest went tight, your hand gripping the pen too hard. “That’s enough.”

But he leaned closer, the chain taut, his voice low and certain. “You hate being alone. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you keep walking back into this room, even when you should run. Because you’d rather sit across from me than your empty walls.”

The pen tip dug into the page, bleeding ink into a black dot. Your mouth was dry. “And what do you get out of this?”

He smiled, sharp as a blade. “Everything. Every look, every twitch of your hands, every word you won’t say. That’s my confession. I want you, Doctor. Not the way they think, not as some project to fix. I want to get inside your head the way you’re trying to get inside mine.”

Your pulse thudded, loud enough you swore he could hear it. “That’s not therapy,” you said.

He leaned back finally, but his eyes stayed on you, gleaming. “Who said I wanted therapy?” The orderly knocked on the door, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. You closed the file too quickly, stood too fast. The guards entered, unshackling him. As they pulled him to his feet, he bent his head closer, voice pitched just for you. “Bring me something next time. Not a file. Not questions. Something of you.”

The guards led him away, but his words lingered like smoke in your lungs, burning long after he was gone.

---

The room felt warmer than usual when you stepped inside, though the air vents hummed the same dull current overhead. You told yourself it was in your head. You told yourself a lot of things these days.

Bucky sat where he always did, cuffed at the wrists, but he looked different this time—slouched in a posture almost lazy, legs spread, chin tilted slightly as though he’d been waiting not just minutes but hours for you. His mouth curved faintly when he saw you, as though he’d been expecting you to arrive exactly like this. “Doctor,” he drawled.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“You look tired again.”

You set the file down, deliberately not acknowledging the comment. “We’ll begin with your last statement. You said you wanted to get inside my head. Tell me what that means.”

His gaze slid slowly down your figure, then back up, unhurried, deliberate. “Exactly what it sounds like. You think you’re the only one who gets to dig? You think I don’t notice how you cross your legs when you sit, like you’re making a barrier? Or how you keep your hands folded on the folder, like it’s a shield? You think I don’t see the pulse in your throat when I lean forward?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t look away. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” he murmured. “Because it doesn’t feel like therapy anymore. Feels like foreplay.”

The word hit the air like a slap. You froze, pen halfway between your fingers. “That’s inappropriate.”

He smiled, slow, dangerous. “So you keep saying. But you never walk out.”

You forced the pen to move, scratching a note you didn’t even read. “You said Hydra made you into a weapon. Did they also make you into this?”

His eyes darkened, the smile fading. “No. This is mine. This is the part they couldn’t take. The hunger. The way I look at you and imagine—” He broke off with a low laugh, shaking his head. “No. You don’t want to hear that.”

“Tell me,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

He leaned forward, the chain clinking as it pulled taut. His voice dropped with it, dark and intimate. “I imagine what you’d sound like if you stopped pretending. If you let go of that polished doctor’s voice and just… gasped. Moaned. Begged.”

Your fingers clenched around the pen hard enough to ache. “That’s not—”

“Appropriate?” he finished for you, smirk curving again. “You’re going to keep saying that until you believe it. But you don’t believe it now. Not really. You’re picturing it. You can’t stop.”

You inhaled sharply, tried to redirect. “You said you want me to confess something. What would you want me to confess?”

“That when you leave this place, you don’t think about the other patients. You think about me. About the way I talk, the way I look at you, the things I could do if these chains weren’t here. You go home and you sit in your quiet little apartment, and you wonder if I’m right. If I’d make you scream or if I’d make you whisper.” The pen slipped, clattered against the folder. His eyes flicked down to the movement, then back up, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Do you know what my nightmares really are?” he asked softly.

“What?” you managed.

“They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.” He leaned closer still, so close the chain strained. “They’re about you deciding not to come back. That’s worse than anything they ever did to me.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” His voice was velvet and steel, quiet but unyielding. “I know you’re the only one who sees me, not the weapon, not the file. I know you’re the only one who makes me feel alive. And I know that if you told me to get down on my knees right now, I would.”

The silence stretched, your pulse loud in your ears. You swallowed hard, forced the file closed. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look at the guards when they entered. His eyes stayed locked on you, his smile faint and chilling. “You’ll think about it tonight,” he said, his voice so soft it barely reached. “And when you do, it won’t feel inappropriate. It’ll feel inevitable.”

The door locked behind you, but the echo of his words followed like breath on the back of your neck.

---

The air in the room felt heavier every time you came back. You noticed it before you even sat down: a thickness in the silence, like someone had turned the oxygen down a notch. You told yourself you were imagining it. That it was just your own heart rate, your own anticipation.

Bucky was already there, as always, hands cuffed, posture deceptively loose. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t even greet you. He just watched you as you closed the door behind you, eyes following the movement of your fingers on the knob, the sweep of your coat as you sat down. “You’re late,” he said quietly.

“By two minutes,” you answered, opening the file.

He tilted his head. “Two minutes is a long time in here.”

You ignored the comment, wrote the date at the top of your notes. “We’ll continue where we left off. You said your nightmares were about me walking away.”

“They still are,” he said. His voice was flat, but underneath it was a tremor of something else—anger, or need, or both. “I wake up and I can’t breathe. Feels like you’ve been ripped out of me. I sit in this cell and I think about what I’d do if you stopped coming.”

“That’s not a healthy attachment,” you said evenly.

His lips curved faintly. “You think this is about health?” He leaned forward, the chain sliding across the table. “Do you think I’d let anyone else see what I tell you? You’re not just a doctor anymore. You’re a confession booth. You’re a church.”

“I’m not your priest,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re something else.”

The silence stretched, taut. You made yourself ask, “tell me what you dream about besides me walking away.”

His eyes darkened. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that filled the space between you. “I dream about you walking in. Only this time you lock the door behind you. Only this time you put the key on the table and slide it toward me.”

Your fingers tightened on the pen. “That’s not reality.”

“It could be,” he said softly. “You keep telling yourself it couldn’t, but you’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel. My hands on you. My mouth at your ear. You’d still be telling yourself you’re in control even when you’re on your knees.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp.

He smiled faintly. “Why? You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His eyes flicked to your hands, your throat. “You always do when you’re turned on.”

Your heart lurched, heat flooding your face before you could stop it. “This is inappropriate.”

He chuckled, low, dark. “We’re past that word. You don’t come back here for appropriateness. You come back here because you like the edge. You like sitting across from the thing you’re supposed to be controlling and wondering if you could survive it.”

You forced the pen to move, wrote something—anything—on the paper. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, grasping at the clinical like a life raft.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice softened. “They taught me a lot about pain. About power. About taking what you want. They taught me how to read people, how to find the cracks. You’ve got cracks, Doctor. Beautiful little cracks all over you. I think about sliding my fingers into them.”

Your breath caught. “Enough.”

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “But you never leave.”

He leaned closer, so close the chain went tight with a metallic snap. His voice was a whisper against the hum of the lights. “Do you know what I think about when I’m in my cell at night? I think about your voice. The sound it would make if I pressed you against a wall. The way you’d gasp if I put my hand around your throat. I think about how long it would take before you stopped telling me to stop.”

The air felt thin, your lungs too small. “You don’t get to fantasize about hurting me,” you said, but your voice wasn’t steady.

He smiled, wolfish now. “It’s not about hurting. It’s about showing you what you want. You want someone who sees you. Someone who doesn’t flinch. You want someone who can take all the darkness you hide and swallow it whole. That’s why you’re here.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you?” You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He sat back slowly, the chain relaxing, his gaze still locked on you. “Tell me something true,” he said. “Tell me something no one else knows. You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think it. I’ll see it in your face.”

You swallowed hard, gripped the pen until your knuckles whitened. “This session is over,” you said.

He didn’t resist when the guards came in, but his eyes stayed on yours. His voice followed, soft and sure, “you’ll think about me tonight. You’ll touch yourself, and you’ll hate yourself for it. And then you’ll come back.” The door closed behind you, but you still felt him, like a shadow pressed against your back.

---

The room felt different today, and not just because you’d decided it would. You had prepared for this session differently—grounding exercises before entering, controlled breathing, and a plan to shift the power dynamic. You’d even changed your seating; instead of sitting directly opposite him, you’d placed your chair at a slight angle, an old tactic meant to reduce confrontational energy and reclaim some control. When the door opened, Bucky’s eyes went first to the new position of the chair. He smiled without teeth. “Clever.”

You kept your tone even. “Take your seat.”

He obeyed, though the way he did it made it feel like he was humoring you. He sat with his legs slightly apart, the cuffs slack but still present, metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. His gaze stayed on you as you opened the file.

“Today we’re going to use a new approach,” you said. “You’ll answer questions. Directly. Yes or no.”

He tilted his head, amused. “A game of truth.”

“A structured session,” you corrected.

“Truth,” he repeated softly, as though savoring the word.

You held his gaze. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, a little too easily.

“Do you want treatment?”

He smiled faintly. “No.”

“Do you want to get better?”

“No.”

“Do you want to hurt me?”

The smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”

Your pulse thudded once, hard, but you kept your voice even. “Why?”

“Because it would make you look at me the way you should.”

You noted it, pen moving steadily. “Do you want to kill me?”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

“Do you want to control me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think about sex with me?”

His expression shifted—his head tilted, eyes darkening, the faintest curve of his lips. “All the time.”

“Describe it,” you said flatly.

For a moment he just watched you, the silence thick. Then his voice dropped low. “I think about you on your knees in this room. Not dressed like you are now. Nothing between my hands and your skin. I think about your hair in my fist. Your breath against my thigh. The sound you’d make when I—”

“That’s enough,” you cut in sharply, but your voice wasn’t as sharp as you’d hoped.

He smiled slowly. “You wanted me to say it. You’re writing it down, but you’re picturing it too.”

You inhaled through your nose, forced the pen to keep moving. “Do you understand that this behavior reinforces your confinement?”

He chuckled softly. “Do you understand that you’re blushing?”

“I’m not,” you said automatically.

“You are.” His eyes flicked down, back up. “Your throat, your cheeks. Every time I talk about you in my mouth, you color up like a candle.”

You shifted the angle of the questioning. “When you imagine control over me, what do you actually want? Physical domination? Emotional submission?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“That’s not an answer,” you said.

“It’s the only answer,” he murmured. “I want you bent. Not broken. Bent. I want to see you stop pretending you’re untouchable.”

You straightened your spine, flipped to a clean page. “Do you imagine me consenting?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Sometimes.”

“Do you imagine me resisting?”

A small pause. “Sometimes.”

“What’s the difference?”

He smiled faintly, leaned forward until the chain went taut. “How you sound.”

Your stomach clenched. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m confessing,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “You wanted confession, Doctor. Here it is.”

You set your pen down deliberately. “I want to try something else. A visualization exercise. Close your eyes.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed, lids lowering. “Alright.”

“Imagine yourself in a safe place,” you instructed. “Describe it.”

His lips curved faintly. “You’re there.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s what’s there,” he murmured. “A room. Small. Concrete walls. No cuffs. You standing over me, keys in your hand. You tell me what to do. I obey. And then…” He chuckled low. “Then you stop telling me what to do.”

You clenched your fingers against the folder. “Do you ever imagine hurting yourself?”

“No.”

“Do you ever imagine hurting others?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

His eyes opened again, sharp, unblinking. “Anyone who touches you.”

Your throat worked, but you forced the next question out. “Do you think that’s normal?”

He smiled faintly. “I think it’s inevitable.”

The silence stretched. The pen trembled faintly in your hand. Finally you closed the file. “This session is over.”

He leaned back slowly, the chain relaxing, but his eyes never left yours. His voice followed as the guards came in. “You’re getting good at the games,” he murmured. “But games end. You’ll come back. And one day, you’ll stop asking questions and start answering.” The door shut behind you with a heavy clang, but you walked down the corridor feeling his voice still against your ear, like a promise you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t shake.

---

The corridor to the interview room was quieter than usual. The storm had cleared overnight, leaving a grey morning behind. The wet smell of the concrete mixed with disinfectant, and every footstep echoed back at you like a countdown.

You’d spent most of the night building a plan. The techniques you’d used so far had kept you above water but hadn’t changed the current. He was always setting the tempo; you were reacting. Today would be different. Today you’d try something new. When you entered the room, the chair was already in place for you. You didn’t sit right away. You stood for a moment, file in hand, looking at him.

Bucky sat at the table in his usual posture—but not slouched. Upright. His wrists cuffed but resting loosely on the table. He didn’t greet you this time. He just watched, like a predator clocking a shift in the wind.

You set the file down, drew the chair out, and sat at an angle again. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said softly.

You opened the file, but you didn’t look at it. “I want to try something new today.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “New how?”

“Less clinical.” You made your voice steady. “More human. You’ve told me a lot of things. Violent things. Fantasies. But I don’t really know you. Not as a person. I’d like to.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or amusement. “You want to know me?”

“Yes.”

His smile was small, slow. “Finally, a real question.”

You nodded. “Tell me about something before Hydra. Before all this. Something real. Not blood. Not training. Something you miss.”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he leaned back, eyes going distant. “Brooklyn,” he said quietly. “Summers on the stoop. Smell of hot asphalt and cheap beer. Steve’s laugh when he still had a voice. The sound of a ball game on a radio from somebody’s window.”

Your pen moved automatically, but your gaze stayed on him. “That’s good. Keep going.”

He looked at you again, eyes sharp now. “You like that? You like me soft?”

“I like you human,” you said simply.

He chuckled low. “You’re good.”

You shifted in your chair, kept your tone calm. “This is how we move forward. This is how treatment works. If you want me to help you, you have to let me see the man, not the weapon.”

That was when his expression changed. The faint smile flattened, his eyes hardening. “Treatment,” he repeated.

“Yes,” you said. “We can discuss options—”

The chair screeched against the floor as he surged forward, the chain clanging taut between his wrists and the table. It happened so fast you barely saw it—one moment you were speaking, the next his body was lunging across the narrow space, the chain snapping like a leash at full stretch.

Your chair tipped back a fraction as you scrambled to move, your file sliding to the floor. His metal fingers slammed down on the table hard enough to leave dents, his face inches from yours. The guards outside banged on the door but hadn’t yet come in. His voice was low, raw. “Don’t say that word to me.”

“Treatment?” you managed.

“Like I’m sick,” he growled. “Like you’re going to fix me. You’re not. You’re mine.”

You forced yourself to stay seated, to breathe evenly, though your heart thundered against your ribs. “Sit back, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t move. The chain rattled as his hands flexed. For a moment you thought he’d pull the whole table toward you. “You think you’re in control,” he said, voice dark. “You sit there with your little notes, your soft voice, like you’re safe. But I’ve been planning every second you’ve been in this room. Every inch between us. Every breath you take.”

The door clanged as the guards burst in, shouting. Bucky’s head turned slightly at the noise, just enough for one of them to grab his shoulder. Another moved for his arms. He didn’t resist, not really—but he didn’t step back either, not until he’d said what he wanted to say. “You’re not going to fix me,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “You’re going to break first.”

The guards dragged him back, forcing him upright. He let them, a faint smile curving his mouth again, like the whole outburst had been a rehearsal. As they pulled him toward the door, he looked back at you once more. His eyes had gone cold again, but his mouth moved around words you almost didn’t catch. “You wanted to know me,” he murmured. “Now you do.”

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sat alone at the table, your pen on the floor, your notes scattered, the dents in the wood glinting under the harsh light. And in the ringing silence, you could still feel the heat of his body leaning over you, the metallic snap of the chain, the whisper of his voice like a bruise under your skin.

The corridors of the asylum felt longer on the walk back from the interview room. The guards didn’t speak; they just watched you from the corners of their eyes. Everyone always did after a breach. It was a ritual here: an incident, a debrief, a whisper network.

You forced yourself to keep your steps even, even though your hands still trembled. The pen was still on the interview table; you’d left it behind without realizing it.

Dr. Milton was waiting at your office door, a heavyset man with thinning hair and the permanent expression of someone who’d seen too many things. He shut the door behind you as soon as you stepped in. “Sit down,” he said. You did, setting the file on your desk with hands that didn’t feel like your own. “You were warned,” Milton said quietly. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He’s not an ordinary sociopath. He’s disciplined. Strategic. And you’ve been feeding him.”

“I haven’t—” you started.

He cut you off with a raised hand. “You have. You’ve given him attention, proximity, stimulation. And now he’s testing the perimeter. You saw what he did today? That wasn’t him losing control. That was him demonstrating it.”

You pressed your palms against your knees, forcing them still. “He’s a patient.”

“He’s a predator,” Milton said, his voice hard now. “You’re not here to rehabilitate him. You’re here to contain him. Don’t forget that.”

He left before you could answer, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a long time you sat at your desk, staring at the empty space where the file sat. Your heartbeat still hadn’t settled. You thought about his eyes inches from yours, the heat of his body across the table, the dents in the wood. Don’t say that word to me. His voice had been low, almost a growl, but there’d been something else under it, too—something almost like hurt.

You didn’t remember walking to your car. You didn’t remember the drive. But when you blinked you were home, key in the door, apartment dark and silent around you. You turned on the lamp by the couch and stood in the living room, still wearing your coat, staring at nothing.

The apartment felt smaller tonight. The walls closer. The hum of the refrigerator too loud. You dropped your bag on the counter and went to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Your reflection in the mirror was pale, eyes rimmed with fatigue.

You thought about what Milton had said. Predator. Containment. You thought about the way Bucky had leaned across the table, how his face had been inches from yours, how he’d said you’re mine like it was a simple fact.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you thought about his other words. His promises. His fantasies. The way his voice had dropped when he described what he’d do if you stopped pretending. You closed your eyes, pressed your palms against the cool porcelain of the sink.

You’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel.

The memory of his voice curled through you like smoke. Your stomach flipped. Heat pooled low, shame mixing with something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself away from the mirror, back into the living room. You poured a glass of wine but didn’t drink it. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked loud, loud enough that you could imagine it was footsteps in the hall.

In your head, you heard him again.

They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from an unknown number: Sweet dreams, Doctor.

Your chest tightened. No one outside the asylum had that nickname for you. You stared at the message, waiting for it to disappear, for it to turn out to be a wrong number. It didn’t.

You locked the phone, set it down. Your hands shook. You told yourself it was a coincidence. A prank. But when you looked toward the window, you swore you felt eyes on you from the street below.

Later, when you finally lay down, you left the light on. Sleep came in fragments. Dreams came in flashes: his voice at your ear, his hands at your throat, the snap of the chain going taut. You woke at 3:17 a.m. with your heart racing, the sound of rain against the glass, and the faint smell of metal on your skin that shouldn’t have been there.

You sat up, hugged your knees, stared into the dark. And you thought, not for the first time, that maybe Milton was right—maybe you weren’t containing him. Maybe he was already here.

---

The interview room had changed. The chair you usually used was bolted now, a subtle but unmistakable shift. The guards who escorted you didn’t speak but their eyes said everything: this was containment, not treatment.

You walked in with the file tucked under your arm, the pen already between your fingers like a weapon. Bucky sat at the table with both wrists cuffed and chained lower, the links shorter than before so he couldn’t lean too far forward. He still looked relaxed, but the set of his shoulders told you he hated the new restrictions.

He raised his eyes when you entered. This time, there was no smile. Just that steady, deliberate gaze that felt like fingers on your skin. “Doctor,” he said quietly.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“They’ve tightened the leash,” he murmured, glancing at the chain. “Does that make you feel safer?”

“It makes everyone safer,” you replied.

“Not you.”

You sat down across from him, your posture deliberately straight, the file opening with a crisp snap. “We’re continuing our sessions. But with new parameters.”

He tilted his head, almost amused. “Parameters.”

“You’ll answer my questions. Directly. No provocation.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then the session ends.”

He smiled faintly, slow and deliberate. “You’re learning to threaten me. I like that.”

You wrote the date at the top of the notes, forced your hand to stay steady. “Let’s start with last week. The outburst. Why did the mention of treatment trigger you?”

He leaned back slightly, the chain rattling softly. “Because you said it like you could fix me.”

“I want to help you.”

His gaze sharpened, his voice dropping low. “You want to understand me. That’s not the same thing.” You tried a new tactic: silence. You let it stretch, pen poised but unmoving, eyes steady on his. People hated silence. They filled it. Bucky didn’t fill it. He stared back, expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward until the chain stopped him, eyes still on yours. “You missed me,” he said softly.

“I’m your psychiatrist,” you said evenly.

He smirked. “You’re my obsession.”

“That’s not healthy,” you countered.

He chuckled low. “Stop talking like a textbook. You don’t sound like that when you’re home.”

Your pen twitched. “And how would you know how I sound at home?”

His eyes glinted. “You hum. You don’t even realize it. Little broken bits of songs. You did it Tuesday night while making tea.” You froze. He smiled faintly. “You left your blinds half-open. I know your kitchen light now. I know the way you tilt your head when you’re reading. I know which window is your bedroom.”

“Stop,” you said sharply.

“Why?” His voice was quiet but relentless. “You like being seen.”

“That’s a violation.”

“That’s a confession,” he said.

Your heart pounded, but you forced the pen to move. “Tell me what you want from me,” you said, trying another new tactic: direct confrontation.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice did—softer now, darker. “I want to watch you unravel.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you said firmly.

He smiled faintly. “It already is.”

You shifted, crossing your legs, pen scratching furiously on the paper. “Do you fantasize about harming me?”

“No.”

“Do you fantasize about controlling me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain.”

His eyes gleamed. “You walk in here wrapped in rules, in coats, in professionalism. I want to take each layer off. Slowly. Until there’s nothing left but you.”

“That’s not reality.”

“That’s inevitability,” he murmured.

You set the pen down, trying a final tactic: empathy. “I think you’re lonely,” you said softly. “I think all of this—the threats, the fantasies—is about connection. You’ve been hurt. You’ve been used. You don’t know how to want someone without trying to own them.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression. A crack. A shadow of something softer. But then it was gone, replaced by that slow smile. “You’re good,” he said quietly. “But you’re not safe.”

The guards shifted at the door. The tension in the room was palpable.

You stood, closing the file. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move. He just watched you, eyes following you to the door. His voice followed, soft, low, like a promise, “soon, you won’t leave until I tell you.”

The door shut, but you walked the corridor with the sense of him pressed against your back, as if his words had weight and hands and were already on your skin.

---

It started quietly that night, the way most bad dreams do—with something ordinary. You were in your apartment, lights dim, rain whispering at the windows. The clock on the wall ticked softly. You were making tea, humming without realizing it.

Except it wasn’t quite right. The air was heavier than it should have been. The light from the lamp flickered. The hum of the refrigerator slowed down, like someone dragging a fingernail across a record.

You turned, mug in hand. The kitchen was empty, but the apartment felt occupied. That sensation—of being watched—pressed against your back like a hand. You set the mug down on the counter and looked toward the hallway. It was dark there. Darker than it should have been. A heavy kind of dark, the kind that eats the edges of things. “Hello?” you said softly.

Nothing.

You stepped toward the hall. The boards under your feet creaked like they were further away than they actually were. When you reached the hall, the apartment was gone. The walls were concrete now, damp and grey, lined with pipes. The hum of the refrigerator had become the hum of fluorescent lights. Somewhere in the distance, a chain rattled.

You looked back over your shoulder. The kitchen was gone too. Just a long corridor, doors on either side, closed and numbered but without handles. A shadow moved at the far end of the hall. You told yourself to wake up. You even tried to move your fingers the way you’d practiced in college when you’d read about lucid dreaming. But your fingers felt heavy, like they weren’t yours.

The shadow moved closer. A man’s silhouette. Broad shoulders, dark hair falling across his forehead. “Where are you going, Doctor?” His voice echoed, low, dark, familiar.

Your stomach lurched. “This is a dream,” you whispered.

He laughed softly. “Is it?”

You started to run, but the hallway stretched as you moved, every step landing in slow motion. The doors on either side began to rattle, as though something inside them wanted out. You reached the end of the hall and found a single door ajar. Dim light spilled through the crack. You pushed it open and stepped inside. It was his cell.

The bed was there, the table bolted to the floor, the single high window. The air smelled like metal and damp concrete. But the cuffs were empty on the table. You turned to leave but the door slammed shut behind you.

You spun back, heart hammering, and found him there. Not the chained version from your sessions. This Bucky was unbound, standing in the center of the room. His hair was damp, clinging to his temples, his blue eyes fixed on you. “You keep coming here,” he murmured. “Even in your sleep.”

“This isn’t real,” you said, though your voice was shaking.

He stepped closer. “You think you can study me, write your notes, go home to your quiet little apartment. But I’m already there.”

You backed up until your spine hit the cold wall. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself. “Wake up.”

He kept moving, slow and deliberate. “I told you I dream about you. Did you think you wouldn’t dream about me?” When he reached you, he lifted his metal hand and placed it against the wall beside your head. The cold radiated through the concrete. His body was a breath away from yours. “Say my name,” he said softly. You shook your head. His smile was faint, dark. “Say it.”

You forced your mouth open. “Bucky.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s better.” His flesh hand came up, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your head up. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured. “The edge. The danger. Me.”

“No,” you said, but it sounded like a lie.

He chuckled low. “Liar.” You tried to push him away, but your arms wouldn’t move. They felt like they were encased in concrete. His hand slid from your chin to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, his thumb brushing over your pulse. “You feel that?” he asked. “That’s what control sounds like.”

“Stop,” you whispered.

“You don’t want me to,” he said. He bent his head closer, his lips almost touching your ear. “Soon, you won’t wake up.”

Your heart thundered. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself again.

“Wake up,” he echoed, his mouth curving. “Or don’t.”

He pressed closer, the weight of his body pinning you lightly against the wall. His hand at your throat wasn’t squeezing but you could feel the strength there, the threat of it. His mouth brushed your jaw, not a kiss but a promise.

You jerked awake with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. The room was dark, the rain whispering against the window. Your heart was hammering. For a long time you sat in the dark, your palm pressed to your throat where his thumb had been in the dream. The skin there was warm, but you swore you could still feel the cold edge of metal.

On the nightstand, your phone lit up with a new text from the same unknown number. No words this time. Just an image: a concrete wall, grey and damp, with a handprint pressed into it.

---

The asylum was humming with its usual unease when you arrived the next morning. The air smelled faintly of bleach and damp fabric, like it always did after a storm. Staff moved through the halls with their clipped steps, clipboards clutched close, their eyes sliding over you but not quite meeting yours. Word of the incident had traveled. It always did.

You went through security as you always did—bag checked, coat hung, file folder pressed against your ribs like armor. The guards didn’t say anything, but one of them, a younger man with a shaved head, gave you a glance that lasted too long. A warning, or pity.

By the time you reached your office, you were already tightening your shoulders against it. You opened the door, flicked on the light, set the folder down on your desk.

And froze.

There was something on your chair. A folded piece of paper. Crisp, clean, resting directly where you would have sat. Your hand hovered before you picked it up. No one was supposed to have access to your office without keys. Security was strict. Files were checked out and logged. But the paper was there, simple as breath.

You unfolded it with slow, careful fingers. Inside was a single line, written in neat block letters: You hum when you’re scared. I like that one the most.

Your chest tightened. You folded the paper again, shoved it into the desk drawer, locked it. You didn’t tell anyone. You should have. You knew you should have. But the thought of handing it over to Milton or the guards made something inside you coil tighter. If you gave it up, you’d be admitting he’d gotten past the locks. Past the rules. Past you.

When you saw him later that day, he didn’t say a word about it. He sat with his hands folded, cuffs gleaming, eyes calm and steady. But when the silence stretched and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Like he knew you were carrying his words in your pocket.

The gifts didn’t stop. The next came at home. You walked into your apartment after a long day, dropped your keys on the counter, and there it was: a book lying on the table. You knew you hadn’t left it there. An old copy of Dracula, worn at the edges, the spine cracked. Inside, a bookmark pressed between two pages—a scene where Mina writes about feeling watched. In the margin, a neat, sharp hand had written: She wanted it too.

You slammed the book shut, your stomach flipping. Your locks were intact. No windows broken. No sign of forced entry. But the book was there, solid and undeniable. That night you called maintenance, asked for new locks. The man who came the next day installed them without comment, but you swore you saw the faintest smirk tug at his mouth when you asked if they were “secure.”

By the third gift, you couldn’t keep it to yourself. You came into your office one morning and found a single lily lying on your desk. White, perfect, dew still clinging to the petals as though it had just been cut. No note this time. Just the flower. Your stomach clenched. Lilacs, he’d said once. He’d smelled lilacs on you that first session. Now it was a lily—stark, pure, funereal.

Milton walked past your office just as you were staring at it. He stopped, frowned. “What’s that?”

You swallowed. “A flower. Someone must have—”

“No one should be in here,” Milton said sharply. He stepped inside, looked at the lily, then back at you. “Barnes?”

“I don’t know,” you said quickly.

He studied you for a long moment, then his voice dropped. “He’s gotten into your head.”

You looked down at the lily, at the pure white of it, at the way it seemed almost obscene against the stack of sterile files. “Maybe he always was.”

Milton picked up the flower, snapped the stem, and tossed it in the trash. “You need distance. Or you’re going to drown in him.” When he left, you sat alone, staring at the trash bin. The lily lay bent, crushed, but still beautiful.

That night, you dreamed again. Only this time there was no corridor, no doors, no transition. You were just in your apartment. The lights flickered. And Bucky was there, sitting in your chair like he belonged in it, metal fingers tapping against the armrest. “I told you,” he said softly, “I’ll always bring you something.”

When you woke, there was nothing in the room. But on the nightstand, where you were certain there had been only your lamp and your phone, there was a small piece of folded paper. You opened it with shaking fingers. Soon you won’t have to wake up alone.

---

The asylum corridors had always been sterile, humming with fluorescent light and faint bleach, but lately they felt hostile. You noticed it in the way the guards lingered longer outside your office. In the way staff lowered their voices when you passed. In the way Milton’s eyes followed you like he was waiting for you to collapse.

But it wasn’t them you noticed most. It was him. Every time you entered the interview room now, he was already watching. Sometimes with that faint half-smile, sometimes with nothing at all, but always steady, like he had been waiting for you specifically. “Morning, Doctor,” he said one day, his voice low, conversational, as though the chains didn’t exist. “Blue dress today. You haven’t worn that one in a while.”

You glanced down before you could stop yourself. He was right. You hadn’t worn it in months. You made your voice firm. “We’re not here to discuss my clothing.”

He smirked. “You put it on for me, though. Didn’t you?” You ignored him and wrote the date, your handwriting tighter than usual.

At home, the intrusion became subtler—or maybe you were simply starting to notice what had been there all along. One evening you came back late, coat damp from the rain, and found your apartment exactly as you’d left it. Almost. The lamp by the couch was turned an inch to the left. A book you’d left on the coffee table was open, spine cracked to a random page. You told yourself you might have done it, might have forgotten. But when you closed the book, a note slipped out.

It was short, written in the same neat block letters as before: You should eat more. Skipping breakfast isn’t good for you.

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t eaten that morning. You hadn’t told anyone. You crumpled the paper and shoved it in the trash, then immediately dug it back out, smoothed it flat, and locked it in your desk drawer at home. You told yourself you’d bring it to Milton. But you didn’t.

By the third week, you were jumpy. Every knock on your door, every footstep in the hall, every shadow under the streetlamp outside your apartment window—you flinched at all of it. At the asylum, you tried new tactics: grounding exercises, silence, even simple rapport-building techniques. One day you tried to take control by leaning forward first. “You said you wanted me to know you,” you said. “Tell me something real. Not fantasy. Not control. Something from your childhood.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment. Then his mouth curved. “Your aunt’s maiden name is Carroll. Your father worked in insurance. You moved to the city when you were eight.”

Your pen froze on the page. “That’s not about you,” you said, though your voice wasn’t steady.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s about how much I already know about you. More than you know about me.” He leaned forward until the chain tightened, his voice low. “Tell me something real, Doctor. Or I’ll keep leaving pieces of you on your desk until you admit you’re mine.”

That night, the gift wasn’t in your apartment. It was in your car. You slid into the driver’s seat after leaving the asylum, file clutched tight in your hand, and saw it immediately: a single Polaroid lying on the passenger seat. Your chest tightened as you picked it up. The picture was grainy, dim. It was your building. The window to your bedroom, lit from within. On the back, written in those same block letters: I like the way you look when you read in bed.

Your throat closed. You dropped the Polaroid like it burned.

Sleep stopped coming easy. When it did, the dreams came back. Always the same walls. Always the same corridor. Always him. Sometimes cuffed, sometimes not, but always moving toward you with the kind of certainty that made you feel like running was pointless. One night you dreamed of being back in the interview room. You sat at the table with your pen and file, and when you looked up, the cuffs were gone. He was across from you, leaning forward, his hand sliding the file away from you like it was a toy. “Stop pretending you want to save me,” he murmured. “Say what you want.”

In the dream, you did. You told him you wanted him. And he smiled like he had been waiting for it all along. You woke up sweating, your sheets twisted around you, the echo of his laugh still in your ears. On the nightstand, where there had been nothing when you went to bed, there was another note. You’re almost ready.

By the time you arrived at the asylum the next morning, you were trembling with exhaustion. Milton stopped you in the hall, his face hard. “You need to step back,” he said. “Barnes is escalating. He’s not safe. And you’re compromised.”

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Milton’s voice dropped. “He’s in your head. Everyone can see it.”

You tried to protest, but the words tangled. Milton shook his head. “One more incident, and I’ll pull you off his case. Permanently.”

You walked away before he could see the way your hands shook. But in the interview room, when you sat down and opened the file, Bucky looked at you with that slow, knowing smile, and you understood something you hadn’t wanted to admit: You were already his case.

---

The storm came back with a vengeance that night. You could hear it even inside the asylum—rain slashing the walls, wind clawing at the windows, thunder rolling so low it rattled the pipes in the floor. The lights flickered once, twice, and then the entire building went black.

The sudden silence was worse than the storm. The hum of the fluorescents gone. The steady drone of the security fans cut off. For a moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the concrete and the faint, too-close sound of your own breath.

The emergency lights didn’t come on. They should have. But they didn’t. Staff voices called in the halls, radios sputtered static. You caught one guard saying “generator’s down” before the words blurred into noise. Someone shouted for flashlights, someone else cursed.

You were already moving down the corridor toward the patient wing. Your pulse was hammering, but you told yourself it was procedure—make sure high-risk inmates were secure, check doors, and confirm locks.

Bucky’s cell was halfway down the block. The hall was pitch-dark. You used your own small flashlight, the beam thin, bouncing off concrete, throwing long shadows. Every door looked the same, steel reinforced with narrow viewing slots. When you reached his cell, you lifted the flashlight, shining it inside. Empty. The bed was there. The table. The chains bolted to the wall. But no Bucky.

Your throat went dry. You flicked the light across the room again, heart hammering. Empty. Absolutely empty. “Shit,” you whispered. You spun, hand fumbling for the radio clipped to your belt. Static only. No voices. No signal. “Shit,” you said again, louder this time.

That was when you felt it.

A breath against the back of your neck. You froze. The flashlight trembled in your hand. You didn’t want to turn. Every part of you screamed not to. But you did.

Too late.

An arm snaked around your waist, the other clamping over your mouth, pulling you back into a body that radiated heat and strength. The flashlight clattered to the floor, beam spinning uselessly across the concrete.

“Miss me?” Bucky’s voice was low, right against your ear. Calm. Almost amused.

You thrashed immediately, shoving at his arms, twisting, trying to stomp back at his shin, but his grip only tightened. His flesh arm crushed your torso against him; the metal hand at your face was unyielding, cold against your skin.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Stop fighting.” You shoved again, desperate, nails digging at the band of muscle around your ribs. He grunted but didn’t loosen. “I said stop.” His voice sharpened, the steel underneath flashing through.

You tried to scream into his palm, but it came out muffled, pathetic. He laughed softly, the sound curling hot in your ear. “That’s cute.”

You twisted harder, nearly broke free for a breath, but he caught you by the wrists, spun you, and slammed you against the wall. Not hard enough to knock you out—but hard enough that your breath left you in a gasp.

Your wrists were pinned above your head in his metal grip, his body close enough that you could feel every line of him against your back. “You think you can run?” he murmured, breath rough now, chest rising against you. “You’ve been running since the first day. But you came back. You always come back.”

“Let me go!” you hissed, voice ragged.

He chuckled, low and dark. “No.”

You tried to kick backward, catch his shin, but he only laughed again, dragging you away from the wall. His grip didn’t falter. You fought every inch, heels digging into the floor, but he was relentless.

He pulled you toward his cell. The door was open. The locks that had been shut when you’d looked in were now unlatched, hanging uselessly from the frame.

Your heart thundered. “No—”

“Yes.”

He hauled you inside, the shadows swallowing both of you. You clawed at his hands, your voice breaking as you tried to scream again, but his body dwarfed yours, his strength absolute.

When you saw where he was dragging you, your stomach dropped. The bed. The cuffs bolted into the frame. “No—stop—”

He shoved you down onto the mattress, the metal frame groaning under the weight. His flesh hand pressed your chest down as he snapped one cuff around your wrist with the other. The sound of it closing was deafening in the dark.

You twisted violently, tried to pull free, but the restraint held fast. “Stop fighting,” he said again, firmer now. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You snarled, kicking up at him, but he caught your ankle easily, pinning it against the mattress. His body loomed over yours, his breath ragged now, matching yours. The second cuff closed around your other wrist. Cold, unyielding, locking you to his bed.

For a moment, he just stood there above you, breathing hard, staring down. The shadows cut across his face, eyes gleaming with something raw and hungry. Then he leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “Now,” he whispered, voice a promise and a threat all at once, “you’re not going anywhere.”

The frame of his bed was cold beneath your back, the thin mattress no buffer at all against the steel. Your chest rose and fell fast, breath shaking, your arms stretched above you and tethered wide.

Bucky was still standing over you, his shoulders rising and falling with his own breath. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, a mix of sweat and rain. The storm outside pounded against the barred window, thunder rolling in low and long like a warning drum.

“Stop fighting,” he said again, voice lower now, roughened from exertion. He braced a hand on the bed by your hip, leaning down until his face was a few inches from yours. The smell of him—sweat, metal, the faint tang of something darker—filled your head. “I told you what would happen if you kept running.”

You yanked at the cuffs, twisting your wrists hard enough that the metal bit into your skin. “Let me go!”

He chuckled, soft but dangerous, his eyes flicking down your body and back up to your face. “You still don’t get it. You’re not here because I let you be. You’re here because you came back. Over and over. And now—” he dragged a knuckle slowly down your sternum, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you shudder “—now I’m done waiting.”

You thrashed again, trying to get a knee up, but his hand slid to your thigh, pressing it back down against the mattress. The metal arm shifted, catching your other leg when you tried to kick, pinning you open. “Stop,” he said again, this time a growl against your ear. “Stop fighting.”

“No—”

His metal fingers wrapped gently but unyieldingly around your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The cold of the vibranium contrasted with the heat of his flesh thumb brushing over your pulse. “You think I don’t like it?” he murmured. “You think I don’t like watching you try?” He leaned closer, until his lips were at your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “But we’re past trying now. You know it. I know it.”

He shifted, his body coming over yours, caging you without even needing the cuffs. His weight was held just enough to keep you pinned without crushing. One of his knees slid between your thighs, prying you open by inches.

You bucked against him, wrists straining against the cuffs, but it only made the metal creak and your skin burn. He caught your chin again, made you look at him. His eyes were dark, but not wild—steady, intense, like a tide pulling you out. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly. “Look at me while you fight.” You did, even though your heart was hammering, your breath ragged. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the look. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

His hand left your chin and trailed down, slow, deliberate, fingertips skimming the collar of your blouse, tracing the line of fabric as though mapping it. His metal hand stayed braced above your head, gripping the bedframe, anchoring him.

Outside, thunder cracked. The emergency lights flickered once, then died completely, plunging the cell into a dim blue darkness from the storm beyond the bars. The only illumination came in flashes, lightning strobes that cut across his face and the gleam of his metal arm.

He bent closer, his mouth a breath away from yours, voice a low growl threaded with something like a promise, “now stop running.” His palm flattened against your stomach, sliding upward a fraction, the heat of it stark against your skin. “Or don’t,” he whispered. “It just makes it better.”

You yanked at the cuffs again, wrists aching, chest rising and falling fast. You felt the mattress shift under you as he settled his weight more fully, knees braced on either side of your hips, caging you completely. The sound of the rain on the window and the thunder outside blurred with the sound of your own pulse.

“Say my name,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “Say it while you’re still fighting.” His mouth descended, aiming for yours, but you jerked your head aside, jaw clenching. Your heart hammered. His lips brushed your cheek instead, hot and insistent, stubble scraping your skin as he murmured, “still fighting? Even now?”

You twisted away again, baring your teeth, refusing the kiss. A dark, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. The metal hand slid from the bedframe and caught your chin, steel fingers unyielding as they guided your face back to him, thumb pressing against your lower lip, prying it open. “Look at me,” he ordered again, voice molten and low. “I said look at me.”

You glared up, jaw aching, breath coming fast—but he only grinned, leaning in so close you could taste the heat of him. His mouth crashed onto yours, not gentle or coaxing, but hungry, claiming. You tried to twist free but he held you there, tongue sliding past your lips, swallowing the start of a protest. Your defiance was fuel to him; he devoured it, teeth scraping your lower lip until you gasped, the sound muffled against his mouth.

His flesh hand moved to your throat, palm warm as it circled the column of your neck. He squeezed—not enough to cut off breath, but enough to claim, to hold you steady. “Keep fighting,” he whispered against your mouth, breath hot. “Let me see how much you want to lose.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, the weight of his body shifting, chest pressing yours into the thin mattress. His hips slotted against you, the hard line of his cock a promise through the thin fabric. Your legs kicked uselessly beneath him, but he only rocked his hips, grinding down until you felt the heat of him, thick and aching, through both your clothes.

He dragged his mouth from yours to your jaw, then lower—lips and teeth marking a trail along your neck, finding the place where your pulse pounded wild. He nipped there, sucking until you whimpered, the sound escaping before you could choke it back.

“Mine,” he said, lips brushing the new bruise as his hand slid down, gripping the buttons of your blouse. You tried to buck him off, arching your back in defiance, but he pinned your hips, the metal hand slipping to your jaw again to hold you steady.

One by one, he popped the buttons open, slow and deliberate, baring your chest to the cold air and the heat of his gaze. Lightning flickered again, and you saw his eyes devour you—greedy, wild, possessive.

He bent to your collarbone, kissing, then biting, leaving marks in his wake. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by the slick heat of his tongue, soothing the sting. You writhed, wrists aching, and he just growled softly, his hands everywhere—stroking, gripping, exploring every inch of newly revealed flesh.

His mouth closed around your nipple, tongue circling, sucking until it peaked and you gasped, arching into the touch despite yourself. He lifted his head, breath ragged, lips glossy with spit. “You taste fucking perfect,” he growled, then bit down just hard enough to make you whimper again, pain blooming bright and hot under his mouth.

You turned your head away, panting, refusing to look at him. He grabbed your throat again, turning your face back, eyes burning. “No hiding,” he snarled. “You want to fight? Fight. But I’m not letting you go.”

His metal hand slid lower, cold against your ribs, slipping beneath your skirt, pushing it up inch by inch. His palm cupped your thigh, squeezing hard, thumb pressing bruises into your skin as his mouth claimed your lips again, bruising and relentless.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held you wide, the bed unyielding beneath you, his body a cage. He kissed you harder, tongue invading, swallowing every protest, every moan. When he finally broke away, your breath was ragged, lips swollen and tingling from his rough attention.

He stared down at you, his hair shadowing his eyes, chest heaving. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he said softly, a threat and a promise both. His hands moved lower, peeling the rest of your blouse off, exposing you to the dark and to him.

“Keep fighting,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger, “and I’ll just mark you up more.”

His mouth returned to your skin—biting, kissing, licking, each mark a declaration. Your body arched, torn between defiance and a pulse of want that you tried, desperately, to deny. Lightning flashed, painting the room in stark relief, the silver of his arm gleaming where it pressed between your thighs, cold and merciless as he spread you open. “You’re not going anywhere,” he repeated, his lips dragging lower, mouth hot and hungry as he tasted his way down your body. “You’re mine now.”

He pressed your skirt higher, bunching it around your hips, then slid his hands—flesh and metal—down to your knees. His palms urged your legs wider, baring you to the chill air and the heat of his gaze. You bucked in the cuffs, wrists aching, but he only smiled, holding you open, drinking in every involuntary shudder and the flash of anger that lingered behind your eyes.

His mouth descended, tracing a path from your knee up your inner thigh, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin there until you jerked, a choked sound tearing from your throat. “That’s it,” he murmured, lips pressed to the softest part of you. “Let me hear you.” His stubble scraped rough, tongue soothing the sting in a pattern that left your skin tingling and raw.

He mouthed up, his nose nuzzling the edge of your panties, breathing deep, the warmth of his breath making you squirm. You turned your head away, refusing to look, but the hand at your thigh squeezed, metal thumb digging a warning into the soft flesh. “Eyes on me.” You ignored him, breath coming in short, angry bursts, but when you didn’t obey, he hooked his thumb under the thin cotton, dragging the fabric aside with a single, patient motion.

Cool air licked over you. Then his mouth was there, hot and wet, tongue flat against your folds as he licked a broad stripe up the length of your pussy, groaning low and hungry against your skin. “Fuck, you taste—” his words cut off as he buried his face deeper, tongue circling your clit, lips sealing around it as he sucked, slow at first, then with building pressure.

You twisted in the cuffs, a desperate little gasp ripping from your lips. He didn’t let up, the metal hand pinning your thigh, his flesh fingers spreading you wider, holding you perfectly open for him. His tongue was relentless, lapping through your slick, tracing every line and dip until your hips bucked against his mouth, searching for escape or for more, you didn’t even know anymore.

He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your clit, and you felt the deep answering throb all through your body. His mouth was hot and possessive, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver, then soothing the spot with soft, slow licks that threatened to undo you completely. Every time you tried to pull away, he followed, locking you down tighter, eating you like a man starving.

“Let me hear you, doc,” he growled, lifting his head just enough that his breath teased across your soaked skin. “Let them all know who you belong to.” Then he dove back in, tongue swirling, two fingers sliding inside you without warning—thick, relentless, curling to hit that spot that made your whole body arch off the mattress, a ragged, involuntary moan bursting from your chest.

“N—ah, f-fuck—!” Your thighs trembled, legs trying to close, but the grip of his hands and the cuffs at your wrists left you nowhere to go, nothing to do but take every hungry, punishing lick he gave you. His tongue flicked and circled, his fingers thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every wet sound from your cunt, every tremor from your core.

He watched you with hooded eyes, lips slick with you, drinking in every shiver, every gasp, every filthy, unguarded noise. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked and triumphant. “You can fight all you want, but your body already knows who owns you.”

He leaned in, mouth sealing over your clit as he sucked, fingers pressing up, unrelenting, until the tension coiled so tight in your belly it felt like breaking. “Come for me,” he growled into your skin. “Now.”

And when the pleasure finally broke, crashing through you—hot, unstoppable, loud—you screamed, the sound echoing off concrete and steel, your body thrashing under him as he held you pinned and open, feasting on every shudder and sob that ripped free.

He licked you through every aftershock, savoring the taste, then finally lifted his head, lips swollen, eyes wild and greedy. He crawled up your body, pressing a filthy, possessive kiss to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

He didn’t bother undressing himself; his clothes stayed on, rough fabric scraping against your bare thighs as he braced over you, knees spread between yours. His cock strained the front of his pants, pressing hot and thick right where you ached for friction. He dragged the head of it through your slick folds, coating himself with you, grunting in pleasure at the way you whimpered and tried to close your legs—even though he had you pinned, nowhere to go.

“Look at you, fuck,” he rasped, grabbing your jaw in one callused hand, forcing your head back so you couldn’t look away. His other hand slid between your bodies, pulling his cock free just enough to push the head against your entrance, stretching you as he thrust in slow and unyielding. “So fucking wet for me. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

You writhed beneath him, every inch a live wire, wrists aching in the cuffs. He held you pinned, his cock forcing you open, inch by thick inch. The first thrust burned, made you gasp, but he didn’t pause; he bottomed out, groaning as he filled you to the hilt, hips grinding down, pelvis pressed to yours.

You twisted, fighting against the grip he kept on your face, your voice breaking, “N—let go—!”

He just smirked, rolling his hips, grinding deeper. “Why would I let you go when you sound like that?” His metal hand slid down, bracing your thigh wide open, thumb digging into the soft flesh. He drew back and fucked you hard—slow at first, making you feel every ridge, every stretch, every time your cunt gripped and fluttered helplessly around him.

His mouth dropped to your throat, biting hard, leaving fresh marks beside the others. “You hear that?” he growled, voice muffled by your skin. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like when you’re mine.”

The rhythm picked up—harder now, desperate, each thrust shoving you up the bed, making the cuffs rattle and the mattress squeal under your hips. Your skirt bunched higher, the thin cotton soaking up your slick, panties stretched and useless where he’d pushed them aside. Every time you tried to twist away he just fucked you harder, pinning you down, chest pressed to yours, breath hot at your ear.

You clenched around him, every thrust driving a whimper or gasp from your lips, but he shushed you with a kiss, tongue forcing your mouth open, stealing the sounds right out of your throat. “Keep fighting,” he panted, biting your lower lip, “keep fucking fighting. Feels better when you try—ngh—” His cock slammed deep, grinding, the head rubbing right where you needed it, drawing a sharp, broken moan from your chest.

He shifted, angling his hips, one hand slipping down to rub circles against your clit, merciless and fast. The pleasure punched through your body, white-hot, shattering the last of your control.

You came with a strangled cry—legs shaking, cunt pulsing tight around his cock as he kept fucking you through it, hips snapping, fingers never stopping on your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, sharp and endless, making you sob and gasp, every nerve lit up.

He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, riding your orgasm out with brutal precision, hips never faltering. When you tried to squirm away, he just pressed you down, fucking you until you were shaking and soaked, the cuffs creaking with every helpless jerk of your arms.

And through it all, he never came—just kept you pinned and open, marking you with every thrust, every bite, every growl of your name in your ear. His cock throbbed deep inside you, thick and hot, but he denied himself the release, focused only on wringing every last cry and tremor from your body.

When you finally collapsed beneath him, raw and trembling, he leaned down, pressing a filthy kiss to your jaw, lips curling in a satisfied smirk.

He didn’t release you. Instead, he leaned over, eyes dark and sharp, hands spreading over your chest and belly, holding you down as he rutted slow against your thigh. “Not done,” he growled, voice low, lips brushing your ear and jaw. “Want your mouth on me.”

Before you could answer, he moved—kneeling over your head, knees braced on either side of your shoulders, his bulk and presence blocking out everything but him. His cock was swollen and leaking, the tip flushed, slick with your arousal. He gripped the base and tapped it against your lips, smearing a line of salty precome. “Open,” he ordered.

You clenched your jaw, turned away, but his metal hand slid under your chin, fingers cold and strong as they forced your face up. “Don’t make me ask twice.” He pressed forward, cock sliding along your lips, and when you tried to bite, he just laughed—a deep, savage sound—and wedged his thumb between your teeth, prying your jaw open. “That’s it. Wide.”

He guided himself into your mouth, thick and insistent, groaning as your lips stretched around him, the taste of him filling you. His hips rocked slowly, pushing deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck, that’s good. Take it.” His flesh hand tangled in your hair, holding your head steady, as he fucked your mouth with slow, unhurried thrusts, dragging out the slick wet sounds, the choke and swallow of your throat.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held your arms above your head, body pinned under his weight. His metal hand slid down, tracing your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as he watched himself disappear between your lips. “Such a pretty mouth, doc. Bet you never thought you’d be here.” He pulled back, letting you gasp for breath, spit slicking your chin, then thrust in deeper, making you gag, drool sliding down your neck. “That’s it. Take it. Let me feel you fight.”

While he rocked into your throat, his other hand drifted down between your legs, fingers finding you slick and sensitive. He stroked your folds, teasing your clit, then shoved two fingers inside you, curling and thrusting in rhythm with his cock, forcing you to moan around him, every sound vibrating up his shaft. “Gonna make you come again like this,” he snarled, hips snapping harder. “Wanna feel you choke and shudder, wanna fuck your throat while you come on my hand.”

You squeezed your thighs around his arm, trying to squirm away, but he only fingered you harder, the heel of his hand grinding your clit, his cock filling your mouth, choking you with every thrust. The air was thick with the sounds and the desperate, helpless whimpers that spilled out as you lost the rhythm of your breathing, your body betraying you, hips rolling up into his hand.

“Look at you, fuck,” he grunted, pulling back just long enough for you to gasp, air and spit flooding your lips, then slamming forward again, cock hot and heavy and unforgiving. “Such a mess for me. You like being used, don’t you? Say it—ah, fuck—say you’re mine.”

You tried to speak, but he kept you full, only more muffled sounds escaping. The pleasure built fast, shame and need tangled as his fingers drove you wild, his thumb never leaving your clit, his cock stretching your throat until tears prickled in your eyes.

The orgasm hit hard—tight and sudden—your body shuddering around his hand, pulse racing, cunt gripping his fingers as your mouth and throat fluttered helplessly around his cock. He fucked you through it, not letting up, his own breath ragged, hips slowing only when you finally collapsed, spent and gasping, drool and spit slicking your lips and chin.

He pulled out, cock glistening, one hand stroking your cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice still hungry but gentle now, his thumb tracing your lip. “Not finished with you, doc,” he whispered, “but you take me so fucking well.”

He pulled back from you, your legs sprawled and trembling from the last brutal wave he’d forced from you. He knelt between your thighs, palms pressed possessively to your inner knees, spreading you wider—your skirt bunched around your waist, panties still only dragged to the side, the cuffs at your wrists tight enough you felt their bite in every throb of your pulse.

His cock was still out, hard and flushed, glistening from being buried in your mouth and from the mess he’d made of you. The air was thick with sweat and storm, a low thrumming energy in the dark.

He dragged you a few inches down the bed, grip strong and certain, until your thighs bracketed him perfectly. He held your legs wide, savoring the sight—his jaw flexing, lips parted, eyes locked on your face. “Look at you. All fucked out and still trying to glare at me.” He spat in his hand and stroked himself, slow and deliberate, the thick head of his cock nudging the inside of your trembling thigh.

The rough fabric of his pants scratched your sensitive skin as he settled between your legs, pressing your thighs together around him. “Hold still,” he growled, guiding his cock into the slick heat of your thighs, sliding the shaft along your soaked folds, the head catching on your clit with each drag. “Gonna use you just like this.”

His metal hand slid up, cold and firm, clamping over your knee to keep your thighs squeezed tight around him. The pressure forced every pulse of your cunt against his cock, slicking him up, every thrust making obscene, wet sounds as he fucked the soft flesh between your legs. Your breathing stuttered, your body betraying you with another sharp pulse of pleasure as his cock ground just right, the head nudging your swollen clit again and again.

Bucky grinned down at you, breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s how wet you are for me. You wanted this—you wanted every fucking inch.” He pushed harder, rutting between your thighs, the roughness of his uniform scraping your skin, his cock sliding faster, wetter, hotter every second.

The hand not pinning your leg moved between your bodies, two fingers shoving back inside you, curling mercilessly as he fucked your thighs, stretching you wide while he worked your body in rhythm. The pressure, the friction, the slick grind of his cock against your clit—all of it coiled tight, so tight you couldn’t hold back another desperate moan.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice raw: “Come again. Right now. Squeeze my fingers, let me feel it.”

He worked your cunt, fingers pressing and stroking, the head of his cock gliding up and down, every thrust bumping your clit. You sobbed, shaking, your body spasming as another orgasm ripped through you, thighs clamping hard around him, cunt clenching on his fingers as you cried out, the cuffs rattling above your head.

Bucky didn’t stop—he growled, his own pleasure cresting as he fucked harder between your slick thighs, squeezing your legs around him until with a rough, choked gasp, he came, cock throbbing hot against your skin, spilling messily between your thighs and over your cunt, marking you with every pulse. His breath came heavy and wild as he shuddered through it, grinding until there was nothing left but the slow pulse of the storm and the filthy heat between your bodies.

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, dragging them up to your mouth and smearing your lips with the taste of yourself and him. “Good girl,” he murmured, thumb pressing between your lips, watching your mouth part for him. “Take it all. Every fucking drop.”

Bucky stayed between your legs, his palms dragging up your trembling thighs, slow and lazy, as if he had all night to enjoy you. His gaze flickered up to your face, and a crooked, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You swallowed, pulse rabbiting in your throat. You tried to summon your voice, tried to wrestle your breathing into something that sounded like authority, like you still had a shred of power left. “Bucky. Listen to me. You don’t have to—”

He cut you off with a low laugh, leaning over you until his face was right above yours, his hair hanging in your eyes. “Don’t have to what, doctor?” He dipped down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, rough and taunting. “Don’t have to make you beg? Don’t have to keep you cuffed?”

You tried again, shaking, “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you—”

His lips crashed down on yours, swallowing the words, tongue pushing past your lips, hot and insistent, filling your mouth before you could protest. His metal hand cupped your jaw, angling your head just the way he wanted, the cold steel forcing your mouth wide. He kissed you hard, tongue fucking into you, devouring every attempt at speech and turning it into ragged moans.

You tried to keep talking, words muffled against his mouth, “you can’t—ah, Bucky, let me—let me go—!” but he just growled, lips dragging along your tongue, claiming you deeper, swallowing every desperate syllable. Every time you tried to speak, he just kissed you harder, relentless, wet and possessive. His tongue traced the roof of your mouth, circled your teeth, played with the soft, shuddering muscle of your own tongue until you couldn’t do anything but gasp into him.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, breath ghosting your lips. “Keep talking,” he taunted, a dark glint in his eyes. “I love feeling you try to fight with your mouth full.”

He kissed you again, tongue plunging in deep, teeth scraping your lower lip until it throbbed, then sucking it into his mouth. The taste of him was everywhere—his cock, your own slick, the sweat and salt of the storm around you. He devoured every word, every whimper, every attempt at reason.

You squirmed, wrists aching, but the cuffs just rattled uselessly. Your thighs clenched as he pressed his hips down, grinding the sticky mess of his spend against your cunt, smearing it all over your skin. “You keep thinking you can talk your way out of this?” he murmured against your lips, a smirk in every word. “Maybe I should fill your mouth with something better than arguments.” He pressed two fingers into your mouth, pushing past your lips, making you suck them clean. “Go on. Show me you can be good for something.”

You glared up at him, spit slicking your chin, but he just pushed his fingers deeper, tongue lapping at your lips before he bit you again, kissing you until your head spun.

“Bucky, you have to let me—” he just cut you off with another filthy, devouring kiss, tongue plunging deep, making you choke on the taste of yourself and him. You kept talking, trying to reason, voice breaking around his tongue. “You don’t have to—please, Bucky—let—let me go, you can’t—”

He grinned against your lips, biting hard at the corner of your mouth, words curling dark and rough in your ear, “why should I ever let you go? You look so fucking pretty like this—open, ruined, mine.”

His cock, still rock-hard, nudged at your thigh, leaking against your skin as he rutted slow between your trembling legs, grinding his mess against your slick, swollen folds. The sensation made you shudder, moaning into his mouth even as you tried to bite back the sounds. “Keep talking,” he taunted, voice dropping to a growl, “I want to feel you try to say no while I’m tasting you.”

He dragged his tongue down your neck, kissing you until you went limp for a second, breathless, only for your body to tense again when he shifted, bracing one knee on the bed, the other hand palming your belly—pressing down, holding you flat. His lips brushed your ear, his teeth grazing the shell, then his words dropped low and dirty, a promise that made your whole body jolt.

“Maybe I should just fuck you full,” he whispered, voice hoarse with want, “breed you so you’re marked as mine for good. Have you dripping for days, walking out of here with my come inside you, everyone knowing who fucked you open like this. Would you fight me then? Or would you beg for more?”

You shook your head, but the denial came out ragged, helpless—caught between defiance and the pulsing ache of want. He ground his cock against you, teasing your entrance with the thick, slick head, letting it slip up and catch on your clit, rolling his hips until you gasped again. “Say you want it,” he taunted, lips catching yours, his tongue fucking deep, filthy, until your protest was nothing but a muffled moan. “Say you want me to breed you. Make you mine for real.”

His words lit something molten in your belly, shame and need twisting tighter. You shook again, half sobbing, half cursing, but he just kissed you deeper, tongue pushing between your lips, swallowing everything, not letting you look away.

“You’re not going anywhere, doc,” he groaned, fucking his cock through your folds again, threatening to push inside, “not until you give me everything. I want you dripping. I want you ruined. I want everyone to see you and know I did this—marked you from the inside out.” He sucked a bruise high on your throat, lips dragging down to your chest, hands never softening their grip. “You’ll take it,” he growled, tongue flicking over your nipple, teeth scraping. “Every drop. You’ll take it all, and then you’ll still beg for more.”

He devoured your mouth again, hips grinding, his cock poised at your entrance, his words a low, dangerous promise between filthy, breathless kisses: “You’re mine. And by the time I’m done, you’ll never forget it.”

You shook your head, tears prickling at your eyes, every breath trembling. “No, Bucky, don’t—”

He caught your jaw, turning your face to his, eyes burning into you. “No more running,” he breathed, voice rough as gravel. “You want me to stop? Say it. Mean it. Or else I’m going to keep you like this all night.”

His mouth crashed down on yours, devouring, tongue forcing your lips wide as he kissed you breathless, swallowing every protest, every moan. When you tried to speak, he fucked his tongue deeper, sucking on your tongue until you were gasping, voice ruined, heat pulsing between your legs.

He broke away, breath hot on your cheek, his words curling filthy and low in your ear. “You’d look so good bred full of me, doc. My come dripping down your thighs, so everyone knows you’re mine. Maybe I should just keep fucking you until you take it all—until it’s inside you, leaking out, marking you where nobody else can touch.”

He pressed his cock against you, the head sliding inside, slow, stretching you until you couldn’t do anything but moan and jerk in the cuffs, the sounds spilling raw and desperate as he filled you, every inch driving his claim deeper.

Bucky fucked you steady and deep, each thrust grinding into your core, pelvis slapping your ass as he set a rhythm meant to push you over, again and again. His mouth stayed at your ear, voice all threats and promises: “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take all of me—let me breed you. Let me make you mine forever.”

Your legs tried to close, but he forced them wide, his metal hand gripping your knee, holding you open as his cock pistoned in and out, thick and relentless. You felt him everywhere—filling you, stretching you, every stroke sending sparks up your spine and down to where his fingers pressed bruises into your flesh.

He reached down, thumb working your clit in tight, brutal circles, his hips pounding faster as you broke apart, body clenching tight around him, crying out as your orgasm tore through you, wet and shattering. He never stopped, rutting through your climax, cock dragging every tremor from your wrung-out body.

With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, cock throbbing as he finally let himself go, pulsing hot inside you, filling you so full you felt the slick drip down your thighs with every last grind of his hips. His breath stuttered out as he collapsed over you, mouth biting your throat, grinding the claim in with one last roll of his hips.

He stayed there, pressed tight to your body, his come leaking out, the cuffs biting your wrists, your body so used you felt you’d never be empty again.

His voice was low, dangerous, as he nuzzled the shell of your ear: “You’re mine, doc. Now, tomorrow, forever. No one else will ever have you.”

He didn’t move for a while. His breath stuttered against your skin, forehead pressed to the hollow of your throat, hands gripping you tight as if the world might drag him away. You could feel the shape of him inside you still, the warmth of his come pooling between your thighs, marking you just as thoroughly as his bruises.

When he finally lifted his head, his face hovered above yours—hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and hungry both. The storm had left the cell almost black, but every flash of lightning painted his expression in sharp, unforgettable lines. He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle for a heartbeat as he looked at you like he’d never get enough.

“You did so good,” he murmured, kissing your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, his lips softer now, dragging tenderness through the rough aftermath. “So fucking good for me. Didn’t think you could take it, did you?”

Your voice was little more than a hoarse, ruined whisper. “You… you didn’t have to—”

He shushed you, gentle. His thumb pressed your lips until you stopped talking, until all you could do was shiver as he laid kisses down your cheek, the corners of your mouth, your jaw. His fingers stroked soothing patterns down your ribs, thumb catching on the raw lines where your wrists had pulled hard against the cuffs.

Then his touch changed, shifting from gentle to possessive. His metal hand traced the curve of your thigh, squeezing hard, pressing into the bruises he’d left behind, the cold a jarring shock to the warmth of your flesh. He dipped his fingers between your legs, swirling through the mess he’d left, then dragging his hand up, smearing it over your belly, marking you all over again.

“Look at you. Look at what I’ve done,” he said, voice low, somewhere between wonder and cruelty. He made you meet his eyes, the look in them making you want to flinch and melt all at once. “So fucking pretty with my come dripping out of you. With my marks all over you. No one’s ever going to touch you again without knowing I was here first.”

You tried to look away but his grip on your chin tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to make clear you weren’t going anywhere. His mouth slanted over yours, kissing you slow, deep, stealing every breath you had left. He gentled again—fingers carding through your hair, his body curling around you, heavy and sheltering and immovable.

“You’re safe here,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, voice thick with something like devotion. “As long as you stay mine.”

But the cuffs stayed locked. His arms curled tighter around you, the heat of him sinking into your bones, and when you tried to shift, tried to test your freedom, his hand moved to your throat—light but warning, a reminder of every edge you’d just been pressed over.

His words were soft, almost loving, “go on. Rest. You’re not leaving until I say so.”

Outside, the storm rolled on, the world reduced to darkness, to heat, to his body and his claim and the ache of being owned so completely.

You'd seen him every day over the last two weeks, normally in the morning when it was quiet before the 8.30am rush. Most days he had his long hair tied up in a bun, a few loose strands hanging around his temples and brushing his cheeks. He favoured the type of shirts that appeared a little bit too small in shades of black and navy. You'd doubt he ever changed them, so similar were his outfits, but he always smelt clean and fresh, like he had jumped straight out of the tumble dryer. 

He always ordered two coffees - one large with a splash of cream, on Fridays he added hazelnut syrup. And then the second coffee was always different. He let you pick the first few and then started making his own combinations. He'd take a sip, tip his head to the side studying the reusable cup he bought on the first day and then tell you his thoughts before strolling back to the New Avengers' private lift. 

You didn't see him that morning but you still opened up the little coffee stand like normal and put the chairs out in the atrium to prepare for the day to start. There was a new face though, a doctor. He'd asked for Ms De Fontaine at the sweeping reception desk and then headed your way while he waited.

He was pleasant enough, polite but brisk, and ordered a small espresso and 'whatever the team normally get' so you whipped up the coffee, hot chocolates and teas as quickly as you could. For your favourite customer, you made a latte with pumpkin spice syrup and a pinch of brown sugar on the top, which he'd liked a few days ago. 

You should have known something was wrong, even if the scientists and staff around you didn't, you should have known. 

Trembling, you hid behind the counter and hoped you wouldn't be found. The first alarm had sounded 10 minutes before and had been followed by the distinct sound of helicopter blades, presumably the one the New Avengers kept on the roof.

The red lights started flashing again almost immediately. 

It was a full alert, evacuation to the basement or roof. No stopping for personal belongings. No pausing. There were regular drills for this but no one had prepared you to be trapped by the intruder. You could hear them approach, the sound of gunshots and then the thud of boots. 

Deep breathing and a guttural grunt. 

Then silence. 

Taking a chance, you peered around the edge of the counter, a gasp escaping you when you saw your favourite customer. Bucky. In the same dangerously tight black t-shirt he'd been wearing on Monday, the partially unlaced black combat boots familiar and terrifying all at the same time. 

He sniffed, turning his head. It was still Bucky, but his eyes were wild, stormy and dark, his jaw clenched. Then he saw you. His jaw loosed a little and the frantic pacing ceased, focussed on the counter. 

One, two, three, heavy thuds. 

Nothing. 

"Out." He barked, hands slapping onto the counter top. 

You did nothing.

One, two, three. He rounded the counter.

"You." 

"Bucky, are you okay?" 

He sniffed again, his jaw softening into a hint of a smile. 

"You." He growled. Not Bucky then. The Winter Soldier. 

"I - I can get you a coffee? You want a coffee?" You backed up, scrambling on your hands and hitting your head on the far end of the coffee counter. 

The soldier advanced slowly and bent down to grab your chin in his cold, silver fingers. His nose pressed against your cheek, his eyelashes kissing your skin. His tongue flicked out from between his lips and traced the shell of your ear, a deep shuddering breath escaping from deep in his chest. "You," he said again, pressing his lips to your jaw. 

You were silent, transfixed by the way his fingers moved across your skin, surprisingly delicate. He huffed again, blowing warm air over your mouth, tracing the plump dip of your bottom lip. 

A loud bang echoed around the atrium, metal hitting metal rhythmically. Bucky looked angry again as he stood to full height, towering over you. You let out a whimper when he grabbed you, holding you to his leg and hip. Your own legs were sprawled beneath you, neck awkwardly bent. 

"Stay." 

You nodded against the rough fabric of his jeans and an unmistakable growing bulge pressing on the zipper. 

The metal thumping stopped and Bucky - the Soldier - looked at you, tipping your chin to meet his eyes, the metal zip biting into your cheek. 

"Mine." He grunted, his warm right hand joining his metal fingers and manhandling you to your knees, the zipper against your lips. The Soldier looked pleased, grunting at the contact. 

His thumb slipped into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue so that your jaw dropped open, saliva pooling in your mouth the longer he held you there. You closed your eyes, trying to swallow so the spit wouldn't roll down your chin. The Soldier's head tipped to the side again, thinking, before the quiet sound of metal fingers on metal zipper made your eyes snap open. 

You clamped your mouth shut, swallowing deeply as he revealed his hard, weeping cock from inside his jeans. The head was flushed red, a thick vein pulsing along the underside and just like that you were salivating again. 

How many times had you thought of this moment? How many times had you imagined Bucky like this? Shy, reserved, polite, Bucky. It was still Bucky, you told yourself, somewhere inside. It was still Bucky. 

The Soldier slid his thumb back into your mouth, running the pad along the top of your teeth and then applying pressure, opening your jaw once again. He used his other hand to tap the head of his cock against your tongue, forcing it flat before sliding into your mouth.

He was big, warm, his skin soft and delicate compared to the denim at his hips. You reached up to push yourself away and he let you take an inch, but he didn't pull back. Every thrust pushed him deeper and deeper into your mouth until you had to drag each breath through your nose. Only when you gagged, your eyes watering, did he give you any respite. 

For a second, he pulled back, cupping your cheeks and a few of the storm clouds that had darkened his eyes seemed to clear. You tried to pull your face away, to get some distance so you could try to get through to him, but his grip tightened, rough fingernails digging into your skin, fingers tangled in your hair. 

Clarity crept into the edges of his vision. Then the rhythmic metallic thumping started again, joined by the shout of voices, and the storm clouds rolled in once more, hardening his features into a snarl.

The Soldier's hands tightened, burying himself to the hilt, filling your throat and your senses. 

The bottom hem of his shirt was the only thing his iron grip would allow you to see, rucking up every now and again to reveal skin and muscles. His grunts all that you could hear with each brutal thrust. His hands, one smooth and one calloused; thumbs tracing your cheekbones but fingers gripping the back of your neck. 

Settled deep against his stomach, the smell of clean lined mixed with something you'd never been close enough to enjoy before - soap, sandalwood, something musky that must be all Bucky. And his taste, the salty tang of him on your tongue made you give an involuntary hum, his hands tightening until you let out a low moan of pain. A guilty pleasure you'd never have imagined admitting to him like this.

Bucky groaned in return, his fingers becoming more and more loose. With one hand he gripped the counter, the other still wrapped around your neck keeping just the wide, sensitive head of his cock in your mouth, your ragged gasps for air drawing out another drop of precum.

"Fuck!' The exclamation rang around the room, his grip yanking your head back and forth."Oh god." The Soldier's voice sounded wrecked when he moaned again. Hips pulling away and then thrusting back erratically. 

"I'm - oh fuck - I'm sorry." He came with a cry, trying to pull back but filling your mouth with the now familiar taste of his cum, striping your nose and cheek as he created space between you. You briefly thought about leaning forward and spitting it out, leaving the evidence on the expensive tile floor, but you didn't. " Oh - God-" Bucky reached down for you and then seemed to think better of it, putting his hands behind his back and stumbling into the edge of the counter.

His eyes were returning to their usual blue, like the sky after rain, wet with unspilt tears. "Bucky?"

"Yeah-" He put his hands over his face. "Yeah, it's me, sweetheart. I —" he looked down at you, still on your knees, a smudge of cum at the corner of your mouth. "I'm sorry. He didn't give me a mission. He didn't tell me what to do so I — I guess the Soldat just saw you in my mind and— It wasn't my idea but I'm so sorry, did I hurt you?” He paused, looking you over and seeing no blood, no cuts, just the space on your neck where he'd held you, imagining the bruise forming below, turned to leave. “I’ll get you a medic, I should turn myself in now.” 

You didn’t know where your boldness came from, maybe from the adrenaline of what had just transpired, maybe from the heartbreak of seeing guilt flood his eyes for something he had no control over, but you rose to your knees and grabbed his face between both your hands so he couldn’t escape. 

“Please, Bucky, don’t leave me. I’m okay, honestly.”  You tried to catch his eye so he could see that you were shaken, but safe, that you trusted him still. 

“It’s not. You’re not,” he said, hands gripping the side of the counter, as if touching you could break you for good.

“I am, you didn’t hurt me, I swear.”

A loud explosion came from the south door of the cafeteria and John Walker ran in, followed by Yelena Belova and Alexei Shostakov. Red dots appeared on Bucky’s chest, his forehead and flesh hand, then the hum of Ava's suit as she phased behind you both.

Bucky stared down at the dot on his hand, holding his hands up and away from his body in surrender.

“He’s fine! It’s Bucky, he’s back, he’s not dangerous, I swear!” You put yourself between him and the team, moving through dot to the rumpled apron on your chest.

“Bucky?” John shouted.

“Ye- Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry, it was the doctor, he said the words and-.”

“We know, Bucky,” he said, lowering what was left of his shield and coming closer, “let’s get you back upstairs, we’ll catch that bastard.”

Bucky looked at you, touched by the kindness you showed him, even after what he’d done. “It’s all gonna be okay. Come talk to me when you can, alright?” You touched your fingertips to his hand.

“Maybe over a coffee? One you don’t have to serve?”

“I’d like that. I’d like that very much.” You smiled at him and the corners of his lips twitched in what was the closest thing to a smile he could muster.

"And I think you should come and get checked out too." He suggested.

Alexei gave you a once over before nodding, "I agree, come on coffee girl, looks like you're part of family now."

ghostly encounter || 6.1k @barnes-babydoll ❤️‍🔥 Your grandmother asks you to house sit for her. You accept, hoping it will be a nice break from reality and give you some time to write. What you didn't know was that her house was haunted. But why is the ghost somewhat attractive?

care for you || 7k @tw1sters ❤️‍🔥 The worst (and best) thing your mother has ever done to you is marry this man and give you a mysterious, handsy stepbrother.

there's something in the trees. || 12.2k @54nboo ❤️‍🔥 bucky barnes and steve rogers have hunted every cryptid around the globe except one— you, the elusive mothman. now that they’ve found their way to west virginia, they’ll stop at nothing to find you.

incu-bust! || 12.1k @houseofhyde ❤️‍🔥 following the untimely death of your mother, you purchase a charming yet abandoned farm-house. between creaky floorboards and squeaky doors, a creature lurks in the darkness of your new home. waiting, watching, lusting for the right moment to smudge the air of purity that surrounds you.

not for you || 7.6k @kqtholins ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥 he can’t be yours when tomorrow asks for more than you can give.

touch and go || 14.3k @crybabycabin ❤️‍🔥 he's the winter soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again.

come back to me || 10k @peterparkive ❤️‍🩹 it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.

lighthouse || 12.1k @chateaubarnes ❤️‍🩹 you don't always need to hold your darkness by yourself. let someone else guide you into the light. let it be someone who knows what it's like to be trapped in his own head.

crimes of passion || 16.8k @unificsation 🖤❤️‍🔥 dark!bucky x neighbor!reader

.ೃ࿐ week one:

*:･ﾟ✧ Cult Bride

pairing | cult!leader!bucky x fem!reader

summary | a stranger’s smile in the grocery store feels harmless… until you realize he’s been waiting for you all along.

kinks | cult kink / religious corruption / public sex / ritual sex / dubcon / power imbalance / corruption kink / alter sex / bondage

“Salvation comes with sacrifice.”

.ೃ࿐ week two:

*:･ﾟ✧ The Perfect Nanny

pairing | married!bucky x ghost!reader

summary | the house was supposed to be a fresh start for him and sharon. then you arrived, all soft smiles and gentle hands… too good to be true.

kinks | haunting / exhibitionism / infidelity kink / corruption / obsession / voyeuristic masturbation / girl on girl sex (yes, it's nat) / cheating sex

“I’m here to care for more than just the baby.”

.ೃ࿐ week three:

*:･ﾟ✧ His Precious Doll

pairing | kidnapper!bucky x fem!reader

summary | he says you’re his treasure, his favorite toy. in the dollhouse he built, you don’t get to say no.

kinks | kidnapping / captivity / dollification / objectification / possession / pet names / dubcon / control kink / forced roleplay sex / daddy kink

“Smile pretty, baby. Dolls don’t cry.”

.ೃ࿐ week four:

*:･ﾟ✧ Permanent Guest

pairing | ghost!bucky x fem!reader

summary | the velvet halls promise luxury, the man in the suit offers charm. you should have known nothing that beautiful comes without a price.

kinks | supernatural sex / somnophilia / rough sex / biting/marking / dubcon / gothic horror smut / obsessive bucky / possessiveness / knife play / predator prey / death

“You can check in… but you’ll never leave.”

yup we're all gooning in oct.

beautiful dividers by @strangergraphics and @omi-resources

One shots:

Just Competitive (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Ride the Rhythm (Drummer!Bucky Barnes x GF! Female Reader)

Too Nice to Stay Inside (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader – AA Spring Bingo)

That Was Mine (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader – AA Spring Bingo)

Bad Idea, Right? (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Cry for Me, Sweetheart(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader- Req)

Cost of Access (Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Entrepreneur!Female Reader)

Hands Dirtier Than Yours (Mechanic!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Security Clearance(Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Former SHEILD!Female Reader)

We Couldn’t Stop(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers, AA kinky)

It’s What I’m Here For (Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Female Reader, AAKinky Bingo)

Stranger No More (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader- Req)

Closed Door Meetings (Future-Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Media Relations!Female Reader)

Sharp Enough To Ruin You (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, AKinky Bingo)

Kuritsa(Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Female Reader)

Freed (Wakanda!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader- Req)

Yours To Keep (Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHIELD Analyst!Female Reader- Req) 

Trapped Together(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, BBarnes 108th Bday Bingo)

Not So Surprising After All (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, BBarnes 108th Bday Bingo)

This Is The Last Time / Part 2(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader- Req) 

No Competition(Avenger!Bucky Barnes  x SHEILD agent/trainer! Female Reader- Req)

Under the Brookly Star(Young!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, BBarnes 108th Bday Bingo)

You Said Just The Tip (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Just the Tip)

Mine. Always(Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Female Reader)

Sweet As Sin(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Vet Visit (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

When All Is Said and Done (PostEndgame!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Female Reader)  

Midnight Stranger(Dark!Buck x Female reader, December Daze Challenge)

Under His Skin(Agent!Bucky Barnes x Agent!Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)

Merry Christmas, I Miss You(Bucky Barnes X Female Reader)

Mess is Best(Dad!Bucky Barnes x Kids x Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)

Ask Santa Nicely(Dark!Dom Bucky x Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)

White Wine In The Sun(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)

Stay Still(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)

Through the Cold(Avenger Bucky Barnes x Agent!Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)

Series:

Dangerous Note AU – Updated Every other Thursday (Mob!Bucky Barnes X Club singer!Female Reader) Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13 / Part 14 / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17 / Part 18 / Part 19 / Part 20

Stolen Devotion  - In progress  (Stalker!Bucky X Female reader) Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3  / Part4 / Part 5 (Coming Soon)

Favour – Completed (ClubOwner!Bucky Barnes X Female Reader, BBarnes 108th Bday Bingo) Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Drabbles:

Knees on Tiles (Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Female Reader)

Denied and Dripping (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Nothing but His Mouth (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Muffled (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Tailpipe Heat (Biker!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Curl Up on the Couch (SoftDom! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Make Me Say Yes (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Sticky Summer Cuddles (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)  

Perfect Sensation(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Thick Arms, Slow Grind (Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)

Birthday Drabbles (Dad!Bucky x Female Reader – Established Relationship feature kids!)

One-Shots, Ficlets, and Headcanons

🖤 Flinch

🖤 Tremble

🖤 Sigh

🖤 Shiver

Asks and Nonsense Ramblings

ignore how cringe and lame i sound in this, i was trying my hardest to not just repeat myself over and over while praising these writers. this list is in alphabetical order!

🥤— @54nboo | masterlist

erin… my favourite cryptid south of the equator. who else could write a fic about getting your shit rocked by bucky while super bass plays in the background, and still manage to make it goonable material? funny, witty, and with the ability to write some of the raunchiest yet heart wrenching fics, erin is an amazing writer. the fact they love bob is just the cherry on top 👅 ★ — double agent

🥤— @barnesandashes | masterlist

everyone salute me for being brave and getting over my shyness (aka mentioning mutuals i’ve never properly interacted with before) anyway! aria is an amazing writer, she’ll post some toe-curling smut only to hit you with a headcanon all about bucky yearning and suddenly you’re melting for other reasons. to this day, i am still haunted (in the best way) by congressman!barnes saying, “like i don’t smell your arousal every single time we’re in that office together.” ★ — need a ride?

🥤— @barnesonly | masterlist

if you’re a bucky fic consumer and you don’t already know sophie, what the hell have you been reading? it’s lowkey illegal to lust after bucky barnes and not know her! i feel like i’m going to be saying this about everyone on this list but her writing is out of this world, as are her plots and her graphics. holy crap, her graphics! prettiest blog award goes to barnesonly (and anyone else i decide to give it to). ps. write more of sentry and my life is yours. ★ — god complex

🥤— @blowingbarnes | masterlist

bbl is my literal twin, did you guys know that? yeah... we were separated at birth and reunited by bucky and goon. the absolute queen of series, no one does yearning quite like bbl. seriously, how do you make my heart and my pussy throb with the same sentence? viscount barnes you will always be famous. hotd!bucky, the day you drop is the day i die (from excitement). ★ — vital signs

🥤— @bckysdoll | masterlist

i’m not exaggerating when i say that i love every single fic zey has posted. there is something so yummy about the way she writes bucky, i wish i could inject her rendition of him into my veins. the recent housewife kink fic that she posted... yeah... i have to do a lap around the room any time i think about it. i need that man carnally, you don’t understand. ★ — size difference

🥤— @bckyslover | masterlist

when i was a little kid, bambi was one of my favourite movies... and now bambi is one of my favourite fic writers... call that life cumming full circle or however that expression goes. from lighter, fluffier fics, to darker, panty-dropping smut, bambi’s masterlist likely has a fic tailored to whatever you’re in the mood for. i think about older neighbour!bucky too much for it to be considered healthy... i need that man up my bootyhole, stat! ★ — older help

🥤— @buckyfmd | masterlist

so, fun fact! i keep reading poor drea’s url as bucky fuck my dick because i’m dumb like that. anyway, onto more important matters, like drea’s jaw-dropping writing. no man has ever made me feel half as turned on as the smut i’ve encountered in her fics, me and my pussy owe her many thank yous. also, her blog is just so satisfying to look at. the pink hue scratches an itch in my brain. i’m cheating a little with this fic rec (since it’s technically a wip) but i need the world to know i’m on my knees and impatiently waiting for beyond my years to drop. i’m also mourning the loss of another fic that was supposed to be linked here... he’ll always be present in my heart. ★ — beyond my years

🥤— @buckytakethewheel | masterlist

i adore marta’s writing, in any and all the shapes it comes in (smut, angst, fluff, etc.) i feel the same way about her fic distraction as taylor swift feels about that damn restaurant: help... i’m still there... i reread it and wait for that idiot to not walk out on the reader, only to get pissed off all over again when he inevitably does. i seriously need to have a proper deep dive into her masterlist, because every fic i read of hers is top-tier. ★ —a lesson in heroism

🥤— @chateaubarnes | masterlist

if bbl is my twin, aluri is my cosmic soulmate. my other half. we are two sides of the same coin, if the coin was built on second-guessing and an old kpop obsession that brings us nothing but shame (okay it doesn’t bring us that much shame). i’ve sillied, now i must serious... i feel so proud of the fact i’ve gotten to watch aluri go from being a reader to also being a writer in the bucky community. her fics are nothing short of brilliant, not to mention she’s a blessing when it comes to sharing tips for making dividers/moodboards. after reading the merger, i can no longer look at the word inevitable the same way. that word does not belong to thanos, it belongs to aluri and she is using it to make me horny 🥀 ★ — sin eater

🥤— @cursedheartsclub | masterlist

in writing this fic-rec, i’ve made the discovery that there are so many fics by liv that i’ve yet to read... and, while i’m lowkey disappointed in myself, i feel like a kid in a candy store staring at her masterlist, trying to decide which treat i want to read first. because trust i will be reading them all, that is just the kind of writer liv is: you want to soak up every word that’s been written by her. and, the best part is, she writes for so many more characters apart from bucky! really, we should all be on our knees right now thanking her for sharing her fics with us. ★ — the secretary clause

🥤— @danysdaughter | masterlist

i really don’t think i need to explain or introduce lizzy; if you’re a bucky fic reader, you already know who this legend is. quite frankly, i need her to sit down and teach a masterclass on how to craft the most spine-tingling and heart-aching fics, time after time. it’s truly a talent to not only write like lizzy does, but to do so both consistently, and with new and inventive plots each time. i will never tire of seeing danysdaughter appear on my dashboard, every single fic is better than the last. ★ — forever mine

🥤— @earthsmightiestbenders | masterlist

claire... the icon that you are, diva... it’s actually devastating that there’s only 2 fics on claire’s masterlist but hey, all the best gems are considered rare! and, trust me, her fics are gems. her smut has me ripping my hair out (context: i love my hair. this is a big deal to me) but, more importantly, the charming loser (i say, with so much affection in my voice) that is football!bucky has me in a chokehold, and i’m begging him to squeeze tighter. if one hot super soldier isn’t enough, don’t worry, because she also blessed us with a stucky fic. she is fr doing the lord’s horny work every time she hits post. ★ — the popsicle incident

🥤— @firingstars | mcu + dcu

yari is the princess of the land, and i am but her humble executioner. everything about her is top-tier, you people don’t even know! writing? 10/10. aesthetics? 10/10. humour? 10/10. personality? 10/10. i quite literally owe her my life aka my place in bwa. her masterlist is a treasure chest of outstanding fics, the fact we all get to read them for free is a miracle, don’t take it for granted! read her fics! right now! or she’ll order me to execute you... ★ — hold on (even if it’s fake)

🥤— @flockoff-featherface | mcu + dc + dmc + got

my sweet roe. my roeman empire. her fics have this charming quality to them where it feels like the narrator is taking you by the hand and guiding you along for a journey... of course, sometimes that journey is getting bent in half and stuffed full of [redacted], and by the end you’re clutching your pearls and wondering how you’ll ever recover from reading something so filthy (spoiler: you will recover, until the next time the demon of goon possesses her and blesses you with a new fic). smut aside, she has some of the most literary interesting plots, from a frankenstein inspired jason todd fic to my beloved dnd bucky. don’t even get me started on her robb stark series... just, don’t... ★ — dungeons, dragons and desire

🥤— @heldbybarnes | fluff + smut

contrary to the rumours, kennedy is not bald. she is, however, threatening to scalp me every time she hits post. which fortunately is often, because i don’t know what the bucky fic community would do without her. she really has a fic for every idea ever. nevermind rule 34 of the internet, rule 35 is if you can think of a plot, kennedy has written it. and she knocks it out of the park every. single. time. do you understand how difficult that is? i write one fic and suddenly need to go on a sabbatical. god bless kennedy, please never ever go bald! ★ — the mirrorball effect

🥤— @honeysucklewatr | masterlist

nic... 🚬 nic. i need a cigarette whenever i think too long about bucky not only letting vampire!reader drink from him, but begging her to do it too? oh. oh. anything and everything nic posts immediately gets filed into my tbr. i don’t need to read the synopsis, because i’m going to love it either way. every time i get a mention notification for nic’s taglist, my brain plays that tiktok audio, another one, thank you! but with utter delight. god bless the fact nic also writes jason todd fics, you guys have no idea the kind of win that is for me. ★ — the blood we’ve spilt

🥤— @iamthatonefangirl | masterlist

there is a reason why bri is that one fangirl, the rest of us really can’t even dream of being on her level, i need her to teach a masterclass on filthy smut (she’s going to hate me for saying that). no but for real, she has had an impact on my psyche and i have not been the same since i first read her rendition of the winter soldier. he’s so hot, i need him carnally. i already wanted john walker before, but something about the way she writes him makes me want him even more. if you are doubting anything i’ve said about her writing, just know this: i literally started watching the boys just so i could read her soldier boy smut (a character that doesn’t even appear until season 3). anyway, please support and give love to my cousin bri. long live uncle bucky! scotland forever! 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 ★ — dirty little secret

🥤— @its-in-the-woods | masterlist

i’ve said it before and i’ll gladly say it again: krys writes the best dark fics. they’re truly such a talented writer, i get excited every time i see they’ve posted a new fic. i don’t know what it is or how they do it, but krys manages to portray such twisted characters in a way that has you rooting for them, you want them to succeed at their crimes. dark fics aren’t their only forte though, the rest of their fics are amazing too. ★ — i am with them

🥤— @juniebjonesin | masterlist

if you haven’t already checked out june’s fics, you’re missing out. her writing has literally made me gasp out loud, it’s ridiculous. and, while her smut is amazing (for all my fellow goon freaks out there), the real highlight amongst her fics is her on-going series, solitary love. i’ve only managed to read the first chapter so far but, oh my god, it’s tugged at my heart strings. june really is proof that the bucky fics community stays winning, we should all feel so lucky to have her be part of it. ★ — solitary love

🥤— @mcrdvcks | sw + mcu + dc + misc. + it's-tober!

if being an amazing writer was a crime, abby would be in solitary confinement at this point. she has the ability to portray bucky in a way that feels so true to his character, whether it be in a raunchy scene or a fic designed to tear your heart apart. her bucky fics are just the tip of the talent iceberg, however. maybe it’s just the massive nerd in me but it’s genuinely a blessing that she writes for the big three aka marvel, dc, and star wars. in case it’s not obvious enough, her works are outstanding, do yourself a favour and read them! ★ — love on the brain

🥤— @metal-armed-muse | masterlist

picture me, helpless and horny, gnawing on the bars of my enclosure, begging to be released. yeah. that’s how kie’s writing makes me feel. like, i actually think i could chew through cement after reading her work — smut, fluff, or angst. not even her metal armed muse could pry me away from reading her fics. babydoll... i’ve not even had the chance to read babydoll yet, but i already know it’s amazing. ★ — media darling

🥤— @opheliabbarnes | masterlist

to you, ophelia is the queen of nerdy!bucky; to me, ophelia is the creator of the hare. we are not the same. whatever fic of phee's you choose to read, she has the ability to capture intricate, complex emotions and infuse it into a simple sentence. with smut so hot it’ll make you squirm (and, sometimes, learn a thing or two about fish) and prose that could easily pass as poetry, her fics are always a delight to read. it’s hardly surprising that her writing is so good, though... she’s a the secret history fan, amazing writing is to be expected. ★ — the better choice

🥤— @pinksplace | masterlist

hey, so, did you guys know em invented the colour pink? yeah, we all owe her a massive thank you. and not just because she blessed us with one of the prettiest colours, but also because she is doing this community a service by sharing her writing. holy shit, i cannot stress enough how sexy, flirty, and funny her writing is, her pinktober series is truly elite. and don’t even get started on her graphics... outstanding... amazing. ★ — tell me i’m your national anthem

🥤— @rosesaints | mcu + jjk + miguel o'hara + dcu

mara is hands-down a legend in this community. i’m struggling to even start praising her because how could i possibly capture in simple words how amazing her fics are? heartfelt, humorous, and so well-written it’s almost offensive that it was posted for free on tumblr.com, there is not a single fic by mara that is not sure to have you obsessed and invested within the first paragraph. i bow down the saint that is rosesaints. hopefully life loosens up on her soon and gives her the chance to rest. ★ — mystery of love

🥤— @sheriff-bodecker | masterlist

i think i owe emmi a thank you for single-handedly making me feral about lee bodecker again, in the big year of 2025. matter of fact, i think we all owe emmi a thank you. i’m an absolute sucker for any sub!bucky but there’s something so particularly yummy about emmi’s depiction of him. the smut is spine-tingling, the aesthetics are bright and happiness-inducing, and her masterlist is just one massive indulgence in variety. long live tboy bucky! ★ — about a boy

🥤— @superbassbuck | masterlist

the lion may not concern itself with anything, but i concern myself with the lion. pauline is one of the best writers on this godforsaken app (though this applies to everyone on this list… you’re all so good 🫩🫶🏻). it’s such a privilege to watch the ideas she shares in bwa come to life. one minute she’s silly, and then boom! jaw-dropping smut. don’t even get me started on her numerous dilf!bucky series. while her writing skills are otherworldly, what’s equally impressive is the speed and consistency at which she puts out hit after hit. teach me your ways, oh mighty lion. anyway, don’t you dare read her url as superb ass buck, or me and 9,999 miniature 2011 era nicki minajs will find you and we will hurt you. ★ — licensed for lust

🥤— @tw1sters | masterlist

i recently found sam’s work… and i’m mad at myself that it took me so long read her fics. her smut was hot enough to somehow breakthrough the invisible fog of my depression and turn me on, while her angst manages to not just tug at the strings but turn my heart into her own personal puppet. genuinely one of those writers you see has posted and you instantly feel excited to see what masterpiece they’ve cooked up this time. ★ — consolation

🥤— @umbreoni | masterlist

our lord and saviour of aesthetically pleasing themes, june has literally done irreparable damage to my psyche (i say this with so much love). okay yes i know this is technically a bucky fic rec – despite how many non-bucky fics i’ve already mentioned – but please let me be insane about natasha romanoff for a second. bc. omfg. she’s always been hot and mother to me... but ever since june blessed the world with girlcock!nat, she has been mommy. i need that woman so badly, y’all don’t understand. i can’t think about her for too long bc i need to take a lap. i need to touch grass. i need a cigarette. ★ — the winter soldier fucking you in a headlock

🥤— @unificsation | bucky + clark + logan

gosh. my sweet uni. my literal universe. where to start. there’s so much put into her writing that touches my soul, i don’t think she understands how wholly obsessed with her fics i am. i’m forever grateful uni made the first move and dmed me... not to expose myself as a loser, but she was my first moot/friend in the bucky community. can i? was my introduction to her writing and holy shit, she just keeps getting better and better. from nipple-hardening prose to filth written so emotionally that the tears start flowing from your eyes and not your thighs, uni is a master at both. if amazingly written fics are not enough, her ability to cook up some of the most eye-catching graphics will surely catch your attention. ★ — operation: v-card

🥤— @wildflowersandvibranium | bucky + clark

last but far from least, clem and her writing are the perfect palate cleanser to round-off this fic-rec with. no one does dad!bucky and tooth-rotting fluff quite like clem, but tread carefully: her angst will make your heart break in two... but you’ll learn to forgive and forget, because the beautiful writing makes it all worth it. ★ — the oddity of falling

honourable mentions! while i would love to add a personal note for everyone, this fic-rec already features 30 writers. however, if you’re familiar with the previously mentioned blogs, here are some more amazing writers in the bucky community: @amoremarveloustime @barnes-babydoll @colettebarnes @dolcesaints @gemmawritess @herejustforbuckybarnes @kqtholins @mandoalorian @miraclediviner @navybrat817 @overwintering-soldier @phoenix-in-writing @slutdier @stanmarvelous @salty-tang @sunday-bug @vividxpages @vunblr @wint3rbarnes @witchywithwhiskey + so many more that i would love to mention but tumblr hates me and wants me dead (there's a 50 mentions per post limit </3)

i owe a big thanks to a lot (if not all) of these amazing writers for inspiring and motivating me to keep writing deranged smut and mid fics. i don’t want to be sappy on main but i’ve been writing fics since before wattpad ruined itself with ads, and i can honestly say this is the most welcomed and loved i have ever felt in a fandom. i love you all, so much.

A crack of thunder made ceramic mugs rattle in a symphony of chitters against the drumming of torrential, sideways rain; dark clouds obstructing lunar light, flashes of lightning the only fleeting illumination. The streets were scarce; city citizens turned in for the night, even the wildlife seeking shelter from the downpour. Automobiles cruised slowly through flooding streets, storm drains overflowing to stream muck, litter, and pollution along curbs.

The diner was modest, quaint, designed like a vintage malt shop with a white marbled bartop lined with backless, cherry red barstools; black and white checkered floors; jukebox in the far corner by the restrooms; bulky, neon light fixtures; complete with tacky Elvis wall-mounted decorations and an authentic milkshake machine.

The diner was a little known place, but those who know it, frequent it. Those who frequented the joint would sing praises and compliments about the decor, ambiance, food, staff - all of it.

When the front door pushed open, it caught the bell to announce a customer.

Panting, you stood on the carpeted rug and shivered while shucking off the raincoat that did very little to ward off droplets. You quickly wiped your feet while hanging the coat on a coatrack, the only other object being a black, hook-handled umbrella and knee-length black outer coat that obviously belonged to the guy sitting at the bar. When you had scampered in, the man's attention turned to regard you with mild curiosity to who else would weather this violent storm; revealing himself to you. It was hard not to acknowledge how handsome the brooding man with a perfectly sculpted shadowy beard was. But you weren't there to ogle handsome strangers - you needed the comforts of home that only this diner mastered.

You gave the soles of your feet one last wipe, arms wrapping around your soaked top as the kitchen doors swung open.

"Hey, hey! There she is! My favorite customer!" A heavily accented voice cheered, revealing a man with a platter in hand and splattered apron tied tight exiting the kitchen. He chuckled and whistled lowly, "Damn, mama, you look half-drowned!"

"I feel it," you trembled, sniffling. "Can I wait here for my ride?"

"'Course, sweetheart, go on, grab any seat in the house. I'll grab your coffee inna sec."

"Thanks. Oh, uh, Ernie? You don't happen to have a change of clothes somewhere back there? Maybe something of Darlene or Abigail's?"

"I'll check, mamas, yeah," he agreed. You smiled and shuffled to the usual booth you liked to occupy on late nights. "Hey, Henry, man! Get a Honey Plate goin'!" Ernesto called through the open kitchen window, hearing the line cook agree while setting the plate before the only other patron. "All right, boss, here we go - 'just toast'. You decide on anything else? C'mon, man, what can I getcha? Them tow guys are gonna be awhile, hear half the city's flooded by now. Hey, Honey!" You glanced up at your nickname. "You were just out there, how bad is it?"

"Pretty bad," you shuddered, blowing hot air to your hands in a futile attempt to warm them, "it's raining in fucking sheets, even the storm drains are fucked."

"See? You might as well eat while you hunker down," the portly employee smacked his lips playfully, tossing a stained dishrag over his shoulder. It was hard to ignore the conversation occurring, but you mindlessly rummaged through your bag, noting the minimal internal dampness, and hoped your eavesdropping wasn't too obvious.

The handsome man at the counter chuckled to the man behind the counter, "Well, what's the Honey Plate?"

"A specialty," Ernesto quipped. "Warm, open-face buttered biscuit and topped with honey. Comes with turkey sausage mixed scrambled eggs and hashbrowns."

"It's not on the menu?"

"Nah, it's on our secret menu, mostly reserved for baby girl over there. You want one?"

"I'll try it, sure, yeah, thank you, my friend."

"Yeah, no problem, boss." Over the counter, Ernesto called to you, "Hey, dollface, hang tight! Lemme put this order in and I'll grab your coffee and look for them clothes, all right?"

"Y-You're a good man, Ernesto!" You called back, glancing out the window with a heavy frown; still uncomfortably wet and cold. Clothes fused to skin, sticky in an uncomfortable way. It's not like you planned to stay after work so late, but considering what was at stake, you were left little to no choice. Rhythmic droplets faintly splashed on the linoleum floor under your seat like the ticking of seconds on the tacky, wall-mounted analog clock of Elvis Presley, whose hips swung in rhythm as the seconds hand. The King reported there was less than an hour left in this day.

Your eyes burned with exhaustion and suppressed tears, drained from the physical toll of stress, back sore from high heels, any style to your hair countered by humidity, wind, and rain. You didn't even need to check because surely, make-up was streaked down your cheeks; nose stinging from the cold which instigated your sinuses to make you sniffle. Fingertips and toes were numbed like icecaps, socks soaked, shoes squishy. As if being haunted, your mind replayed scattered thoughts and statistics that you spent hours agonizing over.

Another crack of thunder. Bitterly, you thought the noise was God laughing at your misfortune.

Ernesto kicked open the kitchen door, carrying a tray and knowing smirk; setting to your table a ceramic mug, personal cream pitcher, bowl full of your preferred sugar-replacement, and a steaming pot of coffee on a hot pad.

"Sorry, Honey, I don't have anything in the back, but Henry's gonna go check our cars for you."

"No, no, oh, no, he shouldn't - "

"Honey, it's fine, it's least we could do," he scolded.

"It's pouring out, he shouldn't drown himself on my account."

"After you almost starved yourself to save our asses that time we couldn't afford the butcher?" He scoffed, beginning to pour your coffee. "We're happy to look, it's fine, we're both parked right out back."

"You're very sweet, thank you - tell Henry to come visit if he's the time."

"Oh, he will," Ernesto chuckled. "So," his hands hooked hipbones, shifting full weight from one side to the other, tonguing his left front canine to restrain his desire to pry. "Wanna tell me why you're out this late, in this storm, little lady?"

"Nothing nefarious, I promise. I was just working, like I always am," you pouted, watching him fix your first cup of coffee perfectly the way you desired.

"You look tired, mamas, what's goin' on that's got you out here so late?"

You frowned, "It's a mess, I wouldn't wanna bother yah."

"You never could. C'mon," he gestured for you to go on, so you sighed.

"It's... A mess."

"Yes, you said that."

"Well, okay, uh, know how my projects are sponsor-funded?"

"Mhm."

"Funding got cut."

"What?" He gasped, taking the seat across from you to gossip. "How could they do that? What's - What the hell?"

"I know," you sighed. "It's all right, I've an investor meeting tomorrow afternoon."

"Well, that's a good sign, right?"

"It's a step in the right direction, but now, essentially, I have to make a portfolio of all my previous projects where I basically get to beg a buncha rich assholes why they should be funding these life-changing research projects."

Ernesto chuckled, "Well, you sound ready for it."

"I gotta get all my quips out now before I face the over-paid motherfuckers that need convinced to donate towards noble and charitable causes."

The older man snickered, "You've always been a sweet talker, I wouldn't worry about it too much."

"Even to these assholes?"

"You need their money, sweetheart."

"Don't remind me," you whined, taking another sip of coffee.

"What's the bulk of your research?"

"Medical."

"So they'd be immoral idiots to reject you."

"Name me a morally sound rich person." Ernesto paused, opened his mouth, paused again, sat back and snapping his mouth shut. "Exactly," you chuckled, shaking your head, "but the organization I work for is technically a nonprofit, so their funding is tax deductible."

"Well, that's encouraging. Right?"

"Hopefully."

"So you're out late to get that portfolio together?"

"Yessir. I was the last one out and my sister's driving my car for the next two weeks, so," you shrugged as he snickered.

"Oh, that's generous of yah."

"She's touring a few universities with my nephew," you eased, "it's cheaper to let her take mine than rent in this city." Droplets still raced down your forehead and neck. "But the storm's delaying everything, so, I gotta wait for her to pick me up."

"Yo, Ernie!"

"Hang on, lemme grab your plate," his eyes rolled, hearing the line cook from the kitchen and standing.

"Can I still smoke in here?"

"Midnight and after, mama, you know the rules!"

You smirked to yourself, shuddering and wrapping both hands around the steaming mug. With immense concentration, you focused all energy on not freezing to your seat, even bowing your head to rest on your forearm.

"Excuse me - " You gasped when a hand placed to your shoulder, shoving back into the corner of the booth - startling the man from the counter, who reared back with his hands held up in defense. "Woah, hey, I-I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

You laughed at yourself, seeing his lips spread with ease as you managed to pant, "No, no, i-it's not you, sorry, I was just, uh, lost in thought, y-you caught me off guard. Um, s-sorry about that, uh, what did you say - did you say something?"

"I just, you seem cold?"

"Is that a question?"

"I think so," now the handsome stranger chuckled at himself. "I was gonna offer you my jacket," he fisted the material in a prosthetic hand, "'cause you know, uh, it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do in my head - but now, it feels a little creepy."

You blinked in surprise, "You were gonna offer me your jacket 'cause I seem cold?"

"Well, yeah."

"That's... The nicest thing I've ever heard," you cooed, easing the man's worries. His teeth were straight and whitened, smiling as if in relief, nodding as he handed over his relatively dry coat. "Thank you, this is really nice of you. You have no idea how much I appreciate it."

"Sounded like we're both stuck in this storm, thought it a bit rude to make you freeze through it."

Being the dead of summer, most air conditioning units were cranked up, the diner no different. When you eagerly accepted his garment and both arms lifted to pull it on, both your nipples were seen straining against your wet shirt. His eyes adverted and throat cleared, backing up to his seat as you pulled the suit jacket on over your frigid figure.

"And for what it's worth," he mentioned, half-turned in his seat, "there's a special place in hell for people who cut medical funding."

The smirk was impossible to fight off, lamenting, "Ah, you heard that, huh? I appreciate the support, um... Hey," you gestured across from you, "would you wanna join me? Only people in the joint, I'm in your jacket, feels a bit impolite to not invite you to sit." When he perked up at the offer, you teased, "Though, I should warn you, I'm not much entertainment tonight."

"Are you other nights?" He asked, taking a drag of coffee but swiveled on his stool to face you fully.

"Depends on how much coffee I've had. What about you, are you much entertainment? The way this night is goin', we both might need it."

He chuckled, pinning you with a steely gaze, taking a deep sigh, then verifying, "I think I can be entertianing when the occasion calls for it. Sure you don't mind me waiting for my tow with you?"

"Sure you don't mind me wearing your jacket?"

The man with a gleaming metal arm picked up his plate of toast and mug of coffee, setting them down as he effortlessly slid into the bench across from you. "Not t'worry, I think it's a good look," he shrugged, nudging the toast between you two.

"I'm sure it looks ridiculous," you blew off, glancing at the flooding street when headlights flashed. It was a police SUV.

"So, you're stuck out here for work and your sister has your car, huh?"

"And you're waiting for a tow. What were you doin' round here to start with?"

"Work," he smirked. "My lawyer's office is just a block down."

"Oh, the Pulliver Building?"

"Exactly. How'd you - "

"I work in the Stratford Building," you nodded.

"No shit. I have an associate there," the man's head cocked with interest. "What is it you do?"

"Oh, don't get me started right now, I'm trying to forget about work. Tell me what you do?"

"C'mon," he chuckled, "can't be that bad. Heard a bit of what you were saying earlier, I'm, uh, I'm sorry t'hear about your funding."

You huffed as Ernesto brought out two Honey Plates, "Thank you, um... Yeah, no, it's frustrating."

He nodded and leaned back, letting the two platters be set between you. The stranger asked, "So, what if the meeting tomorrow doesn't go well?"

You answered, "Then a lot of people are gonna get fucked over."

"Well, what is it about your research that's so different? Are you the only team working on it?"

Ernesto smirked when the questions obviously got you started; silently setting butter, syrup, Sriracha, and other condiments to the table and retreating back into the kitchen.

For at least half an hour, you poured your heart out to this handsome stranger all about your job and the research projects you had in the works. "And you know what?" You leaned in over the table, the man doing the same so you could hush, "We haven't gone public with this, but I have a working relationship with a firm that's developing all these fancy little devices and helpful things that'll help other-bodied people."

"That's exciting," he smirked.

"I have an investors meeting with them tomorrow, I hope they choose us to run those studies when they want to move into testing."

"I'm sure they'll be smart enough to see your expertise," he eased. "You sound prepared, I mean," he casually checked his overly-priced watch, "you're still out - working - minutes to midnight."

"I'd give you the pitch but truthfully, it's not finished yet. I have a bad habit of leaving the important shit until the night before. I like to think I work better under pressure."

"A lie we all tell ourselves," he teased with a grin. "I'd love to hear it, though, maybe I could give you a few pointers."

"Oh, Mr. Business Man, are yah?"

"In a manner of speaking," he evaded with a charming smirk that made you gooey inside.

"Any advice for talking to a buncha rich jackasses who all look like they're undressing me instead of listening?"

This made your companion sit back with a chuckle. He mused, "Best advice is, if they're looking at you like they wanna undress you, look at them like they're just a bunch of pubescent boys seeing a woman for the first time. There's never need to panic when you're the one controlling the narrative. They're there to see you, it's a privilege - not a right. So, be poised but confident, men like that respond to strong women."

"Hm," you cut a piece of hashbrown, stabbed it, and lifted it to you mouth, "that's actually not half bad advice."

"Really? Oh, okay, great, go ahead then. Ask me for more advice, I'm on a roll."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head before a sudden thought occurred. "Oh, uh, by the way, I'm Y/N but I'm called Honey most of the time."

Across the table, you offered your hand. He smiled and grasped it tightly, introducing, "James, but I go by Bucky."

"Bucky?"

"Yes, Honey?"

You grinned, phone buzzing on the table. A quick glance confirmed the respondent, sitting up straighter as you picked up the device and excused, "I'm sorry, it's my sister."

"Please," he permitted with casual wave of his wrist, picking up his fork.

"Hey," you hushed into the receiver.

"Hey, where are you?"

"I'm at the diner on 10th, where are you?"

"We just got home," she complained down the line. "The streets are so bad, they closed a bunch down."

"No shit?"

"It's horrible out there."

"So... You're not coming, are you?"

"I don't think there's anyway for me to get to you right now."

You nodded with understanding, "It's okay, I understand, I'll figure it out. You guys stay safe, okay?"

She agreed, the pair of you muttering a few other words before hanging up with a heavy sigh. Bucky offered a small look of sympathy as his own device buzzed, alerting him to a message.

"Well, good news is, my guys are on the way and if you need, we can give you a ride," he offered, putting his phone face-down on the table.

"No, it's okay, I can figure something out," you waved off.

"Everything's shut down and the city's flooded," his head shook, "my guys are on their way and I'd be happy to give you a ride wherever you need."

You were backed in a corner, left with no choice but to relent, "Thank you, I'd really appreciate that - as long as you swear you're not, like, gonna kidnap me or some shit."

"No, darling. But who knows, maybe I'll even convince you to have a nightcap."

You chuckled, "You buying?"

"I'll make."

You smirked, pair dissolving into mindless chatter. You compared favorite movies, related through mutual musical interests, discussed favorite foods while finishing the Honey Plates. When the tow truck arrived, so did a lifted SUV that pulled up in front of the diner and flashed their lights.

"That'd be us, doll," Bucky nodded out the window, wiping his mouth with a napkin and grabbing his belongings. When he stood, he offered his hand to help you unstick and lift out of the booth. When you reached for your wallet, he was already pulling a fresh bill from his to hand to Ernesto; never taking the change. You both thanked the man repeatedly while shouldering still-wet coats, bundling your purse best you could before Bucky was opening the door for you and then the umbrella. He aided you across the walkway, rushing in the streams of water and splashing up to the SUV; where he quickly ripped the backdoor open and helped you load into it. He quickly followed after.

"Yo, boss-man!"

"Lang," Bucky sighed, readjusting in his seat as you shivered.

Your brows crinkled in thought. Before, you figured Ernesto's use of the term 'boss' was something endearing, maybe something complimentary. But hearing it from the driver's mouth made you wonder what exactly your new companion did.

"All right, doll," Bucky smirked at you, "where we headed?"

"Thought you were gonna persuade me into a nightcap?"

He chuckled, "I live downtown."

"I'm uptown."

"'Uptown'?" Lang repeated, turning to pin you with a look as the tow truck turned up the street presumably to fetch Bucky's car. "Sorry, Miss Lady, but there's street closures up that way. You got anywhere else you can hunker down until they reopen?"

"Lang, let's head home," Bucky commanded, a shiver shooting down your spine when he laid his arm around the back of the seats. Scott Lang nodded and turned forward, putting the car in gear and gently starting down the road.

You quickly sent your sister a text, letting her know you were somewhere safe for the night and would see her tomorrow. You asked her not to burn your house down and to water the plants.

After locking the device, you looked up at Buck and smirked, "So, you have a driver?"

"Sometimes," he eased. "It's a company perk."

"What company?"

"I thought you said we were done talking about work?"

"You want me to go home with you but won't tell me what you do for a living?"

Bucky smirked, "I'm in finance."

"Gross," you teased.

"It pays for a downtown highrise - "

"And a chauffeur."

Over the sounds of yours and Bucky's amusement, the driver chimed in, "I'm not a chauffeur, Miss. I'm an apprentice."

You nodded, humming, "Uh-huh, oh, I see... And you're hoping to score brownie points, what? Picking up the boss?"

"Yeah! Exactly!"

"Lang," Bucky spoke evenly, something so deep and rumbly that it encouraged you to lay a bold hand to your companion's thigh.

"Well, thanks for enduring this rain for us," you told the shunned driver.

"My pleasure," he beamed. "Where abouts Uptown do you live, Miss?"

"By the harbor."

"Oh, the historic district," Lang cooed, "that's such a pretty area."

"Hey, Lang?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Focus on driving."

"Sorry, boss."

With a smirk, you leaned into Bucky's side and asked quietly, "You always so bossy?"

"Yes," Lang leered from the driver's seat.

You both snickered, leaning into one another as Bucky seemed to relax a little more. "How long have you lived downtown?" You wondered.

It distracted Bucky enough that his driver was left alone to navigate the flooding streets. You tried not to ask anything too compromising after seeing how skittish he was around certain subjects, keeping it light and basic; trying to crack a few jokes because you liked his smile so much. Lang couldn't help but chime in at random times, usually to your amusement and Bucky's annoyance.

However, about two streets away from your destination, the car came up to a police roadblock; street shut down. "Shit," Lang cursed, "we need down this street, boss."

"Pull up," Bucky told him, arm now laid around your shoulders heavier.

"Boss - "

"Pull up, Scottie."

Lang crept forward until a cop halted him, rolling the window down and being instantly plastered with rain. He shouted over the whipping winds and bulleted droplets, "Yo! We live down this way, we need through!"

"No way! Whole street's closed! If you need, head back down to 14th - the Hilton's putting people up for the night."

Bucky leaned towards the window and rolled his down, the cop turning his glare onto him before softening. "Mr. Barnes," the officer nodded, "good evening, sir."

"We need through, Banner."

"Of course, sir, right away, sir." Bucky nodded once and rolled the window up; Lang doing the same, cutting off the sounds of Banner commanding the blockade be moved.

You blinked in impression, "How the hell did you even see his badge?"

"I know him personally," Bucky eased, the roadblocks moved by the poncho'ed officers to let Lang through.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"My father was on the force," he defended, "I know most of them, he was the police chief."

"Huh," you considered.

When the car slowed in front of a towering slate building, Bucky was clapping Lang on the shoulder and thanking him, following you out of the car as the building had a protruding awning to shield from the sheets of rain from street to front door. Bucky offered his flesh hand and lead the way into where he called home, nodding to the lobby attendants and directing you towards the elevator.

Inside the mechanical lift, Bucky used a key to access a certain floor; only after it was turned did the mechanisms lurch to life.

You couldn't help but poke fun about how exclusive this all felt, wondering who the fuck he was - Batman? Bucky laughed and assured he was, "just in finance."

However, upon arriving at his penthouse, you gawked obnoxiously in impression. "Jesus fucking Christ, I'm obviously in the wrong career field."

Bucky chuckled and hung his coat in the foyer, keys and wallet left by the door. You stalked around, head cocked to take in the impressive interior; Bucky following behind you while rolling his shirt sleeves up.

"What's your drink, sweetheart?"

"Uh, vodka-cran - hey, is that real?" You gawked, pointing at the artwork on the wall.

"Straight from The Power Broker's private collection, yeah," he chuckled, approaching a drinks cart. He uncorked a crystal decanter and poured what you were now convinced was a multi-thousand dollar whiskey. "And the sculptures on the bookshelf are real, too."

Your eyes narrowed at floor-to-ceiling bookshelf making up one entire wall, noting the miniature busts and sculptures from a lucrative artist. "You own original Carol Danvers busts and use them as bookends?" You turned to pin him with a look of pure bewilderment. "I mean, do you shit gold or something? Own the golden goose?"

"No," he mixed distilled vodka in a crystal glass, "I just work - "

"In finance," you finished for him, nodding as you casually strolled along the walls. "You have an incredible space, it's insane. Is that - ?"

He looked at what you pointed up at, nodding, "The clock? Yeah. Part of the building, gets maintained about once a year." Along the glass panes was the huge face of the clock, making up nearly the entire living room wall, illuminated against an iron-rod staircase leading to the second floor.

"Are you the coolest person, like, ever? I think you might be."

"Nah," he chuckled, approaching with a drink in each hand. "I got it in the post-COVID real estate boom."

You hummed, "It's still really fucking cool. I mean, who has an actual, functional record player now?" You pointed past him while he offered the vodka-cran while taking his own sip of whiskey. "Is it? Functional?"

Bucky didn't say anything, just smirked and turned to approach the record player. He took another mouthful while flicking the music player on and setting the needle to the disc already there. When a tune was struck, he smirked back at you, making your eyes roll into a drink of your own.

"I'm sure you do this for all the ladies, right?"

His head shook, hand sliding into his suit pocket, "Actually, no. I don't bring anyone back here."

"Oh, c'mon - "

"My friends and family are welcome, but if I were to ever meet someone, I usually feign like I'm up in a hotel."

You watched him approach, frowning as you asked, "Why?"

"I don't like temporary people in my personal space."

"So... Why am I here?"

Bucky chuckled, ice cubes clanking together as he took another slug. He set his glass aside, offering his prosthetic hand while rumbling, "To dance with me."

You snorted, you couldn't help it. Laughing felt natural with Bucky, crystal glass lifting to hide your smile as your other waved off Bucky, "Oh, you can't be serious."

"What?" He asked, grinning with confusion.

"Th-That's the line? That's your line? Does that work on anyone?"

"Think I'm lying?"

"I don't know, you picked me up pretty fast."

"You didn't exactly fight me," he reached for his glass again.

"No, no, wait, I'm sorry. Look, I'm used to guys who don't even have mattress frames thinking that was primo romance. You caught me off guard, asking to dance. So - hang on - " You skulled the last of your drink, setting the empty glass aside and nervously fixing your hair in place, "Okay, okay. Go ahead, ask me again."

Bucky smirked and set his glass down again, fingers twitching before clearing his throat and offering his hand, "Would you like to dance with me?"

As you accepted his hand and moved to the open floor of the living room, you mused, "You know, last time a guy asked me to dance, it was my 10-year-old cousin at our aunt's wedding - and it was The Macarena."

"That's not exactly a partner dance," he noted curiously; holding your right hand in the air, his other laying to your waist, yours on his bicep.

"Exactly."

Bucky snorted, "Well... It's a really solid dance, even I have to admit."

You hummed, fighting off your grin to ask, "So, where'd you learn?"

"Just something I picked up when I was younger," he eased.

"Does it help you meet ladies?"

He grinned and teased, "Nah, haven't found a suitable partner, yet."

"Is flirting just second nature to you? Jesus."

"C'mon, got a gorgeous girl in my arms, I'd like to keep her comin' back."

"Oh, here we go."

Bucky just grinned and lead the dance quietly, giving you small reprieve from the wave of flustered emotions he washed you with. Things turned peaceful, the pair of you just swaying together to the trumpety music. However, when you dropped your hand to his waist in order to lean your head on his shoulder, it was hard to ignore the way his body contoured against yours.

"You smell nice," you mentioned mindlessly.

"Thank you," he mumbled, head cocked to lay over yours; beard scratching your forehead. "So does your hair."

You just smiled and whispered your thanks, feeling a little too comfortable with him. A flare of anxiety made your eyes pop open and for you to gently pull back; Bucky lifting off and looking down at you with such a warm and intense gaze, you felt your stomach drop to your feet. You were suddenly compelled to admit, "I don't do this sort of thing often."

"What sort of thing?"

"Go home with strangers."

He nodded, "That's good t'know 'cause I don't do this sort of thing often either."

"Good," You breathed, using his shoulder to keep your balance as you rocked onto your toes and caught him in a kiss. Bucky hummed against you, hands securing your waist tightly as he flexed his arms to draw you all the closer. Both your arms wrapped around his neck, unsatisfied and lowering to rake over his chest, neck, biceps, jaw, cheeks - all around.

Bucky wasn't much better, hands dragging and raking up, down, forward, backward, left, right, center. He touched you everywhere, prosthetic fingers raking into your hair, securing his grip that made your mouth gasp open and for his tongue to dominate yours. You were pliable putty in his hands, he was a randy teen once more; both desperate and warm for the other, wanton with desire.

"Mh - mh - mh," you tried to pause, pulling back minimally, which encouraged Bucky to kiss down your neck. "I-I don't even know you - "

"What d'you wanna know?"

You were distracted by his teeth raking over the meat of your neck, catching veins and tendons as he went. You whimpered, clinging to his biceps, head lulling back to let him access, trying to remember your train of thought. "A-Are your parents alive?"

He paused his kissing and light sucking to answer, "Mother is, father died years ago."

"Oh - "

His hand tightened on your hips. "Don't, it's been years."

"Where's your mother now?"

"Lives by the river."

"Do you have siblings?"

Bucky's hands slid down to your thighs, "Two older sisters," then he heaved you up onto his waist, "a younger brother and sister."

Your legs tightened around his waist, hanging onto his neck while taking advantage to lay your own kisses to his lips, cheeks, jaw and neck. In between kisses, as Bucky began walking through his home, you asked, "When's your birthday?"

"March 10th."

You smirked, licking a fat stripe up his neck and sucking onto his earlobe as Bucky stalked down the hallway. "Do you have any pet peeves?"

He hummed, "Improper grammar when texting."

With his foot, Bucky nudged the bedroom door open. After a beat to think, you asked, "Do you have a criminal record?"

Instead of immediately responding, Bucky paused to drop you on your back to his bed. He stared down at you for a second, then chuckled, "What?"

"You're not, like, a serial killer or something, right? 'Cause that'd really harsh the vibe, man."

"Maybe a few speeding tickets and shit in my time, but no, doll, I'm not a serial killer," he smirked, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "Anything else?"

You paused, something daring you to challenge, "You're not really 'just in finance', are you?"

He shed his shirt from his shoulders, revealing the mangled scar where his prosthetic jointed. "No, doll," he opened the top button of his slacks, "but what I do in addition don't really matter right now, does it?"

"No... But I wanted to hear you say it," you smirked, sitting up to you knees in front of him and helping him shuck and yank his trousers open and down his legs. He chuckled dryly before reaching out to hook his hand around the back of your neck and yank you into another kiss that would last the night.

Despite the importance of the next day, sleep evaded the pair of you.

The sun was trying desperately to break from behind the rolling plumes of dull, pewter clouds. With a mug of coffee in hand, you stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows making up Bucky's far wall; dressed in only your panties and his day-old button-up. You watched the city clean post-floods and for citizens to tentatively head into work.

You perked a single brow, making note of how quiet things appeared; pushing off the frame to turn and head back towards the bed. You smiled at the man still lying there, looking ethereal against the dark colored sheets and grey-filtered light; who reached a hand out for you.

"Do you have the time?" You asked, setting the coffee mug to the side table before crawling across the mattress towards him.

He hummed, welcoming you to his side while checking his watch on his side table. "Time for bed, sweetheart, c'mere," he teased, hand moving behind his head as the other hooked your waist.

"Bucky!" You laughed when he brought you down beside him, smothering your face with kisses that trailed down your neck. "Baby, hey, we can't - we can't - we can't," you rushed, smooshing his cheeks to draw him back in front of you. "As tempting as this is, I have to get home and get ready for today."

He groaned, "Yeah, thought you might say that."

Coltishly, you mused, "Although, I wouldn't be opposed to coming back, maybe when these meetings are over."

Bucky grinned and you let him lower to mutter in the space between your lips, "Welcome back anytime you want, doll," before searing a kiss. You moaned against him, caressing his neck and jaw to encourage him closer. Bucky let excitement bolt in his chest, teeth catching your bottom lip and biting hard enough to swell.

You squeaked, flinching against his body and unconsciously grinding against his bare bulge. "You're distracting me," you complained.

"All part of my master plan."

"If it were any other day, I'd easily trade work for you," you whispered while reaching up to pet his cheeks, "but today's a little too important, sweetheart."

"All right, yeah, yeah," he chuckled.

"Speaking of, thank you for helping me iron out my final presentation."

"My pleasure," he whispered. "You're gonna kill it today, baby. Just remember - they're all a buncha little boys."

"Right," you returned, lifting up to peck his lips. "But I can't go if you don't move from on top of me."

"Killjoy," he grumbled, rolling off you. He pouted as you got to your feet and scurried around the room, collecting articles of clothing to throw on quickly. "C'mon, baby, what if you got back in bed and showered here?"

You hopped into your pants, buttoning them as you smiled, "I still need a change of clothes."

"That looks good," he nodded.

"Nevermind I wore it yesterday?"

"Exactly."

"And what should I do about make up?"

"You don't need it."

"Mhm, and my shoes? That are still wet?"

Bucky opened his mouth, paused, then quipped, "I'll buy you new ones on the way in."

"Buck," you teased, exchanging his button-up for your bra and blouse. "Well, you've been a very gracious host - "

"Last chance, doll," he purred, patting the empty space beside him, making you chuckle. "I know, I know, you've gotta go - "

"Don't get up," you interrupted his movements by hovering at his side and leaning in to kiss him sweetly. "I know where the front door is, you stay put - I know you're tired," you whispered against his lips with a smirk.

"I don't get tired, baby. Get back in bed, lemme show you."

"You're impossible."

After a very weightless argument that resulted in your tongue in his mouth, you were finally pulling back and grabbing your purse. Sans a shirt and only in sweatpants and slides, Bucky escorted you back to the elevator's door, draping himself over you as the contraption brought you back to the lobby.

"You or your chauffeur driving me back?" You asked.

"Clint Barton is."

"Another associate of yours?"

"More like a, uh, coworker."

You nodded in understanding, "And what brownie point is he trying to score?"

Bucky's arm around your neck contracted to bring you in so he could kiss your temple. "It's never a bad idea to kiss up to the boss, is it?"

"If my boss looked like you, I'd certainly do a lot of kissing," you cooed, following his lead across the lobby and through the front doors.

"You're killin' me, baby," Bucky groaned. "C'mon, we can just turn around and head back in - "

"Later," you laughed, approaching an idling SUV. "Look, you got my number - put it to use."

"Yes, ma'am." He yanked open the back door but didn't let you go yet; turning you to face him and leaning in to kiss you on the lips in full view of the public. His hands wrapped tightly around your waist and it took all your self control not to fondle him in broad daylight.

"Baby? Baby, I gotta - I gotta go, okay?" You managed between kisses. He relented and paused his assault to let you whisper, "Call me."

"Oh, I will," he nodded, leaving one last kiss to your lips before stepping back. He helped you load into the backseat of the SUV, rolling the window down before he even shut the door. Bucky paused to say something to the driver, Clint, before stepping back to your window. "Good luck today, baby," he bid softly. "Never know, maybe you'll get exactly what you want."

"Mhm, thanks," you grinned, not giving his words much thought, "and thanks for letting me shelter the storm."

"Anytime. Maybe next time, no storm necessary?"

You agreed, leaning out to peck his lips again and whisper goodbye, Buck returning the parting before thumping the door twice. He waved as the car pulled off, rolling the window back up as you began the journey home.

Turns out, Scott Lang was a much funnier driver than Clint Barton - but you arrived home safely none the less. You hopped out and in anticipation, Clint rolled his window down.

"Um, thank you for the ride," you shouldered your purse.

"Of course," he nodded. "Got everything?"

"Yeah - yep," you fingered your keys.

"Well, have a good day, ma'am."

"Oh, thank you, uh, you, too," you bid with a small wave, turning for the building's front doors. However, after a second to contemplate your better judgement, you whirled around and approached the car again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Barton permitted casually, sunglasses shielding his sights.

"How do you know Bucky?"

"Mr. Barnes runs the organization I work for."

"So... He's your boss?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"A coworker?" You tested.

"In a manner of speaking. He's very hands on."

"Right... Right, okay. And you guys work in...?"

"Finance."

"Right. Well, okay, thanks," you tapped the mouth of the window.

"Ma'am," he nodded, watching you scamper up the front stoop and into your building. As Clint pulled away from the building, he made a phone call.

"Hey, Macy," you approached the receptionist, "I need about 12 copies of this packet - stapled in the upper left corner, please."

She immediately accepted the documents as she stood from her seat, "Of course, Y/N. Oh, uh, some investors have already arrived - they're in the conference room."

"Great, okay, I'm on my way there."

She nodded and the pair of you dodged around each other to split and head in opposite directions. When you arrived in the conference room, it was like you were a different woman; a switch flipped to command the room.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," you greeted, laptop and coffee in hand. "Thank you for keeping this meeting, I know the storm last night put us all to a halt."

There was a few chuckles as you took your position at the head of the table, getting your first look at the men in attendance. You froze when you locked eyes with a familiar pair of icy blue eyes, slowly setting your belongings down as Bucky Barnes smirked at you from the other end of the table. As your teammates filed in, you were trying desperately to keep calm and neutral, remain passive and unimpressed; smiling and making necessary small talk despite being ready to yank your eyelashes out one individual strand at a time. Your stomach was in coils, though from nerves or lust, you couldn't tell.

Your coworker nudged your thigh when you were caught up in your thoughts, asking softly, "Should we start now?"

"Yes, of course," you agreed, catching sight of Macy entering the room. "Macy, would you mind passing those copies out to everyone? Thank you," you forced yourself back into focusing on being professional, opening your laptop and pulling up the presentation. You glanced up to find Bucky watching you closely and felt like a tiny mouse being stalked by the airborne hawk; straightening yourself and figuring you could play this game.

Clearing your throat, you called the room to attention and got to work.

Nobody knew this research and information like you. Nobody cared like you did. Nobody was asking the question you were. And it showed.

A couple of times, you employed Bucky's advice and viewed the room as a group of little boys who just needed convinced where to put their money. And you were making strides, until towards the end when Mr. Smith was questioning the validity of necessity.

It started your team on an impassioned speech about why this research was vital to sustaining human life.

By the end, it was quiet. Your nerves skyrocketed, waiting for any kind of response. Everything was stoic; quiet; frozen and stale.

Finally, Bucky was the first to throw down his pen and effortlessly earn the room's attention. "Well, gentlemen," he cleared his throat, "I don't think I need to hear anymore."

"Indeed," a few other murmurs rippled around.

"We can iron out the details later," he told you specifically, "but how much do you need? To sustain research?" You consulted a document that displayed on the screen behind you, relaying the number verbally. "And how much would you need to expand research?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Surely, you have some sort of expansion plan?"

You fought off the smirk, remembering ranting about it to Bucky in the early hours as the pair of you laid in bed - naked - going over logistics. "Of course," you brought the document up, giving a sneak peak before telling him a broad number.

"Well," Bucky eased back in his chair, "surely, between the lot of us, we can fund this - perhaps easily?"

"I don't see the point in it, that amount of money is obscene," Mr. Smith scoffed, leading few others to refuse their aid as well. However, Bucky's lead made majority chime in with their support, making your foundation's CFO jump in with other numbers and logistics.

You sat back, legs crossing, keeping your face passive as your head volleyed between members of your team and investors. Your long lashes fluttered under each shift; long, manicured nails picking your cuticles nervously under the table as your eyes accidentally locked with Bucky's.

He smirked.

After the CFO and CEO escorted the investors out of the office space, you found yourself in the conference room alone; cleaning up papers and technology from the day's presentation.

You carried an immense amount of pride, the day going exceptionally well and your research funding saved... And tripled, thanks to Bucky.

After tossing some trash and packing up your laptop with the accompanying material, there came a quick two-beat knock at the open door. Looking up, you smirked at the sight of Bucky leaning in the doorway with his bulging arms crossed, suit jacket tossed over his shoulder.

"What the fuck, Bucky?" You scoffed gently, snickering with amusement. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I told you... I work in finance."

"Mhm. I thought you left," you mentioned, zipping the laptop bag shut.

"Thought I might stick around," he eased, entering the room to leave his jacket laid over the back of a plush, leather chair.

"Oh? 'Cause office spaces are so cool?"

"This one is."

"What's so great about it?"

"Present company."

You chuckled and turned to face him. "Thank you for today..."

"I didn't - "

"You did - you know you did. When those men started looking and treating and talking to me like I was just some dumb little girl, you jumped in. Defended my research... Might've been the nicest thing someone's done for me since loaning me their jacket after a thunderstorm."

"That was more like a biblical flood," he comically corrected, approaching you.

"None the less... Thank you. Even though you could've been half decent and warned me you were going to be here..."

"It was all you, sweetheart," he shook his head, "I just threw some money first, got the ball rolling."

"Well, thanks to you, we met our goal to conduct these studies nationwide. You've indirectly helped hundreds of thousands of people, you know."

"I just did it for the tax break."

"Oh, of course - as all men in finance say," you eased. "Think I could drop off those tax forms later?"

He chuckled, "Well, how's tonight?"

"Tonight? Well, someone's eager t'get a jump on April."

"Yeah. Think since funding's back and the meeting's over, you might have some free time to let me take you out on a proper date?"

You blinked three times rapidly, processing what he said. Your eyes quickly raked over his glory, still unsure how a man so perfect and handsome and bulging in all the right ways would pursue you. Figuring it was well-deserved, you smiled and nodded, "Yeah... Yeah, I think I have some time tonight. What did you have in mind?"

He grinned, "I'll pick you up at 6."

"You don't know where to get me," you laughed.

"Clint does," he shrugged.

"That's so creepy!"

"Or is it resourceful?"

You scoffed and shook your head while fighting your grin. "Here, hand me your phone," you held your hand out, watching him retrieve the seemingly brand new device and handed it over - unlocked. You paused to rapidly type your number in and save it, handing it back, "There. Now you can call me, properly ask for my address."

"That's one way," he agreed, "or I could take you home?"

"I drove today," you eased.

"No more university visits?"

"Not until tomorrow. So... 6?"

"6," he confirmed, glancing over his shoulder out the open door before turning back to you. "I know how it might look with me being an investor and all, but I've been waiting to do this all fucking day," he breathed, both hands caressing your cheeks to bring you in close for a mind-numbing kiss.

You moaned in both pleasure and shock, head fully tilted back as you pressed to his front. Bucky let loose a simple groan, tongue sweeping against yours as a hand slid around the back of your neck; both of yours laying to his pectorals. Lifted on your toes, you tried to remain latched at the mouth for as long as possible; falling flat to your heels when oxygen became necessary.

"I'll text you, doll," he whispered, nose tracing up yours.

"Mhm. See you tonight?"

"Oh, yeah," he chuckled, pecking your lips once more.

You walked him out of the conference room and to the front of the building, sharing a few more hushed words of anticipation for that evening before seeing him out. With a foolish, girlie grin, you turned back for your office - only to stop short when your favorite coworker, Amy, stood there with a knowing smirk and crossed arms.

"Amy?"

"I won't tell anyone," she grinned, "but holy shit, you guys make a cute couple."

"Oh, don't even - "

"No, wait, c'mon," she followed you towards your office, "I need details! Is that why you're glowing? Why you changed the presentation? Girl!"

"Okay, okay," you hissed, shutting your door for privacy, "you obviously weren't supposed to see anything - "

"Then don't kiss him in public."

"Touché. Anyways, look, we met last night when we both took shelter in the same diner from the storm. We... We got to talking, he comforted me after funding was cut, and we just... Spent the night together."

"And then he showed up in today's meeting? Oh, my God! That's so romantic!"

"Uh, no, fuck that - it felt like a cruel joke God was playing, sending him here!"

"Bet your panties are wet."

"I'm calling HR."

"Bitch, I am HR. Now, c'mon, c'mon! Gimme details! Are you seeing him again?"

"Tonight..."

"Oh, you dog!"

requesting rules and masterlist

Bucky knew not what had come over him. His heart, once so steady and so sure, was no shaken up like a trembling leaf astray in the wind. Each morning, he prayed for clarity. Each night, he begged for deliverance. Yet still, his thoughts returned to you.

He saw you everywhere. In the market. At the well.

Even when you were gone, he could not escape you. A glimpse of another woman’s hair that slightly reassembled yours made his breath catch in his throat—only for them to turn and his heart falls hollow when he realizes it was not you.

When you were near, it’s like the world around him fell quiet. His eyes would follow your hands, the way your smile softened and the wrinkles around your eyes curled up happily. He would listen, just to hear your voice, even if you spoke only a few plain words, “thank you,” or “good day.”

It was enough to completely undo him.

You didn’t speak to him often. Bucky was just another man in the town of Salem. He was quiet, hard working, and unremarkable.

You, on the other hand, seemed to belong just about everywhere. People smiled when you passed. You had plenty of friends who adored you. Just one little laugh of yours was enough to draw other people in.

Even his friend Steve had once mentioned how pleasant you were.

He tried not to think of you, but it was useless. You were in his head from the moment he woke to the moment he laid down at night. It made no sense. You both had hardly spoke, your paths rarely crossed, and yet you had a hold on him stronger than any prayer could possibly break.

So, how is that you—someone he barely knew—managed to capture his cold and concrete hard with such fragile and gentle hands?

It wasn’t natural. It just simply couldn’t be.

And that thought alone lingered in his chest like a damn sin.

Perhaps, you had bewitched him.

The thought was foolish, he knew. Just the ramblings of a man too long starved of warmth, mistaking kindness for spellwork. But still, with talk of necromancy spreading through Salem, was it so wrong for his suspicions to linger?

He sat alone that afternoon, on a bench near the meeting house. Reading, or trying to read, the worn pages of his Bible. The autumn wind nudged the corners of the paper gently, and the scent of woodsmoke drifted through town and to his nostrils.

It should’ve been a peaceful afternoon. It would’ve been, had it not been for the sound of your footsteps approaching.

Don’t look.

Don’t even breathe her way.

He felt your presence before you even spoke. The smoke and pine that had once filled his senses were now replaced by you. His fingers curled tight around the edge of the book, knuckles going white as his heart started to beat faster.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted, voice soft as ever.

Don’t look. Don’t look up.

Bucky gave you a small nod, his eyes fixed on the page he hadn’t read a single word of. “Miss,” he muttered, hoping the clipped tone would send you on your way.

But you didn’t leave.

“May I have a seat?” you asked suddenly, your voice polite.

He finally looked up, and it ruined him. The sunlight caught your hair just so, shining like a halo, and for a moment, he forgot how to speak. This must be another one of your hidden spells—if you truly were a witch, that is.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself back into some sense.

“If you wish,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. He moved a little, not enough to be inviting, but enough to give you space.

It was as though every hint he tried to subtly give, every small attempt to keep you away, you ignored. Or worse, you had seen straight through him. It was as if you had slipped inside his mind for the truth—that he wanted you close.

You read his thoughts. Surely, you did.

And what kind of power could do that, if not witchcraft?

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, glancing towards the path. “It’s a fine day,” you brought up. “The chill hasn’t set in yet.”

He grunted. “Aye.”

You smiled faintly, unbothered by his shortness. “You always sit here, don’t you? Reading the same…” you glanced down at the Bible in his hands, “…book over and over again.”

Bucky forced his gaze to stay on the page. “There’s comfort in familiar things,” he muttered so low, as if he was speaking to himself.

“… and yet, you never seem comforted.”

As though pulled by some unseen force, his head lifted. Your eyes caught his briefly, and it took everything in him to not falter under your gaze. It felt as though you could see straight through him. His heart pounded so loud in his chest, and his fingers twitched, aching to reach for you. He hated the weakness of it. He hated the vulnerability that came with simply looking at you.

“I’m fine as I am.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You don’t look it.”

He tightened his grip on the Bible, forcing himself to look away, as painful as it was. “You ought not concern yourself with me, miss.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” you said lightly, your voice warm. “Only curious.”

That nearly made him laugh, a bitter and choked sound that didn’t escape his chest. Curious—that was the word for it, wasn’t it? He had been curious once too, until that curiosity grew into something far worse. Until it grew into a fever that burned him from the inside out. A sickness that looked too much like desire—like obsession.

“Your friend is Mr. Rogers, isn’t he?” you asked suddenly, soft and curious.

Bucky froze. He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued to the page in front of him, though the words had long since lost their shape and meaning. The sound of Steve’s name rolling from your lips was like a sharp knife twisting deep in his chest.

He cleared his throat, trying to remain composed. “Aye. Steve Rogers.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth softening. It made him sick.

“He’s kind. Always polite.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “He’s that.”

“He helped me with some firewood last week,” you continued, unaware—or perhaps pretending not to see—the way his knuckles whitened around the book. “He’s a good man.”

He let out a deep breath. “Aye, he is.”

You glanced at him then, eyes curious. “You don’t like to hear me speak of him?”

So, now you noticed his hints. It almost felt like you were taunting him.

“You speak freely of any man you wish,” he said, though his voice was rough and dark.

He told himself it was nothing—just his foolish imagination again. And yet, the thoughts took hold, crawling through his mind like poison ivy. What if you tried your spell on his dearest friend too?

Would Steve start to see you the way he did? Would his friend’s steady, good heart falter at your smile, the same way his own did? But then again—what if it wasn’t a spell at all? You had spoken to Steve more than you had ever spoken to him. Perhaps Steve was already fond of you, no magic involved.

Bucky didn’t know which thought tormented him more—that you bewitched his friend…

…or that you didn’t need to.

“Best mind yourself around Steve,” Bucky said at last. “Women seem to take kindly to him.”

You paused and blinked at him for a moment, then laughed softly. “Are you warning me, Mr. Barnes?”

He didn’t look at you, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a slight smile. “Just stating the truth.”

You tilted your head, and another soft laugh escaped your lips. His stomach churned. “You make it sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Steve’s been charming folks since we were boys,” he muttered, turning a page he didn’t even read. “It’s in his nature.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “And what about you, then?”

That caught him off guard. He looked up to meet your face. “Me?”

You nodded, still smiling. “Surely you’ve someone who’s caught your fancy? A sweetheart waiting for you after prayer?”

There was certainty in your voice, but Bucky was convinced you were toying with him — wickedly so.

“No,” he said, voice tight as he looked down again, pretending to focus on the words before him. “No one waits for me.”

“None at all?” you seemed amused. “A man like you?”

“A man like me doesn’t keep company easily.”

You laughed again. “I find that hard to believe.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. The only reason he had no sweetheart was because you forced your way in and had taken the place of one in his heart. That every woman he met felt like a poor imitation of you.

“I didn’t mean to offense,” you said after a moment, voice going gentle. “I only meant… well, you seem a decent man, Mr. Barnes. Surely someone must’ve noticed.”

“You speak as though you know me,” he said, his voice rough and harsher than he intended.

Your face shifted slightly. At first, a flicker of surprise, then hurt. You blinked, your mouth parting slightly, yet no words came out. The sight of you like this twisted something unpleasant in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry,” you murmured quietly, your gaze dropping to your hands in your lap. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Bucky’s heart clenched. He should’ve felt relief, should’ve been glad to see you retreat. Maybe then you’ll get up and leave him alone. But instead, he found himself staring at you, taking in the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in shame.

There was something terrible in it—how part of him liked seeing you this way. Witches weren’t supposed to have hearts, so he took this as a sign of you being human.

“I spoke unkindly,” he said. “Forgive me.”

You looked at him then, your expression softening. A faint smile tugged at your lips, hesitant and forgiving.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Barnes,” you reassured softly. “We all speak in haste sometimes.”

Your voice was so warm and inviting, it struck him straight through the chest. You shouldn’t have sounded so kind, not after the way he had spoken to you. Not after the spiteful thoughts he harbored.

He wanted to look away, but he simply couldn’t. The sunlight caught in your eyes and your smile was breathtaking. He almost believed you truly were what everyone claimed—something otherworldly. Too bright and too good.

He swallowed hard, shutting the Bible in his lap. “I should be getting on,” he announced.

You nodded, rising from the bench, your skirt brushing lightly against his boot. “Of course. Good day to you, Mr. Barnes.”

When you disappeared around the corner, he let out a low exhale and ran a hand over his face. His pulse was still racing, his thoughts a tangled mess. To you, that conversation might’ve been unimportant—just a passing exchange on a quiet afternoon.

But to him, it was everything.

If you were a witch, you’d done your work well.

And if you weren’t… God help him.

That night, Bucky knelt beside his bed, the single candle burning low. The room was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old floorboards. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

“Lord,” he murmured, voice raspy, “forgive me my thoughts. Forgive me for the weakness in my heart.”

He paused, swallowing hard. He could still hear your voice in his mind, the soft way you spoke his name.

“I know not what manner of spell she’s cast,” he continued under his breath, “but I ask You, break it. Deliver me from it.”

But when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t deliverance that came. It was you.

He saw you as you’d looked on the bench, sunlight in your hair, the soft smile tugging at your plump lips. He remembered how your eyes, how they lit up when you spoke to him, and he couldn’t help but picture how’d they look if they were to roll back in pure, unadulterated bliss.

He lay down at last, turning onto his side, the sheets rough against his skin. Sleep should have come easily, but every time he shut his eyes, he saw you again.

Your laughter. Your voice. It was all like a haunting song, sweet and merciless.

He turned over again, exhaling through his nose as frustration began to boil. He pressed the palm of his hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow. It was useless. The harder he tried not to think of you, the clearer your face became.

“Stop,” he whispered to the empty and dark room. “Enough.”

But his thoughts didn’t listen, and his body didn’t either.

Bucky palmed himself through the blanket, grasping himself through thin fabric. His dick was already hard and full—he tried to convince himself it was due to the coolness of the autumn breeze that whispered through the cracks of his home, but even he knew better.

He shuddered as he felt his hard length throb against his palm. He was already leaking, staining his blanket with sin.

“Please… forgive me,” he muttered quietly as he started to stroke himself slowly.

His mind couldn’t help but conjure up a picture of you, your hands—soft and warm despite him never holding them—wrapped around him. He imagined your delicate fingers exploring his length with curiosity. He pictured you biting your lip once you discovered how big he was, how hard.

As he lost himself in the fantasy, his strokes became faster, more urgent. He squeezed himself through the blanket harder until he had enough. He needed to touch himself bare. His hand crept underneath the blanket and he allowed his thumb to swirl around the leaking tip.

He was so lost in the image that he hadn’t realized he started to mutter your name under his breath, a litany of desperate pleas and fervent prayers.

“This is a sin,” he rasped as his hips started to thrust up into his own hand as he chased for release. “This is… is so vulgar…”

Even as his conscience screamed that this was utterly wrong, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. His hands kept moving, stroking, squeezing as if possessed by a will of its own—as if he was cursed under a spell.

Each thrust of his hips, each clench of his fist around his sensitive flesh, was accompanied by a surge of self-loathing.

“I’m disgusting, touching myself like this…” his breathing grew ragged as his hand turned into a blur of motion. “It’s not enough—it’s never enough, is it? I can’t… can’t stop thinking about her, wanting her…” each word was a confession, a condemnation, a desperate cry that tore straight from his throat.

His whole body tensed, his muscles tightening as his cock throbbed and pulsed in his hand. He was so close. It was wrong, so wrong, but God—he needed it. He needed to cum. He needed to paint himself in the warm slick of his own release, and he needed to do it to the thought of you.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and despite his words, his body was not remorseful in the slightest. “I’m so sorry, Lord. But I can’t… I need…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as he finally, blessedly, found his release.

He dipped his head back against the pillow, his mouth dropping open as he let out a choked cry in pleasure. He felt the hot, sticky proof of his sin coating his fingers. With a shaky breath, he looked down—coming face to face with the mess he’d made. He watched the way his seed had splattered across his abdomen, and he felt a wave of shame wash over him.

But even as he recoiled from the physical evidence of his weakness, his mind was already drifting back to you.

Bucky’s hand—still painted with his own release—drifted up to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled the musky scent of his own cum. It was wrong. God help him, it was so wrong. And yet, that wrongness only seemed to pull him deeper. He wanted to believe it was your presence that haunted him. He imagined marking himself with your scent, to imagine that it was your essence he carried on his skin, in his hair, in his lungs.

He laid back, the candle burned to nothing as the room swallowed in shadow. His heartbeat finally slowed, but the ache inside him did not.

The guilt sat heavy in his chest. He had sinned, that much he knew. It was all your fault.

And yet, he wanted to see you again.

The next morning came gray and slow. Bucky rose before the sun had fully climbed, though he had hardly slept.

He went about his morning ritual—washing his face with cold water, buttoning his shirt, muttering a quiet prayer that slowly started to lose its meaning. When he stepped outside, the world seemed painfully bright. The market was already stirring—townsfolk trading bread, firewood, and gossip.

Then, his eyes landed on you.

You stood by the well, the morning light touching your hair, the same beautiful smile gracing your lips. But you weren’t alone.

Steve was beside you—his oldest friend, his steadfast companion since boyhood—and he was laughing at something you had just said.

Bucky felt like he was going to throw up.

Steve’s hand brushed lightly against your arm as he passed you a small basket, and though it was an innocent gesture, Bucky’s stomach churned all the same.

He tore his gaze away and forced his boots to move. He wove through the market, pretending to study the stalls, the apples piled in a wooden crate, the neat stacks of folded linen. He nodded to a few familiar faces, though their words slipped past him.

His body was moving, but his mind refused to stay still.

Every few breaths, his eyes wandered back to where you stood beside Steve. Yesterday afternoon, he believed that the conversation you had with him was special—but as he stood there, watching how you two spoke so easily, he felt like he was crumbling.

He tried to focus on anything else. The smell of bread, the chatter of merchants, the scraping sounds of wagon wheels on dirt. But no matter how hard he tried, there you were—like a flame drawing him near even as he knew it would burn him.

And Steve…

Good, honest Steve.

Was it just him, or had his friend looked at anyone else that way? That boyish smile, the tilt of his head when you spoke. It was as if something unseen had already taken hold of him.

Bucky’s throat went dry as the thought came to him.

Had you cast your spell on him, too?

It made sense. Of course it did. Witches didn’t strike just once—they tempted, they lured, they spread their evil wickedness like smoke. He had been foolish to think himself the only victim.

He gripped the edge of the stall so tightly that the wood creaked beneath his hand. The merchant gave him a weary glance, but Bucky didn’t see it. All he could see was Steve leaning closer to you. All he could hear was your laughter, soft and bright like a bell.

She’s ensnared him, just as she’s ensnared me.

His feet began to move before he could stop himself. It wasn’t reason that guided him. One step, then another until he approached the both of you, his pulse thundering in his ears.

You turned your head, noticing him first.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted brightly, the corners of your lips curving into a smile that should’ve warmed him, but only made the blood in his veins run hotter.

He stopped before you, dipping his head in a curt nod. “Miss.”

Then, he turned to Steve. “Rogers. A word?”

Steve raised a brow, caught off guard by the tone. “Now?”

Bucky only gave him a short and stiff nod. “Now.”

You looked between them, your face confused and concerned. “Is everything alright?”

Bucky’s jaw worked as if he might answer, but he didn’t trust his tongue. He only briefly glanced your way before turning on his heel.

Steve hesitated. “I’ll be right back,” he promised to you softly before following Bucky towards the edge of the square.

Bucky didn’t speak until they were out of your hearing range. They stood behind the meeting house where the noise of the market lowered to a hum. Steve barely had time to catch his breath before Bucky turned on him.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Steve frowned. “I—what?”

“You’ve not been feeling strange, have you? Lightheaded? Restless?” Bucky’s question came out fast. “You’ve been sleeping well? Eating proper?”

Steve blinked, a bewildered smile forming at his lips. “Buck, what are you on about?”

Bucky stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Just answer me.”

“I’m fine,” Steve said slowly, his brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bucky’s eyes darted back towards the square, towards you where you stood by the apples—God forbid you curse them too—then back to Steve.

“You’ve been spending time with her,” he said quietly. “You ought to be careful.”

Steve’s confusion only deepened. “Careful?” he huffed a soft laugh. “Buck, she’s hardly dangerous. She was only telling me about the sermon this Sunday—”

"And you believe that?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed a little as he leaned closer. “What’s gotten into you?”

Bucky didn’t answer. His hands fisted at his sides, nails biting into his palms. How could he tell Steve the truth? That he thought you were the cause of every restless night, every unholy thought that had taken its root in his mind and body.

“Just… watch yourself, Steve” he said at last.

Steve let out a sigh, resting a heavy palm on his shoulder. “You’re worrying over nothing,” he said gently. “You should get some rest.”

The sun had long begun its descent.

Bucky walked along the worn dirt path that curved through the field, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets as the chill dusk brushed against his skin. He told himself the walk was for peace—a way to clear his mind and the ache from his chest. But no length of solitude could quiet the thoughts that plagued him.

They all came back to you.

How could you do this? A spell cast in secret—on him, on Steve, perhaps the whole town if no one was careful. Because the alternative, that it was simply his own heart betraying him, was too unbearable to name.

He walked for a while longer. And there you were.

You stood by the wooden fence that lined the greenery, a basket in your arms, gathering the last of the wildflowers that grew by the path. Alone, your shawl drawn close against the air.

He could turn back now, vanish before you noticed. But something stronger pulled him forward.

“Miss,” he greeted roughly.

You turned at the sound, surprise shifting into a soft smile. “Mr. Barnes,” you greeted with a gentle tone. “You walk often this time of evening?”

He nodded. “Clears the mind.” But his mind was not clear at all.

You tilted your head slightly, that curious look in your eyes. “And has it worked?”

He hesitated, then let out a dry breath. “Not yet.”

You brought a hand to your mouth and laughed quietly, the same way you had with Steve. The sound was small, but bright against the gathering dark.

Bucky looked away, jaw clenching. “You ought not to be out here alone,” he murmured. “The woods grow dark quick. folk talk of strange things, these nights.”

Your smile wavered, and although he wasn’t looking anymore, you still stared at his face. “Do you believe in such talk?”

“I believe something’s amiss. Something that makes good men lose their senses.”

“Good men…” your eyes softened, one hand rising to your chin in thought. “Such as you and Mr. Rogers?”

He inhaled slowly through his nose, not trusting his tongue. “I think…” he started quietly. “I think I must be going.”

You took a step closer before he could turn away. “Wait,” you protested softly. “Please. I’d like to talk.”

He should have walked off. He should’ve muttered a polite farewell and gone home to pray for forgiveness. But something in your tone, the way you pleaded for him, it hollowed out all his resolve.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.

“You shouldn’t walk alone in this hour,” he pointed out gruffly. “I suppose I’ll see you home.”

You smiled then, gentle and genuine. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Barnes.”

He gave you a small nod, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s no trouble,” though his voice betrayed him—it was all the trouble.

You both began walking. The path stretched before you, narrow and worn from passing feet. The lantern light from nearby homes flickered dimly through the trees. Every few steps, your shoulder brushed against his arm, and each time it happened, his breath caught like he had been struck.

You were the first one to break the silence.

“You don’t seem the sort to keep to yourself, Mr. Barnes,” you started. “And yet I see you often alone.”

He gave a faint and humorless smile. “Perhaps I’m the sort that’s easier to keep away from than toward.”

You glanced at him, a slight pout on your lips. “I don’t find that to be true.”

He huffed out a quiet and dry chuckle. “Then you’d be the only one.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you say with a soft chuckle.

Bucky looked at you, his eyes watching your shawl slip just slightly from one shoulder.

He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze away. “Folk talk too much in this town,” continued. “It’s easier to keep one’s name clean by keeping one’s distance.”

“Then they must talk a great deal of me!” you joked, but your smile didn’t quite each your eyes.

“Do they?” he frowned.

You shrugged. “A woman who keeps company with no husband, who laughs too loudly, who reads more than she sews—they’ll make their stories. It doesn’t matter what’s true.”

Bucky stopped mid-step, and you continued on before pausing as well, looking over your shoulder at him with a confused tilt of your head.

Guilt crept through his veins like cold water. He had thought wicked things of you. He had called you a witch—an enchantress. But hearing you now, so calm and painfully human, that belief began to crack.

Maybe you weren’t wicked.

Maybe all along you were just a woman—kind, bright, and far too good for his suspicion.

But still. What if this was part of your spell? What if your words were meant to draw pity from him, to pull him closer until he could no longer tell right from wrong?

His heart and mind warred, leaving his tongue caught somewhere in the middle.

“I’ve heard what they say,” he admitted quietly. “But… I don’t believe it.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a lie.

You looked at him then, surprised. “You don’t?”

He didn’t say anything. His eyes were completely locked on yours. All he did was shook his head.

Then, you smiled. Honest and genuine.

“That makes me happy, Mr. Barnes.” you stepped ahead again, nodding your head towards the road. “Come,” you urged gently. “We’re nearly to my door.”

The two of you walked in silence after that, save for the rhythm of your steps and the soft creak of the basket you carried.

When you reached your cottage, you stopped at the gate, pushing it open with a small creak.

“Thank you for walking with me,” you smiled. “It was kind of you.”

Bucky nodded. “Of course,” but he didn’t move to leave. His hand rested on the post beside him. He wanted to bid you goodnight, but in all honesty, he did not want to go.

A faint crease formed between your brows. “Mr. Barnes?” you asked gently. “Is something the matter?”

He swallowed, forcing himself to shake his head. “No,” he said. “Only—” he stopped, uncertain what truth he could give that wouldn’t damn him.

You hesitated, turning your head to your house for just a second before looking back at him. “Would you like to come in?” you asked at last. Your voice was careful and hesitant, but still carried warmth as it always did.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at you, at the hand you rested on the latch, at the door just beyond. He knew he shouldn’t. A woman alone, the town full of watchful eyes…

It would be all it took to seal both your fates in gossip and ruin.

But just the thought of stepping away from you, of leaving you here, all alone and helpless. It felt painful.

“I shouldn’t,” he said finally, though it sounded less like refusal and more like a confession.

You smiled faintly. “Then I won’t press you.”

He bowed his head, his jaw clenched and his body stiff. “Good evening, Miss.”

“Good evening, Mr. Barnes.”

And as you turned, his eyes followed you. The faint lamplight from inside your cottage spilled out across the porch. Each step you took away from him was like a knife driving deeper in his chest—a torture method performed by you. Denying you felt like he was punishing himself.

“Wait.”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. The door remained half open, warm light curling around you like an angel being welcomed into heaven. “Yes?”

He hadn’t meant to stop you, hadn’t meant to do anything at all, but the idea of you disappearing behind that door without another word ruined him.

“I—” he stopped, letting out a slow breath in an attempt to steady his heart. “Forgive me. It’s only… been some time since I’ve spoken so freely with anyone.”

“Then I’m glad you did,” you smiled. You turned, preparing to enter your home, but Bucky’s voice stopped you.

“May I come in?”

You turned back to him, face caught in surprise.

He stepped forward, praying he didn’t look like a desperate man aching for attention—but it was far too late for that. He stepped all the way up to the foot of your porch like a man torn between sin and salvation, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes.

“Only for a moment,” he reassured, the lie slipping easy from his lips.

And when you finally nodded, stepping aside to grant him passage, it felt as though the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.

“If you wish,” you murmured.

He stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. The scent of floral greeted him. The whole space was comforting, in a way that nearly unsettled him.

You moved quickly, fussing with the few things on the small table near the hearth. You straightened a stack of books, adjusting a candle that didn’t need adjusting. It was pleasing to watch you scramble.

“Forgive the mess,” you said with a nervous little laugh, brushing your hands down the front of your dress. “I suppose I should’ve tidied up before inviting you in.”

Bucky nodded, setting his hat carefully on the edge of the table before lowering himself into a chair, watching you fuss about the room.

“You’re cute when you fret,” he said before he could think—before he could stop himself.

The words slipped out so naturally, that for a moment even he didn’t realize he had spoken them out loud. When you turned towards him, your eyes were wide, and his face and chest burned hot beneath the collar of his shirt.

“I—” he shifted in his heat. “I only meant… there’s no need to fuss, is all.”

But the damage was already done. You were smiling now, and his pulse jumped.

“Cute, am I?” you teased gently, folding your hands in front of you.

He dropped his gaze to his lap, fiddling with his hands. “It's just a word,” he mumbled.

He thought it’d grow uncomfortable from there, but what began as simple pleasantries—weather, town gossip, the harvest—turned into something comfortable, easier.

Every now and then you laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it did something terrible to Bucky’s chest. He found himself answering more freely than he’d meant to, forgetting the sin that had brought him here at all.

After a while, the candles burned low, the wax pooling near the base. You glanced toward the small basin tucked behind a curtain and let out a reluctant sigh.

“It grows late,” you announced, getting up with a groan. “I should bathe and call it a night.”

Bucky blinked, snapping himself out of whatever thought he was lost in. “Of course,” he agreed quickly, rising to his feet. “I’ll take my leave—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, stepping towards him before he could reach for his hat. “You needn’t rush off.”

He froze.

You hesitated, suddenly aware of your own boldness. “It’s only… I’ve enjoyed our talk,” you admitted sheepishly. “If you don’t mind the wait, I’d like to continue once I’m done. Just a few minutes.”

Bucky’s throat felt dry, his pulse loud in his ears. Every reasonable thought told him to go—that it was improper, that the whispers would be endless if anyone saw him leave your home after dark.

And still, he sat back down, his hat untouched.

“If you wish,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

When you disappeared behind the curtain, the tension in the air seemed to close around him. The faint splash of water reached his ears, a sound that made the room feel too small and too warm.

Bucky sat rigid in his chair, hands clasped in his lap as if in prayer. His leg bounced restlessly, a nervous motion he couldn’t still. Every part of him screamed to leave, to do the decent, proper thing and walk out the door before his thoughts betrayed him again.

He should’ve done that from the start, and even then, he still didn’t move.

You were dangerous.

He pressed a hand to his knee, forcing it to still. “Fool,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re a fool.”

His eyes drifted towards the curtain again, to where your shadow moved softly beyond the light. He knew you were completely bare under there. Just one shift, one accidental slip, would expose you to him, vulnerable and raw.

“Goodness,” he muttered as his mind raced with images, each one more provocative than the last. He pictured your skin, glistening and wet from the bath. Your damp hair framing your face like a portrait of a water nymph.

He’s a coiled spring, wounding tighter and tighter with each passing second, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

Bucky started to feel a growing tightness in his trousers. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing that had begun to distract him. But it was no use. His body, once again, was betraying him with his deepest, darkest desires.

And he was powerless to stop it.

He watched the curtain carefully, making sure you were still occupied with your bath. He allowed his hand to drift down to his lap as he cupped his heavy balls through the thick fabric of his pants.

He bit back a groan, eyes fluttering closed as he gave himself a slow, teasing squeeze. It was not enough—but it was a start. A small release of the pressure that’s building inside him.

A low groan escaped his lips as he pictured you emerging from the bath, your skin flushed and rosy as water dripped down the valley between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, disappearing between your thighs.

He imagined you crawling to him, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on your face as you straddled his lap, as you take him into your own hand and…

This was bad. He was hard now, painfully so. He palmed himself through the fabric, strokes growing bolder and more insistent as his desire for you consumed him whole.

“I—I should go…” he grunted, hips bucking up into his hand to meet that delicious friction. “I… I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be here, Miss…”

“I’m almost finished, Mr. Barnes,” you called.

From behind the curtain came the faint sounds of movement—the soft shuffle of fabric, the creak of a floorboard. Then you appeared again, composed and calm, your hair damp at the ends and your robe drawn neatly at your throat.

Bucky swallowed hard. You were the sight of temptation.

He pulled his hand away from his lap and rose at once, adjusting his stance and now unsure of what to do with his hands.

“I thought to take my leave, but—”

“I’m glad you stayed,” you interrupted, pleased.

His eyes couldn’t help but linger to your frame, the way the flimsy robe hugged your body in a way that was borderline inappropriate. He tried to force himself to look away, to meet your eyes at least, but he couldn’t.

“I shouldn’t impose,” he managed to say.

“You’re not,” you said. “It’s only talk, Mr. Barnes.”

“Talk,” he echoed.

You tilted your head, studying him from across the small room. The fire popped, breaking the silence, and before he could stop himself, Bucky took a slow, shy step forward.

You didn’t move away.

He told himself it was the candlelight playing tricks, that the warmth in your eyes wasn’t real, that it was some enchantment meant to draw him closer. But his body no longer listened to his reason. His heart beat hard in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was rough-edged.

“You’re…” he stopped, swallowing hard as his throat tightened. “You’re beautiful.”

You froze, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. “You’re kind to say so,” you said with a small, uncertain smile. “And you, Mr. Barnes, you’re quite handsome yourself.”

“You… you think I’m handsome?” he asked in disbelief. “That… makes me so happy.”

He lifted a hand up before he could stop himself, his movement hesitant. His fingers hovered near your cheek, and you shuddered under his gentle touch.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, though he didn’t draw back. “I don’t know what comes over me when I look at you.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you reassured as you had before.

You rest your palm against his hand, holding it steady against your cheek. His skin was rough and calloused, a testament to the hard life he’s lived. But it’s warm and strong, feeling a sense of safety and security in just a simple touch.

Bucky leaned in closer, his face mere inches away from your own. His head was spinning with your scent—the sweet aroma of your bath mingling with the unique fragrance of your skin. He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted you in this very moment.

As if consumed by a powerful spirit, he closed the remaining distance between you. His lips met yours in a soft, gentle kiss that quickly ignited into something desperate. You sighed against his mouth, fingers curling around his wrist as you leaned into him.

You kissed him back like you knew that he was lost, utterly and completely.

His free hand came up to cup the back of your fragile neck, fingers tangling in the damp strands of your hair as he deepened the kiss. He angled his head, lips moving over yours with a hunger that’s both gentle and urgent.

At this point, he no longer cared if it was a spell. His yearning for you burned too deep, too consuming to be reasoned with. Every shred of longing, every forbidden desire he had buried within himself seemed to rise to the surface, spilling into this single, perfect moment.

Consequences be damned. Prayers be damned.

And he knew he was done for the minute your body shifted against his, the damp fabric of your robe riding up your thigh as you pressed your leg against him. Whether it was intentional or not, it ruined him.

“Miss…” Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sensation of your bare skin against his throbbing, clothed erection made him shudder. “I… we shouldn’t—”

“Mr. Barnes,” you gasped, his cock throbbing helplessly against your leg. “Do you find this… pleasurable?”

“No,” he grumbled—though it sounded more like a helpless plea. “Not pleasurable—not in the slightest… this—this is torture.”

His voice cracked as his hand wandered down from your cheek, to the curve of your waist hidden by the thin robe. His breath was trembling as though it hurt to speak.

“You’ve taken hold of me, Miss. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I walk through town and see nothing but you. I hear your voice in the wind, in the creak of every door… it’s as though God Himself has sent you in my mind to test me.”

He sucked in a shallow breath, his hand encircling your wrist and guiding it down to his throbbing erection. It pulsed in your hands. “I want to understand it. I want to see you and not lose myself. But I can’t. I can’t, and it’s driving me mad…”

“I… I don’t know what to say, Mr. Barnes,” you spoke softly, swallowing hard yet your hand didn’t move. “I apologize—”

“No apologies,” Bucky interrupted, letting out a ragged breath. “Just—touch me, please. I beg you.”

You were silent for a moment, and he was frightened that he might’ve scared you. But then, slowly, your hand started to move. Your fingers rubbed and stroked, tracing the large shape of him through the fabric.

He let out a sharp and ragged gasp, his hips twitching involuntarily into your touch—begging for more.

“That feels…” he groaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck as his body surrendered to your touch. “That feels so good. Please, please don’t stop…”

Bucky’s body trembled with need, his hips rocking urgently into your palm as you continued to stroke and tease him through his straining pants. The rough fabric of his trousers rubbed deliciously against his sensitive flesh.

“I need… I need more. Please, I can’t…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as a shameful spurt of pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock, dampening the cloth.

You felt the wet spot spreading beneath your fingertips, the evidence of disgraceful arousal. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and curious—yet dark with desire.

“Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, your fingers still stroking, “you seem to be in quite a state. Perhaps you need help getting out of these trousers?”

“I—”

Without waiting for him to finish, you deftly unbuttoned his pants, fingers brushing against his skin as you tugged the fabric down over his hips. As his pants and undergarments peeled away, your eyes widened at the sight of the massive, throbbing erection springing free.

“Oh,” you breathed, wrapping your fingers around his warm flesh. “Mr. Barnes… you’re—well, you’re big.”

“Squeeze it, my dear,” he breathed, body going stiff. “Please. Do not leave me too long, lest I—oh…!”

Bucky’s words died in his throat as you squeezed him gently. You marveled at the way his flesh pulsed in your grip—hot, hard, and heavy. You sunk to your knees before he could order you to, your breath ghosting over his sensitive skin, and placed a soft kiss on the leaking tip.

He inhaled sharply, his fingers coming down to tangle in your hair as you lavish his aching cock with tender kisses. “Oh, mercy,” he moaned. “Y-you… you undo me.”

You let out a soft and amused hum, the sound vibrating against his dick. Your mouth parted as you took him in, your lips stretched taut around his thickness as you began to suck, tongue swirling around the swollen head of his cock.

“Your mouth…!” he panted as the warmth of your mouth enveloped him.

“It’s… it’s incredible. Please don’t stop, please…” He groaned as his head fell back into pleasure. “Fuck—Lord, for-forgive… me…”

The words left him before he could catch them, shameful on his tongue. Bucky froze, breath ragged, a tremor running through him as the echo of his own voice filled the room.

Blasphemy.

He’d uttered blasphemy in a moment of weakness—of desire.

His throat tightened, his chest burning with guilt. He pressed a hand to his lips as if to seal them shut, to take the word back, but it was too late. How easily sin had found its way into him. How quick he was to forget the Lord’s name in favor of your warm mouth.

Bucky’s hips started to move on their own, rocking gently into the perfect suction of your lips. He was lost in a fog of lust, eyes hazy with desire and sin. He was drowning in the feel of your mouth around him, the way your tongue swirled and danced around his aching flesh.

He knew he should’ve felt guilty, that taking the Lord’s name in vain was a sin, but the pleasure was too delectable to stop.

His moans grew louder as your mouth worked his tender flesh. He could feel the pressure building, the coil of tension in his gut as his release approached. Just as he was ready to explode into your eager mouth, he suddenly pulled back, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly.

“Wait, Miss… stop—” he gritted through clenched teeth, his face a rictus of strain and effort. “We should… we should stop. This is… too much, too fast. This is wrong.” But despite his words, his hips involuntarily continued to twitch and jerk, seeking more of your warm and silky mouth.

You pulled back, your lips glistening with saliva and the first drops of his pre-cum. You looked up at him, eyes hazy with lust and confusion. “I.. I apologize, Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, starting to rise to your feet. “I didn’t mean to… to push you too far.”

And as you move to stand, your robe slipped down, exposing your bare shoulder and the slight curve of your breast. The sight of your skin—exposed and bare—was Bucky’s undoing. With a strained groan and without a clear mind, his hands came up to grasp your shoulders, pulling you in and letting his lips connect to the soft skin of your neck.

You gasped. “M-Mr. Barnes!”

“Your skin… it’s perfect. Forgive me, Lord, for am I weak…” his hands slipped down your back, the damp fabric of your robe bunching under his touch as he tugged at it impatiently.

Even as he whispered prayers for forgiveness, his body refused to listen—driven by want, by need, by something he could not control.

His hand found the sash of your robe, tugging at it roughly and loosening the knot. The robe slipped down further, sleeves falling off your shoulders, your waist, until the garment pooled around your ankles.

He leveled to his knees, his lips trailing over the curve of your breasts, teeth grazing against the sensitive skin gently as his hands roamed all over your bare body greedily. Every movement felt like worship, each brush of his fingers a confession of how deeply you had crushed him.

Your hands tangled in his hair. “M-Mr. Barnes,” you breathed, voice trembling. “I… I thought you wished to… end this?”

But Bucky was beyond the point of no return. He looked up at you—his eyes once vulnerable and confused—now dark and intense, the blue irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

“I need you,” he growled. “I can’t stop. Not when I’ve seen the beauty of your naked skin, the feel of your soft flesh. I must have you—all of you, or I’ll die.”

Your breath caught, heart beating wildly in your chest as you looked down at him. There was something dangerous in his eyes—an intensity that both frightened and drew you in. You could see the strain in him, the battle between restraint and surrender, and somehow, you wanted to be the one to unbind him from it.

“Yes,” you said at last, voice barely above a whisper, “yes, Mr. Barnes. Take me. Have me. I am yours.”

And just like that, something wild flashed in Bucky’s eyes—a feral, unrestrained joy.

In one desperate motion, he rose from the floor and gathered you into his arms, holding you close as though he had been starving for the feel of you. His steps carried a strange certainty, as if he already knew the way through your home, as if a stronger force was guiding him—his mind no longer his own.

When he reached the bed, he did not slow. He allowed you to fall back onto the mattress, crawling over you before you can even catch your breath. Your eyes widened as you stared up at him—body trembling with a mix of fear and hunger.

As Bucky settled between your thighs, you felt the hard and insistent press of his arousal against your bare pussy.

“Mr. Barnes,” you hesitated, swallowing hard. “Tell me… have you ever been with anyone before?” Your voice was soft, unsure. You could feel the raw, untempered heat of him, the way his cock throbbed and pulsed in a way that bordered on madness.

“I—no,” he managed, the word breaking rough in his throat. “I am pure. I’ve never…” He faltered, voice low with shame, as though admitting it were a sin in itself.

Your expression softened, fingers brushing a lock of hair from his brow.

“Are you certain, Mr. Barnes?” you asked quietly. “Certain you’d risk so much… with someone like me?”

“I would risk far worse,” he confessed, voice shaky. “If it meant feeling this… if it meant having you.”

You smiled as you leaned up, your lips meeting his in a soft and tender kiss. As your lips met, you whispered softly against his mouth.

“Give it to me, Mr. Barnes. Give me everything you have. I want to feel you, all of you, inside me, around me. Consume me until there’s nothing left but the two of us and this moment.”

Bucky's eyes widened with hunger the minute your words reached his ears. With a hoarse groan, he moved forward, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss that stole the very breath from your lungs.

As he kissed you, he began to tear at his own clothing with urgency, buttons flying in his haste to divest himself of the barriers between them. He wrenched his shirt over his head, the fabric straining and then ripping as he tugged it off. His belt hit the floor with a clatter, followed by the sound of his pants being shoved down his thighs.

“Need you,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel your heat around me… to know you’re real and not some vision come to haunt me.”

“I’m not a vision, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his back. “I’m real.”

“That are you are,” he agreed huskily, grabbing his bare cock in his hands and pressing it up against your warm folds.

"Forgive me, Lord," he panted, his body shuddering as dick throbbed against your slit. "Forgive me for what I am about to do. But I cannot resist this temptation any longer. I must have her, must lose myself in her, or surely perish."

The words were a desperate, strangled prayer, a final appeal to divine mercy before he surrendered completely to the devil of his desire.

After his unholy prayer, he nudged the tip of his cock against your entrance. He let out a groan at the feel of your wet heat. You arched your back, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his swollen head caught.

“Have mercy, Mr. Barnes…” you whimpered, “please, be gentle—”

“I’ll try with all that’s left of me,” he grunted, already pushing past your entrance with a slow roll of his hips. “God help me, but I can’t swear to it.”

And after his unholy promises, he rolled his hips forward, pushing more of his thick length inside you, stretching you around him inch by excruciating inch. He tossed his head back in a moan as your tight, slick walls enveloped him.

“You’re… you’re so big!” you gasped, fingers scrabbling at his back, nails digging into his skin. “I can’t… I don’t know if I can take it all… oh! Mercy, please—”

“You can do it,” Bucky encouraged, his voice almost hypnotic. “Every inch of me is going to fit inside you. I’ll make sure of it.”

His words were a sinful promise, a filthy incitement that only spurred him on.

“Breathe through it, my little dove. Breathe through the stretch, the burn, the pleasure. Take me inside you, all of me, every last bit of my aching, throbbing length. Let it reshape you, mold you… fuck, ruin you… for any other man.”

Bucky grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting them up slightly so he can drive his thick shaft deeper into your tight heat. He moved like a man possessed, moved like he no longer was in control of his own body.

“I can’t…” you whimpered helplessly. “Please, slow down! It’s too much… too fast!”

Your hips bucked and writhed beneath him, trying to accommodate the relentless invasion even as your body struggled to adjust to his considerable size.

But Bucky was a man lost in desire and lust that overwhelmed his last vestiges of control. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growled.

“You say that, little dove…” he grunted, “yet your greedy little cunt is trying to swallow me whole. I can feel every bit of it—as if you’re begging for a good, honest man like me to fill you up.”

You sniffled under his crude words, yet it was something about his voice—raw and hungry—that made your body tremble with pleasure, walls fluttering around him.

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he groaned at the feeling.

He tightened his grip on your thighs, pushing them up and back as he leaned over you, his body nearly folding you in half.

He positioned your smooth legs over his shoulders, the back of your knees resting against his chest. In this new position, a sloppy mating press, he’s able to plunge into you even deeper.

“God…” his hips piston relentlessly, the slap of skin against skin filling the room as he took you in such a dirty position. “I want to fuck you and burn for it.”

You could only moan helplessly beneath him. Your hands clutched at his biceps, feeling his muscles as he moved over you—claiming you, owning you. You’ve never felt so utterly filled and defiled—nonetheless on a man’s cock.

It’s terrifying.

It’s exhilarating.

And yet, you want more.

“I want…” he growled, hands tightening around your waist as he fucked deeper into you. “I want to give you my child, little angel. I want to flood your womb with my seed. I want to fill you with new life. I want… God, I want to make you mine.”

Each word was a dark and filthy promise. It was as if he had no control over his own mouth as he declared his deepest and most base desires. With each thrust, he ground deep inside you, his cock pulsing and throbbing.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he panted, his breathing hard. “To be mated with you like this, to feel your tight little cunt gripping my cock, begging to be bred. It’s been my longest dream, little angel.”

His eyes—wild and blazing with lust—bored into yours as he loomed over you, hips driving into you faster and deeper.

“I’ve fallen asleep each night, only to wake with the phantom feel of your legs wrapped around me…” he tried to speak between moans and ragged breaths, every word coming out like a desperate whine.

“I imagined your nails raking down my back as I fucked you into oblivion… and now, here we are—fuck, lost in the… the throes of passion—on the brink of creation itself…”

His voice pitched higher as he babbled on, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside of you uncontrollably. The sensation was growing unbearable.

“I-I am yours…” you moaned, barely getting the words out. “I am yours, if… if you will have me so.”

Bucky’s body tensed above you. “Yes—that’s it, little dove…” his hips started to jerk and stutter, losing their rhythm as the overwhelming sensation of his release consumed him.

“Fuck, I can’t…. I’m going to…” he panted, voice rising higher and frantic as his cock pulsed inside you.

The sensation was overpowering as a delicious, torturous pressure started to build at the base of your spine with each erratic thrust. You clung to him tighter, nails digging into his back, your body arching to meet his as he lost himself completely.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes, yes!” you cried, your voice breaking into a moan as your cunt spasmed around him, releasing your own pleasure. “Give it to me, give me everything you have. I want to feel you coming inside me, filling me, claiming me…”

Bucky threw his head back and let out a strangled moan, the poor bed creaking and crying as his hips moved relentlessly—pounding into you deeper, harder. Then finally, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying his cock deep inside your spasming cunt as his orgasm came—blissful and hot.

You gasped as you felt his cock pulse inside you, releasing thick ropes of his pent-up seed. It felt like an endless flood, like he was saving himself just for you.

For a long moment, you remain locked together, Bucky's hips pressed tight against yours as you both trembled and shuddered. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Your body was still fluttering and clenching around his half-hard cock, as if reluctant to let him go.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His voice was soft, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “I could hold you like this forever and not tire.”

You hummed against his chest, nuzzling closer. “I… like this,” you whispered, your fingers tracing small patterns along his arm. “Just being near you, Mr. Barnes—”

“Please,” he interrupted firmly. “No need for pleasantries, especially after how I’ve undone you.”

A brief silence fell, tense and uneasy, making your heart flutter despite the closeness you had just shared.

You lifted your eyes to his, voice small so small and cautious, as if you were testing him.

“I… I love you, James,” you whispered.

“You… love me?” he breathed, his voice rough with disbelief and awe.

“Yes,” you said, pressing closer against him. “I cannot hide it any longer. My heart is yours, whether you wish it or not.”

A low, choked sound escaped him—part sigh and part laugh. “By God… you’ve undone me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head.

“And… what of my friend, Steve Rogers?” he asked quietly, hesitant. “Do you… feel anything for him? Or is this… only for me?”

You blinked, taken aback by the question.

“James,” you started softly, lifting your hand to rest against his cheek, “you have nothing to fear. My heart has been yours for some time. No one else…” your words faltered, but your eyes were steady and full of truth. “…no one else holds it.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fingers digging lightly into your arm.

“I see,” he grunted. A shadow passed over his eyes. “There will be… rumors, you know. Whispers in the streets, questions in every corner of Salem.”

You tilted your head, a faint and defiant smile tugging at your lips.

“Let them speak,” you said softly, brushing a hand along his. “They do not know us. They cannot know what is here, between you and me.”

He frowned. “You’re not afraid?”

“I am not afraid,” you whispered, leaning closer until your forehead rest against his bare chest.

“Not while I am with you.”

The morning light slanted through the cracks of the shutters.

Bucky lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind a tangle mess of shame and obsession. Every thought from the night before clawed back into his chest. Each memory like a needle pricking at his conscience.

He felt… tainted.

A sinner.

Unworthy.

The warmth of your body against his, the softness of your hands, the tight feel of you—it was all lodged in his mind, a sin he could not wash away.

Bucky twisted the blanket around his fists, muttering under his breath.

It is wrong. All wrong. She is a witch, I am certain. No woman could draw a man to her heart so completely without dark craft.

The thought made him shiver. He shivered in fear, in desperate denial. You told him you loved him. You opened your heart to him. And here he was, lying in bed and hating himself.

It cannot be love.

It cannot be me who desires her so.

It must be your doing.

He rose stiffly from the bed, pacing the small room as though movement could dislodge the images from his mind. His hands trembled as he buried his face in them, muttering prayers that could no longer help him. “God, forgive me. God, forgive me…”

He hated himself for the longing that still burned in his chest. Every glance he remembered, every confession from the night prior, it fed both the fuels of desire and disgust. He tried to tell himself he had been fooled, that it was all enchantment, yet a small, trembling part of him knew the truth.

He had given his heart willingly, though he would never admit it aloud.

Bucky’s boots crunched against the dirt road. The town had begun to stir—vendors laying out their goods, housewives exchanging greetings—but to him, it all blurred. His hands were still shaking, his breath uneven.

Steve stood near the well, speaking with a few men. He looked as he always did—steady, good, and unwavering. A man untouched by sin.

A man who hadn’t been ruined by a single night’s weakness.

He should know. Steve would understand. Steve would see the danger. He had to.

“Steve,” Bucky called out.

Steve turned, brows furrowing slightly at the sight of his friend. “Bucky. You look as though you’ve not slept a wink. What’s the matter?”

“I need to speak with you,” he said sharply. “Alone.”

“This again?” Steve frowned.

With a reluctant sigh, he nodded and stepped away from the others, following him to the side of the road beneath the shade of an old elm.

“What is it?” Steve asked, almost impatient. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

Bucky dragged a trembling hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’ve sinned,” he muttered. “God help me, I’ve sinned, Steve.”

Steve’s brows drew together, but he said nothing, letting Bucky continue.

“It’s her,” Bucky spat out suddenly, voice shaking. “She’s bewitched me. She must have. There’s no other way—no other way a man like me could…” he stopped himself, choking on the words—on the memory of your touch and the way his heart had broken open for you.

Steve’s face hardened—not in anger, but in warning. He lowered his voice, glancing toward the square where others milled about.

“Bucky,” he said slowly, carefully, “you need to watch your tongue.”

Bucky looked at him, confused.

“Witchcraft talk is dangerous,” Steve continued. “You know what this town does to women accused of it. Even a whisper—just one—can turn a neighbor into a mob. If word got out, she’d have no hope of mercy.”

“But Steve, you don’t understand. It feels like—”

“I do understand,” Steve cut in firmly. “I’ve seen what happens when men let their feelings twist into something ugly. Whether or not you believe she’s bewitched you, keep it to yourself. For her sake. For yours.”

Steve stepped back with a tired sigh. “I should get going. There’s work to be done,” he added, turning to leave.

“Steve,” Bucky said hoarsely, the name stuck in his throat like a plea.

Steve stopped, looking over his shoulder.

Bucky’s chest heaved as if the very words were clawing their way out of him. “It wasn’t me,” he rasped, hands clenching at his sides. “I swear to you, Steve, it wasn’t of my own will. She… she used her spellwork—she must’ve. She drew me in like some poor creature to the flame.”

“What—”

“She looked at me,” Bucky continued painfully. “Just looked, and I followed. As though I’d no mind of my own. She bid me come inside… and I went. Like a fool, I went.”

The memory of your voice, soft and warm, wrapped around him again like smoke. His throat tightened and his heart started to hurt—as if his own words were torture.

“She whispered to me,” he went on, trembling now, “and it was as though every prayer I’d ever known fled from my mind. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. I was hers before I even crossed her threshold.”

“Bucky…”

“She touched me,” Bucky pressed, voice going louder. “She took me in, bewitched me so I couldn’t turn away. And before I knew it…” He let out a sharp, broken breath, his gaze unfocused as the night before bled into the present. “I was in her arms. I was one withher.”

The words were barely free of his tongue before regret crashed through him.

Steve’s face changed—subtle, but enough to knock the air from Bucky’s lungs. The furrow of his brow deepened, his mouth parted ever so slightly, a look of horror flickering in his eyes.

Bucky’s stomach twisted at the sight.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

God, not like that.

Those words—they weren’t the truth. He’d painted you as some siren, some witch who’d snared him in your web… when the truth was always there, lingering beneath the surface.

Bucky wanted you.

Every step he had taken towards your door, every shuddering breath, every kiss—it had been his choice. His own hunger. His heart. And yet, here he stood, spitting out lies to his oldest friend because the truth was too frightening to hold.

Because admitting it would mean facing the sin he could no longer call witchcraft.

You fool, he thought bitterly.

You’ve damned her with your cowardice.

And worse—he’d damned himself for loving you.

Steve’s voice was quiet when it finally came. “Bucky…”

Panic prickled up Bucky’s spine. “Steve—wait,” he stammered, his hands lifting slightly, as if he could grab the words back out of the air. “I didn’t mean—what I said—it wasn’t…” His mouth worked, but nothing coherent followed.

Steve’s expression hardened, the faint horror melting into something grim.

“Bucky,” he began, “if what you’re saying is true, then this isn’t something we can keep between us. You know what must be done. We’ve got to tell the townsfolk. The minister. Someone.”

“No!” the word tore from Bucky’s throat. “No, Steve, wait. I—”

“You just said she bewitched you,” Steve cut in. “That she took you into her home and… ” he faltered a little, uncomfortable, “… bound you to her will. That’s not something we can ignore. It’s witchcraft, Bucky.”

Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. His palms were slick. “I spoke out of turn,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was confused, that’s all. I—”

Steve shook his head. “You were frightened. I heard it in your voice. The whole town’s been on edge since the last trial. If what you say is true, they’ll want to act before more harm comes to anyone else.”

Bucky felt the world cave in beneath him, the morning air suddenly too thin, too sharp, too difficult to breathe in. The noose of his own making was tightening—no, not a noose. He could see it too clearly in his mind.

It was flame.

It was rope bound at your wrists.

It was a wooden stake planted in the dirt of the square, kindling stacked high and dry at your feet.

The townsfolk didn’t forgive witches. They burned them. They’d burn you.

Bucky swallowed hard, grabbing his friend’s arm in a tight grip. “Steve, no, you don’t understand—”

Steve froze at the desperation in his voice, but it wasn’t the words that made his blood run cold. It was the look in best friend’s eyes.

Wide. Wild. Half-mad.

Bucky’s pupils were blown wide, breath sharp and uneven—looking exactly like a man possessed. He looked less like the boy Steve had grown up with and more like someone under a wicked spell.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered, almost frightened.

Bucky shook his head, his grip tightening. “She didn’t—she didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t tell them, Steve. Promise me.” His voice cracked, raw and frantic.

But to Steve, it only confirmed the worst. The town had seen it before—men caught under spells, their minds turned to ash. His friend’s eyes were full of fever. Bewitched. It had to be.

“Bucky,” Steve said slowly, prying his arm free. “I’ll help you. I’ll make sure they undo whatever she’s done. I swear it.”

Bucky’s face went pale. “Steve, don’t.”

But Steve was already stumbling back, fear bleeding through his voice. “I’ll get help,” he reassured. “They’ll know what to do. They’ll save you.”

And before Bucky could stop him, Steve turned and ran—feet pounding against the dirt road, heading straight for the square where a single whisper could set the whole town aflame.

Bucky stood frozen for a breath. The morning air stung like ice in his lungs.

He had lost control of the story.

And now, the town would come for you.

The night air was sharp, the smell of dirt and woodsmoke filling his nostrils.

Bucky walked the narrow path behind the square, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, boots crunching against the gravel. His thoughts were a storm—loud and relentless. His walks were meant to steady his mind, but it was impossible.

“James!”

He froze.

Your voice, breathless and shaken.

He did not want to turn, but his body betrayed him once again. You came stumbling towards him through the shadows, skirt gathered in your hands, hair disheveled from the hurried walk. There was a look on your face that nearly undid him—a look of fear, confusion, and blinded trust that made his chest ache.

“James,” you gasped again, clutching at his sleeve as soon as you reached him. “The town is cruel. People are talking about me!”

Your words tumbled out, scared and shaky.

“Whispers at the market… mothers pulling their children away. They’re saying I—” your breath hitched, “… that I’ve bewitched someone. That I’ve done something wicked.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted into knots. He couldn’t even meet your eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

You took a step closer, gripping his arm tighter. “James, you know me. You know me. I would never—”

“I know,” he cut you off gently, still looking down. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

You stared up at him, and although he wasn’t looking at you, you searched his eyes for the warmth that had once made you feel safe. But all you found was a storm.

“We could go,” you whispered suddenly. “We could run away—tonight. Just you and me. No more whispers. No more cruel eyes. Just… us.”

Bucky’s expression softened at your words. A fragile, aching longing broke through the panic—like he wanted to say yes. Like he wanted to take your hand and never look back.

But then, his jaw tensed, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “I… can’t.”

Those two simple words made your heart drop in your stomach. “Can’t?”

“I’ve a name here. A life,” he whispered, eyes darting away as if he couldn’t bear to see your heartbreak. “If I leave, they’ll follow us. It’ll… only make it worse for the both of us.”

Tears burned in your eyes, your grip on his sleeve faltering just slightly. “James, they’ll destroy me.”

But he didn’t look at you. He couldn’t look at you. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes stuck somewhere over your shoulder, looking at anything but you. The evening wind tugged at his coat, cold and cruel, and still he stood there—silent.

“James,” you choked out, your voice breaking around his name. “After all we shared… last night, the walks, the bench by the church—was it all nothing?”

God help him, he almost wished you truly were a witch—so you could cast a spell on his tongue, force the words out of him, make him say something instead of standing there like a coward.

“I thought—” your voice cracked again, “I thought what we had meant something to you.”

His hands trembled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I’m sorry,” he managed, the words so quiet they almost broke apart in the air, almost as if he didn’t say them at all.

You took a shaky step closer, desperate. “Did you love me, James? Even for a moment?”

Finally, finally, he looked at you. His lips parted, the confession falling like a death knell.

“Yes.”

A pathetic sound escaped you—a choked sob, broken and small. The sound struck him right in the heart. He wanted nothing more than to reach you, to hold you, to run away with you.

But then, you let get of his sleeve.

And before he could reach for you, before he could even think to make it right, you turned and ran—your figure swallowed by the night as your sobs trailed behind you like a wound he had carved himself.

Bucky was a hollow man by the time he made his way back towards his small home. He wanted nothing more than to shut the door, drown in silence, and pretend none of it—none of you, ever happened.

“Bucky!”

The familiar voice cut through the dark. He turned to find Steve jogging towards him, lantern swinging in his hand, face grave and pale beneath its flickering light.

“They’ve found her,” Steve said breathlessly when he finally reached him.

Bucky’s blood went cold. “What… what do you mean, they’ve found her?”

“They’ve taken her to the square,” Steve replied, catching his breath. “Said they caught her trying to run. The magistrate’s called for a trial, burning her at dawn. They’ll do the… the preparations tonight. You shouldn’t miss it.”

Bucky shook his head almost violently, stepping back. “No,” he rasped. “No, Steve, I can’t—”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “You have to.”

“I can’t,” Bucky bit out, his voice hoarse. “Don’t make me—”

“It’s for your own good,” Steve snapped, firmer this time. “You were the one she bewitched, Buck. You said so yourself. Everyone is expecting you. You can’t just hide away now.”

Bucky’s throat closed up. His own words were being thrown back at him like chains, binding him to something he could no longer control.

Steve reached out, fingers curling around his arm, unyielding. “Come on,” he urged, tugging him forward. “You have to be there. It’s your duty to the town.”

The square was awash in torchlight, a cruel glow that seemed to swallow the night whole. Shadows danced across the cobblestones, cast long by the gathered townsfolk—faces tight with fear, with hunger for someone to blame.

Bucky’s stomach lurched when he saw you.

Your wrists were bound behind your back, rope biting into your skin. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled and loose, haloed in the torchlight. Horror was crawling up his throat like bile. You looked so small against the wood, your face filled with dread. Even from this distance, he could see the tremor in your shoulders, the way your chin lifted just slightly, as if refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.

But once your eyes met his, you broke down immediately.

Tears began to streak down your cheeks, catching in the firelight, and your voice was hoarse and raw—likely from screaming beforehand.

“James!”

Everyone turned to him at the sound of your voice.

You struggled against the ropes, shoulders straining, eyes wide and desperate as they locked onto his. “James, please—please, tell them! Tell them I’ve done nothing!”

Bucky froze where he stood, breath punched from his chest. His heart screamed for him to move, to tear you down from that post and hold you. But his legs—his coward’s legs—refused.

The magistrate stepped forward, robes sweeping against the ground, his voice deep.

“Do not heed her words, boy,” he intoned. “Do not let the devil’s tongue sway you. It is all part of her deceit. A witch’s plea is honeyed venom.”

The townsfolk murmured their agreement, and it made Bucky sick.

“James!” you sobbed again, your voice hoarse, trembling. “Look at me—look at me! You know me!”

Your voice split through the square like a bell tolling for the damned.

“Don’t,” Steve hissed, stepping close to him. “Buck, don’t listen.”

Bucky’s wide eyes snapped to his friend. “Steve—”

“Don’t let her words get in your head,” Steve pressed, voice low but firm. His grip on Bucky’s shoulder was iron. “That’s what they do. They twist your heart, make you doubt yourself. You said it yourself, she bewitched you. You can’t fall again.”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but just as he was about to…

“Tonight,” the magistrate interrupted, lifting his hand as if presenting you to the crowd, “we bear witness to the corruption festering in our midst. A woman consorting with darkness. A woman who ensnared a man of this town in her devil’s grasp.”

The crowd shifted uneasily, whispers growing louder.

The magistrate turned to Bucky. “James Barnes,” he declared, “you are the one who bore witness. Step forward.”

You finally stilled.

The wailing that had been pouring out of you—your pleading, your begging—died on your tongue. Slowly, your head lifted, tear-streaked face glistening in the torchlight as your gaze found him again.

No.

You couldn’t believe it.

“Witness…?” you breathed.

Bucky’s boots felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as he took that first step forward. His pulse was beating loud in his ears, his chest burning as though the pyre beneath your feet was already alight.

He couldn’t look at you—but he could feel your pain.

Your tear-stained cheeks went still. Your shoulders stopped shaking. The frantic, wild panic in your eyes bled away, leaving only something worse.

“James,” you whispered, his name breaking on your tongue.

It wasn’t a plea anymore.

It was disbelief.

It was betrayal.

He dared to glance at you then—and the look on your face carved straight into his chest.

The magistrate continued. “This woman, accused of witchcraft, shall face the Lord’s judgment by flame. Let the fire cleanse her wickedness—”

But your voice tore through his words, desperate, as if it could save you.

“I’m with child!”

The square fell silent.

For a moment, not even the wind dared to move. The flames waiting at the base of the pyre crackled softly, the only sound between you. You weren’t shouting at the magistrate. You weren’t appealing to the crowd.

You were looking straight at him.

At Bucky.

“Yours,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “James… it’s yours.”

Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like a fever. The magistrate stiffened, his hand tightening on the torch. A woman near the front pressed a hand to her mouth. Someone whispered “witch’s spawn” like a curse, and soon the words spread in terrified murmurs through the mass of faces.

The magistrate’s face blanched.

“Witch… seed,” he hissed. “This cannot be allowed to live. An unholy union—taint upon the town…”

“Lord preserve us,” someone muttered.

“She and her child will doom us all!

Bucky’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight it nearly brought him to his knees. His lungs burned. He couldn’t look away from you—your tear-streaked face, the trembling in your jaw, the desperation in your eyes.

This wasn’t a spell. This wasn’t a witch.

This was you. Carrying a piece of him.

But the magistrate’s voice cut through the cold air. “Light it.”

The torch was lowered. The dry wood caught, flames licking upward, crackling hungry and bright.

“No!” Bucky roared, running forward. Steve grabbed him by the arms before he could reach the stake, dragging him back as he thrashed like a man possessed.

“No, don’t—stop!”

The fire climbed higher and higher, smoke curling thick into the air, swallowing your figure in its angry orange and gray glow. Your scream split the square, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. Bucky fought harder, his boots scraping against the dirt as he tried to free of Steve’s grip.

You gasped for breath through the smoke, your skin bathed in firelight. And then your eyes found his.

For a moment, for one agonizing moment, you smiled.

Your lips parted, trembling, your soot-streaked face softened at the sight of him.

Bucky believed, in the back of his mind, that you were going to forgive him despite everything. At least, with your forgiveness, he might’ve been able to rest.

“She’s not burning…” the magistrate muttered, voice tight with fear.

“It is true,” you finally confessed. “I am a witch. But I never cast a spell on anyone. Not on you, James. My love for you…” you coughed, the smoke choking your lungs, “it was real. It always was.”

The crowd stirred, panic sweeping through them as the flames climbed but left your body untouched.

You did not burn. You did not turn to ash.

No. You remained.

Your voice grew louder, cutting through the crackle of the fire.

“You betrayed me, James. You took my heart straight from my bare chest and crushed it beneath your clean boots.”

Your smile twisted now—no longer gentle.

“I shall return. And I will seek my reprisal through this town—starting with you.”

Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, and a sob tore through his chest. He clenched his teeth, his whole body shaking as he stared at what he had done.

“I will start with your body—just as you took mine,” you vowed, your promise ringing through the smoke.

“I will take your hands, your left arm, the one that touched me so tenderly. Then I will take your mind—until it’s nothing but a shattered thing. Until you cannot remember your own name… or who you ever were.”

You glanced at Steve. “Until you cannot remember your own dear friend.”

Bucky’s knees trembled, and the heat of the fire did nothing to warm the icy dread in his chest. He stumbled forward, reaching towards the smoke, toward the golden glow of your eyes—but there was nothing.

“Please, forgive me,” he pleaded. “I—I loved you! It is true! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”

The flames hissed and crackled, but the figure they had enveloped no longer stood there.

You were gone.

“She’s vanished!” someone cried.

“Witch! Sorcery!” another shouted, pointing at the empty stake.

Bucky’s legs felt like lead. He could only stand frozen, chest heaving, eyes wide and unblinking. The fire that had licked at your body minutes before now crackled harmlessly against the empty wood.

All around him, chaos erupted—people shouting, running, collapsing in fear—but Bucky barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the stake.

The place where you had stood, screaming, pleading, burning… was now nothing but scorched wood and lingering smoke.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop seeing you, the golden glow of your eyes, the firelight dancing over the face he once pressed kisses to.

Bucky stood rooted, the embers at his feet and the ghost of smoke in his lungs, unable to tear his eyes from the scorched stake.

He had spoken the words that sent you there.

He had watched you burn.

And underneath the grief, a colder thing took hold—dread.

He had hurt you, the woman he loved, and in the silence that followed your vanishing, he felt your promise pierce through the night like a living thing.

The town scattered into the dark in panic, and Bucky was left alone on the square, palms slack at his sides, heart pounding with the terrible certainty that what he had done would not be forgiven—and that soon, he would know just how you meant to make him pay.

holy hell this was so long. thank you so much for sticking through the end <3 thank you @houseofhyde for this meme because this was literally bucky i fear.