satourn

Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.

Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.

You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.

And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.

Because there you are—sitting in the student union—withJohn fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”

All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.

Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.

“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.

Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.

“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.

“Buck,” Steve tried again.

Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”

“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”

Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.

He did have a chance with you.

He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.

The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.

God, he fucking despised girls like you.

But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.

Just like him.

Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.

He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.

Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.

He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.

Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.

Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”

And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.

You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.

👑: hey

👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?

No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.

And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.

bucky: yeah

bucky: looks bad

From there on, you were his dirty little secret.

And he was yours.

“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”

“Hate her or want to fuck her?”

Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”

Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”

“This Friday,” Bucky interrupted gruffly. “I know.”

“And don’t forget to hang the posters—”

“I’ll do that right now.”

Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”

“Get out of my face, Steve.”

Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.

And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?

But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.

“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”

You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”

John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.

“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”

“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”

A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”

You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”

John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.

“That’s my girl!”

My girl?

You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.

“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”

“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”

“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.

Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.

You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.

“Wait—hold on—”

You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.

Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.

“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.

“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”

“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”

John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”

“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.

“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.

John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.

Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”

John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…

Bucky had called you an angel!

“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”

“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”

John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”

“Bucky,” you warned.

His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."

“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”

He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.

Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.

“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.

“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.

“John and I aren’t dating—”

“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”

“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.

You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.

But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.

“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”

You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”

Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.

“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”

You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.

“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”

“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.

Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.

But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.

That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.

“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”

You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.

“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”

Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.

“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”

Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.

Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.

“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.

“To your gig?” you frowned.

He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.

Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.

He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.

“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.

“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.

He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”

You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.

But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.

Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.

“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”

It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.

Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”

Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”

“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.

Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”

Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”

“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”

As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.

Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.

He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.

His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…

It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.

“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.

“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.

“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.

Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.

Just him.

His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.

He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.

“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.

He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.

“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.

He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.

“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.

“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.

He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.

“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.

“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”

The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.

His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.

Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.

Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.

He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.

It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.

Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”

“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”

“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”

Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”

He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.

Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?

And that was all it took.

He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.

“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”

They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.

And that was the final truth Bucky hated.

He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.

Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.

You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”

“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”

“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.

Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.

“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.

You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.

“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”

“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”

You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.

“I just wanted to get out of there.”

“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”

You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.

“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”

He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.

You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”

If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.

“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”

You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”

Your smile faltered.

His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.

Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”

Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”

“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is what you said.”

A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.

But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.

So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”

You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”

“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”

“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”

Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”

You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”

He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”

Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.

At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.

You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”

He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured itsgoopy contents, nearly overflowing.

“That looks disgusting.”

He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.

He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”

You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.

When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”

The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?

With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”

He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”

He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.

And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.

After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.

He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.

“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.

“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”

Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.

“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”

“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”

He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”

A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.

“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.

He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.

“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.

He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.

You were close, so fucking close.

All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.

He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.

“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.

He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.

Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”

You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”

He nodded. “We should take you home—”

“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”

He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”

You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”

His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.

“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”

He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”

You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.

Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.

His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.

You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”

He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.

His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.

You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.

“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”

You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”

He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”

“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.

His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”

A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.

“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”

A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.

“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.

You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.

“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”

Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.

You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.

It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.

“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.

He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”

While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.

The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.

You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.

He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.

“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”

“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”

He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.

“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”

He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”

Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”

“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.

You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.

“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”

“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”

Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.

“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”

“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”

“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.

You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.

A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.

“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”

Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.

“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”

“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.

“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”

“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.

A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.

“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”

Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.

Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”

You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.

“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”

He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”

His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.

“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.

Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.

A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.

And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.

“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”

“Come to my show on Friday.”

“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”

You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.

“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”

He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.

“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist—“you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”

Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”

It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.

He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.

He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.

Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.

“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.

He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”

“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”

His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”

“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”

You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”

The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.

It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.

It was Thursday afternoon.

Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.

But it was no use.

Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.

Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.

Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.

But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.

Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.

He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.

It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.

bucky: can we talk?

bucky: i’m sorry

bucky: i miss you

Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.

bucky: you looked happy today.

He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.

And then nothing.

No reply.

Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.

Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.

Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.

It was Friday morning.

Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.

In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.

You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.

He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.

He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”

Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.

“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”

You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.

With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.

Your eyes widened.

He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.

“Bucky, I—”

Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”

Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.

“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”

“They’re probably not that good.”

All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.

Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.

“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”

But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.

And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.

“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”

“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”

“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”

You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.

“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.

They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”

“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”

One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”

You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”

One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”

“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”

The group went silent.

You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.

Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.

It was Friday night.

The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.

Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.

Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.

He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.

But not your face.

“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”

Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”

But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.

Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?

You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.

And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.

What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.

He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.

And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.

He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.

He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”

Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.

Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”

The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.

Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.

He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.

He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.

As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.

Until he saw pink.

There, near the middle of the crowd.

You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.

And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.

Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.

This was love.

You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.

“Hey, loser.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.

but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.

You’d been watching them from the moment they stepped inside.

Leaning against the upstairs railing, chin balanced in your palm, you had a perfect view of the foyer from above—the dark wood banister framing you like a picture. You didn’t bother hiding. People never looked up when they moved into new places. They were too distracted by open floor plans and fireplace mantels to notice the house looking back.

They were a good-looking couple. You could admit that.

He—Bucky? James? You weren’t quite sure which was correct—was the one you couldn’t take your eyes off. The kind of beautiful that didn’t come from effort. Big and broad, hands hanging heavy at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to do with them unless he was working. He moved like someone used to fixing things. Rough around the edges in a way that made your chest tighten.

You noticed the little things first. The faint line between his eyebrows when he looked around, like he didn’t trust the silence. The way he kept glancing at the stairs, like he already felt you.

His wife called him Bucky when she was telling him where to put things.

James, when she was annoyed.

The wife’s name was Sharon.. He called her ‘Shar.’ She was pretty. Blonde, neat, not a hair out of place. But she had that look some women get when they think their prettiness is a punishment—like being admired has always been a nuisance, and she’s never quite forgiven the world for it. You watched her for less than three minutes before you felt your mouth pull into a grimace.

She was cold. The kind of cold that didn’t show up in arguments, but in absence. In how she kept her eyes on her phone while he carried in their things. In how she barely responded when he asked if she wanted water. How she picked at her nails when he complimented the space like he was trying to make her smile.

She didn’t. Not once.

You wondered when she stopped noticing him. And more importantly, how long it would take before he noticed you.

Then came the sound. A faint wail, sharp and high.

Bucky’s—James’—head snapped toward the door instantly.

His wife didn’t move.

He was already halfway down the steps when the back of his shoe caught on the tile. Still carrying boxes. You stepped back into the shadows before he passed, but not in a rush. He didn’t look up.

You heard the front door creak open. Then his footsteps pounding down the porch. Then the soft hush of a baby’s cry being soothed outside.

You stayed upstairs just listening.

The front door opened again. Then came the soft shuffle of footsteps returning inside—he was carrying her now.

Your eyes lit up at the sight. A baby girl.

Tiny and warm in his arms, face scrunched from crying, little fists curled against his chest. She had his eyes, you were pretty sure, though it was hard to tell from up here. He bounced her gently as he walked, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing her back.

“There we go,” he murmured. “See? Told you it was nice, huh? Big ol’ house. Lemme show you around.”

He held her like she was something delicate, like he was afraid he’d get it wrong. As he walked past the entryway and into the living room, he kept talking to her in that soft, low voice. Pointing things out.

“That’s the kitchen. Where Mama’ll burn toast.”

You smiled.

“And that’s the fireplace. Don’t touch it, though. Dangerous stuff, fire.”

He moved like he was giving her a tour she’d remember. As if she could understand a single word. You liked that. A lot. There was something about it—about a big man talking gently to a baby girl—that felt so good you had to grip the railing a little tighter just to ground yourself.

Then Sharon’s voice cut through it. Flat. Dry. From the far side of the room.

“She doesn’t know what you’re saying, Bucky.”

Just like that, the mood shifted.

He paused mid-sentence. Didn’t say anything. Just kissed the baby’s head once, and turned toward the stairs.

You pulled back into the shadows again, smiling to yourself.

You weren’t worried. That baby girl already had more warmth in her short life from him than Sharon probably ever allowed herself to feel.

And you? You were starting to want them both.

Days passed quietly.

They brought in boxes. Furniture. Settled into routines.

And you watched. From the hallway. From the corners. From the attic vent with the slats just wide enough to see through. You had time, after all. Time and patience.

You learned his name first. James Buchanan Barnes. But he went by Bucky.

You liked James better. It suited him. Solid. Gentle. The kind of name you could sigh into a pillow, soft and warm. But Bucky was what people called him when they liked him. His coworkers. The guy on the phone asking about estimates.

Contractor. That’s what he did. Worked with his hands. Built things. Fixed things. Came home smelling like wood shavings and sweat.

Most days, he looked tired. Not unhappy, not really—just… hollowed out. Like someone had taken everything warm and soft in him and set it aside for later.

His wife barely spoke to him when he came in. Sometimes she was on her laptop. Other times she was on the phone, walking barefoot through the house like it didn’t creak under her. Like the place hadn’t already decided it didn’t like her.

You tilted your head, studying them from the bannister as he came in one evening, pulling off his flannel. She didn’t look up. He said, “Hey.” She didn’t answer.

It made you wonder. Why this house?

Surely they’d heard the stories. The real estate agent must’ve mentioned something. Even if only in hushed tones or vague disclosures. The internet was full of it. The neighbors talked.

The deaths. The disappearances. The things that happened in the walls. From the day it was built in 1922, this house had been hungry.

People didn’t just die here. They clawed. They screamed. They bled through the floors.

You would know. And yet, this family walked in like it was any other house on the block. Like the walls didn’t whisper. Like the attic didn’t have teeth.

Oblivious. Or maybe just desperate.

You smiled, teeth tucked behind your lip as you watched Bucky kneel to unlace his work boots. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat. One hand rubbed the back of his neck like it hurt.

You wondered what his skin tasted like when it was warm like that. You were still watching him, his broad back bent over the boots, the roll of his shoulders under flannel, when she appeared beside you.

No sound. No warning. Just a whisper of red silk and cigarette smoke.

“Thought you didn’t do married men.”

You didn’t look at her. Just let your cheek rest against the bannister, lips pulling into a slow smile.

“She doesn’t want him,” you said softly. “So why can't I?”

Nat huffed, leaning against the opposite railing like she was bored at a party. Her eyes flicked down toward the living room, where Bucky was now scooping up the baby again—cooing under his breath, kissing her temple like she was something made of sugar.

“You’re gonna eat that poor man alive.”

You smiled a little wider, “Maybe he wants to be eaten.”

She let out a low laugh. It scraped the edges—mocking, but not unkind. “You always were good at pretending you’re innocent.”

“I’m not pretending,” you murmured.

Nat rolled her eyes, pushing off the railing. Her red nails tapped lightly against the wall as she walked past you, slow and unhurried. She paused at the top step, glancing back.

“When his wife finds your panties under his pillow, don’t come crying to me.”

“I won’t,” you said sweetly. “She’ll just think they’re hers.”

Nat disappeared with a smirk, heels clicking once before silence swallowed her whole. Downstairs, Bucky was laughing at something the baby did. Soft and low and tired.

You stayed where you were. Thinking about how nice it would feel to cup his face between your hands. To slide into his lap. To be the reason he laughed like that.

It was the crying that did it.

High-pitched. Gasping. That helpless baby wail that came in sharp bursts, like her lungs couldn’t quite keep up with how upset she was.

It echoed through the house, cutting through every wall.

You waited... Listened... Waited some more.

No one came.

Downstairs, Sharon was on the phone. You could hear her through the vents.

“No, you’re supposed to let them cry it out. Self-soothing. That’s what the book said. If you pick them up every time they scream, you’ll just train them to be needy—”

You didn’t listen to the rest. Just turned toward the nursery and started walking.

The crying got louder as you reached the hallway. You knew the rhythm of it now—the breathless hiccups, the desperation in it. She was terrified. You could feel it.

The door was cracked open. And then you saw her.

Small figure. Dark curls. A pillow in her hands. Inching toward the crib.

Your steps didn’t falter, but your voice dropped smooth and slow.

“Morgan,” you said gently, “what are you doing?”

She turned to you like she’d been caught sneaking sweets—wide brown eyes, little hands wrapped tight around the pillow’s edge. Her white dress swayed slightly as she shifted, bare feet making no sound on the hardwood.

“I just wanted her to stop crying,” she said.

Your head tilted. You kept your voice light, even smiled a little. “That’s not how we do that.”

You walked over, plucked the pillow from her grip. She let go without fuss, eyes still big and blinking.

“Then how?” she asked.

You didn’t answer her. Just rolled your eyes, stepping past her toward the crib.

Becca’s face was red, tiny fists thrashing in the air. The moment you leaned in and scooped her up, the crying quieted to soft, broken hiccups.

“Hi, pretty girl,” you whispered. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You rubbed her back, swaying gently, cooing softly into her hair. Becca quieted quickly in your arms.

You held her close, pressing your cheek to her soft hair as you paced slowly by the window. Her tiny hands still trembled, and every few seconds she let out a shuddery breath, but the worst of it had passed.

“There we go,” you whispered. “That’s better, isn’t it? Just needed someone to hold you, huh?”

She didn’t answer, obviously, but the little way her fingers curled into your blouse made your chest ache. Poor thing. Left to cry herself hoarse in a room full of strangers and ghosts.

You swayed with her a moment longer, then glanced back toward the doorway.

Morgan was still there, arms crossed, lip stuck out in a pout.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she said.

“Neither are you.”

She ignored that, “You were gone all morning. I was bored.”

“Then find someone else to play with.”

Morgan narrowed her eyes at you. “I wanted to play with you.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“You said you’d play dolls with me yesterday.”

“And you tried to smother a baby today,” you said lightly. “So now we’re not on speaking terms.”

Her mouth dropped open in childish offense, “I was only helping.”

You didn’t bother arguing. Becca stirred in your arms, letting out a soft coo, and you shifted her slightly, letting her rest her cheek against your collarbone. Your voice stayed soft.

“Go find one of the others. Maybe Natasha will let you braid her hair.”

Morgan scowled. “She said no last time.”

“Then try harder.”

She stomped one bare foot on the nursery rug, crossing her arms even tighter.

“You’re supposed to be a nanny,” she snapped. “You’re not very good at it.”

You raised your eyebrows at her.

“I’m a nanny for babies. Not spoiled dead five-year-old girls who throw tantrums and try to kill babies.”

Morgan’s glare deepened. She opened her mouth to say something else, then thought better of it. After a beat, she huffed and turned toward the hall, “I’m telling my mommy.”

“Go ahead,” you said, smiling sweetly. “I’ll tell her what you tried to do too.”

She vanished down the hall with an angry little stomp.

You looked down at Becca again, brushing a thumb along her soft cheek. “Don’t worry,” you murmured. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you. You’re mine now.”

You caught the raised voices first. Muffled, clipped.

You followed them down the hall and found Peter already crouched behind the staircase wall—eyes wide, grinning.

“You’re gonna get caught,” you whispered.

He didn’t even look at you. Just waved you closer like it was a sold-out show.

“They’re really going at it,” he whispered back. “She didn’t tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“She got a job.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t that good?”

Peter glanced at you like you were new, “Not if you don’t tell your husband.”

You both peeked around the corner at the kitchen. Bucky stood near the fridge, hands braced on the counter, jaw clenched. Sharon stood across from him, arms folded tight, expression unmoving.

“You weren’t even gonna mention it?” Bucky asked, voice low, like he was trying not to yell.

“You would’ve made it a thing,” Sharon said, flat. “You always do.”

“It is a thing. You’re going back to work and didn’t think I should know?”

“I’ve been not working for a year,” she snapped. “Since Becca was born. Since my whole goddamn life got put on pause. Just because I’m a mother now doesn’t mean I stop being a person.”

Bucky didn’t move. His hands just tightened against the countertop.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, stepping back from the counter like it had burned him.

“Then who’s gonna take care of her, Sharon? I’m on site all day. You’re—what—back in court now? Gone twelve hours a day?”

“We’ll get a nanny,” she said.

And just like that, your stomach turned.

You blinked, once. Nanny. Another woman. Another stranger. Hands on your baby.

“There’s plenty of agencies,” Sharon added. “It’s not hard.”

“You don’t even like people,” Bucky shot back. “You’re gonna leave our daughter with a stranger?”

“Better than being raised by two miserable parents who can’t stand to look at each other.”

That one landed like a slap.

Bucky didn’t respond. Just turned and opened the fridge like the conversation was over, even though it wasn’t. Sharon scoffed and walked off, heels clicking as she moved toward the stairs.

Peter leaned back on his heels, wide-eyed.

“Wow.”

You were still staring into the kitchen. A nanny. They were going to bring someone else in.

You didn’t want that. You wouldn’t let that.

Her name was Jean.

Jean Grey. Vibrant red hair and wide green eyes, the kind of girl who smiled with her whole face and didn’t seem to notice when people talked down to her. She smelled like peonies and dish soap.

You hated her.

Not because she was mean. Or cruel. Or even bad with Becca. No, that was the problem. She was perfect.

She cooed at the baby like she meant it, swayed with her in the living room while Sharon typed away in the dining room. She even brought her own toys—wooden, handmade, "developmentally enriching."

Bucky seemed grateful. Sharon seemed smug.

And you…you could only watch.

From the hallway. The banister. The mirror over the mantel where your reflection didn’t quite show.

“She’s sweet,” Peter had whispered to you one morning as Jean settled Becca down for a nap.

“That’s what makes it worse,” you murmured.

You didn’t like how she spoke to Bucky, either. Too casual. Too friendly. Not flirting—not really. But she had that soft voice. The kind that made men lean in.

And Bucky… well. He didn’t lean. But he listened. Nodded. Gave her that tired little smile, the one that meant thank you and I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m trying.

That was your smile. He was supposed to give you that.

You’d spent the whole week with your arms crossed, hidden behind walls and light fixtures and attic beams. Watching. Listening. Waiting.

By Thursday, you’d had enough.

You were sitting cross-legged in the upstairs hallway when Nat appeared beside you, filing her nails with a bone-handled emery board.

“You look like you’ve been killed again,” she said.

“She doesn’t belong here.”

“She’s a nanny,” Nat shrugged. “A living one. This is literally her job.”

“She touches Becca like she owns her.”

“You sound insane.”

“She touched his shoulder.”

“…so murder, then?”

You didn’t answer. Just stood and brushed invisible dust off your dress. Nat snorted behind you.

“You’re so dramatic.”

You were already halfway down the hall. The idea came to you the same way everything else did in this house—slow, sweet, inevitable.

You needed to stay close to Bucky. You needed to protect Rebecca. And you couldn’t do that with strangers coming and going, smiling too brightly, leaving their scent behind.

So first, you’d get rid of the current one. And then make sure there’d be no others.

Which only meant one thing really. And this is how you found yourself climbing the attic stairs.

The air grew colder the higher you went. Not just temperature, but presence. The house got heavier up here. Thicker. Books lined the walls—some dusty and broken-spined, others fresh as if bought yesterday. Candles flickered on their own. The windows never opened. No matter how hard you tried.

He was already waiting. Of course he was.

Loki sat in an old wingback chair near the back window, bathed in the sickly light that filtered through the stained glass. One leg crossed over the other. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Rings glinting at his fingers.

He looked like a bored prince in exile.

“Well, well,” he drawled as you approached. “Come to scratch that itch again, darling?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Still, you slid into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times before. Because you had. His hands came to your hips automatically. Possessive. Greedy.

“You only sit here when you want something,” he murmured, voice low against your throat.

“I always want something.”

He laughed, soft and dangerous. “Tell me.”

You leaned in, arms draped lazily around his neck, lips brushing his ear, “There’s a girl downstairs.”

“There are many girls downstairs.”

“This one thinks she belongs here. With the husband. With my baby.”

He hummed thoughtfully, fingers tracing idle circles along your thighs. “You’re jealous.”

“No,” you said sweetly. “I’m just possessive.”

His grin widened. “You want me to scare her?”

You tilted your head, giving him a soft look. “I want her gone. I want all of them gone. Before they even think of showing up.”

“And what do I get in return?”

You sighed, letting your head drop against his shoulder in annoyance, “God, you’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “here you are. On my lap. Coming to me for favors.”

“What do you want?”

He leaned in, lips grazing your cheek. His breath was cool and slow.

“Just a kiss.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“For now.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, “Fine.”

You sat up straighter and leaned in, intending to give him the barest brush of lips—something bored and lazy and over with in a second. But before you could pull away, his hand slid into your hair—fingers curling tight at the nape of your neck—and yanked you in deep.

His mouth crushed against yours, open and greedy, tongue sliding past your lips with practiced ease. He kissed like he wanted to own something, like he was taking back payment owed. He groaned softly into your mouth, low and pleased, like he’d waited all week for this.

You shoved against his chest. Hard.

He let go with a laugh, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he wanted to savor what was left of you.

You wiped your mouth on your sleeve. “Asshole.”

“You’re welcome.”

You stood, straightened your dress, and glared at him, while Loki lounged in the chair like a man who’d just won something.

“Your wish,” he said with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, “is my command, my darling.”

Jean didn’t last a month.

By the third week, she was sobbing on the porch at two in the morning, suitcase in one hand, cross necklace clenched in the other.

Said she heard whispering in the walls. Said something grabbed her ankle when she was walking to the nursery. Said there were scratches on her mirror that weren’t there when she went to bed.

Sharon told her she was being dramatic. Bucky offered to call her a cab.

You watched from the upstairs landing, chin resting on the banister, a slow little smile curling at your lips.

Loki appeared beside you a second later, smug as hell, as if waiting for praise.

“Whispers and shadows?” you murmured.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, still watching the scene below. “You should’ve heard her scream.”

Emma came next. Tall, polished, platinum blonde. Said she specialized in newborns. Wore pearls around the baby and refused to eat gluten. You hated her on sight too.

She didn’t even make it two weeks.

Something spooked her so bad after the first week, she locked herself in the guest bathroom and refused to come out until sunrise.

Said the baby monitor crackled with voices. Said she saw red eyes staring at her from the mirror. Said she woke up with bruises on her thighs she couldn’t explain.

She was gone before breakfast.

Then came Raven. Quiet. Kind. Sweet to the baby.

And still? Gone after four days.

Anna Marie lasted just two. Barely.

By the end of it, Bucky and Sharon were stunned. Confused. Exhausted.

Bucky stood in the nursery with Becca in his arms, rocking her gently while Sharon paced the hallway, phone to her ear, trying—again—to get a nanny agency to send someone who wouldn’t leave screaming in the middle of the night.

“That’s the third one, James.”

“Fourth,” he corrected, gently rubbing the baby’s back.

“What the hell is wrong with this house?”

“Nothing,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure.

She turned to him, exasperated.

“We can’t keep doing this. I have to go back to work, and you can’t just drag her to job sites.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept rocking the baby, frowning down at her little face.

“It’s like they’re scared of her,” Sharon muttered.

“It’s not her,” Bucky said quietly. “It’s this place.”

Sharon scoffed. “What, you think the house is haunted?”

He didn’t respond.

You watched from the corner of the nursery, unseen, hands folded neatly in front of you.

They were unraveling. Right on schedule.

You waited until the morning sun cut soft through the trees—when the house was half-awake, when Sharon was still distracted with emails and the baby was just starting to fuss.

You picked a pink dress because it made you look sweet. Fresh. The kind of girl who wore lotion that smelled like strawberries and always used please and thank you. You wore your natural hair loose. You dabbed perfume behind your ears—rose and vanilla—and made sure your shoes made a little sound on the porch steps, as you appeared at the front door.

Then you knocked. Twice. Firm, but friendly.

The door opened a moment later. And there he was.

Close up, Bucky was even more handsome. Older, yes, tired around the eyes, jaw scruffed and thick, but beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.

He looked like someone who was trying. A man who used his body every day. A man who didn’t get told he was wanted anymore.

You tilted your head and smiled. Soft and warm.

“Hi,” you said, voice light. “I heard you’re looking for a nanny?”

He blinked. Just for a second.

Eyes dragged over you—your face, your dress, your hands gently clasped in front of you. And then he found himself.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, we are.” He shifted, opened the door wider. “Come in.”

You stepped inside, letting the scent of your perfume trail behind you.

“I live just a few streets over,” you introduced yourself as he closed the door behind you. “Figured I’d drop off my resume in person. I’ve done a lot of nannying, but I’ve always preferred live-in jobs. It’s easier when the baby’s still so little.”

He nodded, visibly grateful. He looked like a man who’d been wading through a minefield for weeks and had just stumbled on dry land.

“Do you—uh—have your resume?”

“Of course.” You handed him the folded paper.

He took it, glancing it over.

You’d handwritten it, of course. Neat cursive. All made up. But it looked real. And it sounded even better. References that couldn’t be called. Agencies that didn’t exist. Dates that never happened.

But he didn’t know that. He just saw someone who might finally help.

“This is… this looks great,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “You, uh—you want to meet my wife?”

“I’d love to.”

You smiled again—perfectly pleasant—and followed him into the house.

The floor creaked beneath your feet. The walls seemed to breathe a little deeper.

And upstairs, Loki grinned to himself like a cat who’d just watched a trap snap shut.

They sat you down at the kitchen table, sunlight slanting through the windows like butter across the wood.

Sharon was already in business mode. Crisp blouse, hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was flawless—like it had been applied by someone angry. She held your resume in one hand, a coffee cup in the other.

Bucky sat beside her. Less polished. Elbows on the table. Watching you with polite curiosity—and something else he probably didn’t realize was there yet.

You folded your hands in your lap and smiled sweetly.

“So,” Sharon said, skimming the page. “You’ve worked with infants before?”

“Yes, ma’am. A few times.” You nodded softly. “Every family’s a little different, but the first year’s always the most delicate.”

Sharon tilted her head, intrigued.

“What made you want to do live-in care again?”

“I like the stability of it,” you said, tone gentle. “It’s easier to form a real bond with the baby when I’m not coming and going. I’ve always felt like that’s important. For them to know I’m there.”

Bucky glanced at Sharon. Just briefly. That had hit something.

“And your last family?” Sharon asked. “Why did that end?”

You smiled again. A little tighter this time. The kind of smile that said there’s a story here, but I’m too polite to tell it.

“It just didn’t work out,” you said softly. “Things got… complicated. And they decided to move.”

You didn’t say, ‘The wife thought I was sleeping with her husband. She waited until he left the house. She had shaky hands, but good aim.’

You didn’t say, ‘The last thing I heard was the baby crying from his highchair. The last thing I felt was tile against the back of my skull.’

And you didn’t say, ‘My bones are buried in the backyard under the gazebo.’

You just smiled. Blinked slow. Kept your voice warm, “I still think about the little one sometimes. He was sweet.”

Sharon nodded, satisfied.

Bucky, meanwhile, was still looking at you. There was a quiet softness in his eyes now. Something not quite affection. Not quite interest. But it was building.

“Well,” Sharon said, glancing at him. “I don’t see any red flags.”

“Me neither,” he said quietly.

You folded your hands neatly on the table and gave them both your best, most grateful smile.

“If you give me the chance, I promise—I’ll take good care of her.”

And just like that, it was done.

It didn’t take long for him to start looking for you.

Little things, at first. You’d be humming in the nursery and he’d stop just outside the door, listening like he didn’t mean to. You’d be folding laundry and he’d lean in the doorway for no real reason, asking questions he already knew the answers to—just to hear your voice. Just to have you talk to him like you saw him.

Not the way Sharon did. Not with exhaustion. Or obligation. Or nothing at all. No—you looked at him like you wanted to be here. Like he was someone worth noticing.

You were always kind to him. Gently teasing sometimes, sure—but always soft. Always careful. You said thank you when he fixed the leaky sink. You smiled when he walked into the room. You greeted him at the end of the day like it meant something that he came home.

And he started smiling back. Started lingering. Started softening.

Even the baby seemed happier. She giggled when he walked in the room—chubby arms lifted for him to hold her. He didn’t say it, but you could see it in his face: he liked that. Liked that she didn’t fuss when he picked her up. Liked that you were always nearby, watching him like he was doing something right.

You were patient. Patient—but starving. You waited until the house was quiet at night, then drifted through the halls like a shadow with purpose.

Sometimes you watched him in the shower.

Just for a few seconds. Maybe more. Always from the corner, always just barely there. The mirror would fog and the water would thunder and he wouldn’t even know you were watching.

But you did.

His body was—God.

All scars and strength. His back was broad, muscle stacked thick and wide beneath wet skin. You watched the soap trace down his spine, down to the slope of his ass. Watched the way his hands worked over his chest, up to his hair. His cock hung heavy, half-hard from the heat, water sliding down it like a promise.

You watched him breathe. You watched him groan.

You imagined slipping in behind him, pressing your lips to the base of his neck. Sliding your hands down his hips. Whimpering into his ear like a thing in heat.

Soon, you thought. Soon.

Sometimes you watched them, too.

Not often. But when it happened, you didn’t look away.

You'd be passing by—drifting quiet down the hallway in the middle of the night—and you’d hear it: the creak of the bed, the faint sigh of sheets moving, the low, rhythmic grunt of Bucky's breath.

You shouldn’t have stopped. Shouldn’t have stayed. But you did.

You stood just outside their doorway, eyes fixed on the half-open crack, and let yourself see.

And what you saw—

It wasn’t even the sex that held you there. It was her.

Sharon, lying stiff on her back, like a woman enduring something. Her hands didn’t move. Her head turned slightly to the side, face angled toward the dark. Her lips parted only once, when Bucky pressed his mouth to her throat. She didn’t kiss him back.

She never kissed him back. And Bucky… he tried. God, he tried.

You watched his hands press into the mattress, shoulders trembling slightly as he moved over her, inside her. He groaned her name once. Tried to nuzzle her jaw. Tried to look her in the eye.

She didn’t meet his gaze.

You couldn’t understand it. How someone so warm could be left so cold.

You watched the muscles in his back flex, scarred hips rolling steady, slow, as he worked himself deeper into a woman who barely made a sound.

Your fingers curled against the wall. Your heart ached with something sick and sticky.

How—

How did she not melt under him? How did she not cling to him, bite his neck, beg him to stay inside?

Didn’t she feel the weight of him? The size of him? The way his hands looked, gripping the sheets like he was trying to hold on to a version of himself that still believed she wanted him?

You would’ve cried. You would’ve screamed. You would’ve clawed your nails down his back and begged him to break you open.

But Sharon just blinked at the ceiling. And when it was over, she turned away from him without a word.

Bucky stared at the ceiling for a long time after that. Long enough for the room to cool. Long enough for his heart to slow. Long enough for you to burn.

You turned from the door and drifted back down the hall, biting your lip, your pulse thrumming hot between your legs.

You were going to ruin him. You were going to make him feel what it was like to be wanted.

Really, truly wanted. Until it made him sick. Until it made him yours.

You made sure to start off small.

A brush of fingers when you passed him a plate. The pads of your fingertips grazing his palm just a little longer than necessary. Always paired with a smile. Always soft. Always innocent.

You never apologized for touching him. Never recoiled like you should’ve. Never treated it like an accident.

And he didn’t flinch either—not at first. Not when you touched his arm to get his attention. Not when you stood a little too close while asking how to work something. Not when your hand steadied on his chest one afternoon as you reached behind him for a glass.

“You’re warm,” you’d said casually, your palm pressed to his heart, “Big guy like you—bet you run hot all the time.”

He’d laughed—awkward, scratchy in the throat, “Guess so. Can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

You didn’t move right away. Just looked up at him with that soft little smile of yours, “I don’t mind.”

Then you grabbed the glass and turned away like nothing happened.

He didn’t speak after that. Not for a full minute.

The next day, you found him fixing the light above the kitchen sink—arms flexed, white shirt pulled tight across his chest. You stood behind him, rocking Becca gently in your arms.

“You’re so good with your hands,” you said, soft as a breath.

He paused mid-turn of the screwdriver. Looked over his shoulder.

You smiled, like you didn’t even realize what you’d said.

“I meant the light,” you added lightly. “You’re always fixing things. You must be really good at building stuff.”

His jaw clenched a little when he nodded.

You hummed and bounced the baby a bit, “Must be nice. Being able to make things work with your hands.”

He wouldn’t look at you for the rest of the day. Which only made you smile wider.

You knew he was watching before you bent down. You could feel it—that low heat crawling over your skin. That heavy silence, like someone holding their breath.

It was late. The house was quiet. Sharon had taken the car to work. Becca was already asleep. You were downstairs in the laundry room, humming to yourself, folding towels in that little sheer nighty you’d "forgotten" to change out of.

It clung to you in the dim light. The blue one. Soft lace at the hem, loose straps sliding down your shoulders. It barely skimmed the bottom of your thighs when you stood straight. And when you bent down…

You did it slow. Deliberate.

Like you were tired. Like it was just a chore. Like you hadn’t carefully chosen this moment, this outfit, this exact angle.

You reached for a dropped sock—and let your hips tilt just right. Let the nightgown lift. Let the cool air hit your bare skin.

No panties. Not even a thong. Just soft, warm, slick flesh on full display.

And still, you didn’t turn around.

You let the moment stretch. Pretended not to notice. Your head tilted slightly, like you were focused on the laundry basket, like you hadn’t heard that sharp exhale behind you. Like you hadn’t felt him freeze behind the doorframe.

He didn’t move. Didn’t clear his throat. Didn’t make any excuse to leave. He just stood there—still as a man struck dumb.

You reached for another towel, still bent low, and let your thighs part just an inch more. Just enough to glisten. Just enough to catch the light.

But you didn’t straighten.

You let him look. Let him take it. Let the guilt start to fester under his skin. Let the shame build into something wet and sticky and so much worse.

Then, finally—finally—you stood.

Smoothed the hem down over your ass, turned toward the door with a lazy yawn. But by then, of course, he was gone. Too fast to be casual. Too slow to be innocent.

And that night, when you heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom—and the sound of his hand slapping hard against skin—you smiled into your pillow and touched yourself to the rhythm of it.

Tonight you left the door ajar on purpose.

Just a little. Just enough to make it look accidental. The crack wide enough to frame the corner of the mirror. The mirror angled just enough to reflect the bed.

You were laid out like sin incarnate.

Shirt shoved up around your ribs, breasts bare to the warm night air. One hand pinching lazily at your nipple, the other buried between your thighs—fingers gliding slow and sticky, soaked with how long you’d been playing.

You moved like you weren’t in a rush. Like you weren’t even trying to cum.

No, this wasn’t for you. This was a performance. And your audience had just arrived.

You heard him before you saw him. Heavy footfalls down the hall—then pause. Silence.

Your mirror showed you everything. Bucky. Standing outside your room. Just barely in view. Just far enough to pretend he didn’t know better.

He wasn’t moving. But his hand was.

Pressed flat against the front of his pants, fingers curling tight, grinding down on the bulge there like he couldn’t not. Like he couldn’t breathe unless he touched himself.

You moaned. Quiet, but not too quiet. You made sure he saw the way your hips rolled against your hand. Made sure he saw the way your slick coated your knuckles. The way your fingers pumped slow, sloppy, obscene.

You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut, “Oh, Bucky…”

It wasn’t loud. But it was clear. The sharp jerk of his shoulders said he heard it.

You peeked through your lashes, heart fluttering at the sight—his hand moving faster now, more urgent, as if his body betrayed him. As if he hated himself for it even while he groaned quietly through clenched teeth.

You smiled. Tilted your hips and let your fingers go even deeper. Let him know exactly how wet you got just thinking about him. And when you came—slow and quiet, back arching just enough to lift off the mattress—you made sure your eyes were on him.

You watched him cum too, just seconds later. Still clothed, still standing in the hall. Gasping like he’d just been stabbed. Shame twisting across his face as he stumbled back into the shadows, breath heavy, laces still undone.

You lay there, breathing slow. Smiling.

After that, he couldn’t even look you in the eye anymore. Not for more than a second or two.

He’d flinch, glance away—pretend he forgot what he was about to say. Pretend he was tired, distracted, sore from work. You’d catch him hovering in the doorway to the kitchen like he’d forgotten why he came in. Or answering you with clipped words, mumbling into his coffee cup like it could hide his mouth.

And you just smiled. You played your part like it was nothing.

Sweet. Gentle. Helpful. That soft, low voice you used whenever you asked him if he wanted more eggs, more sugar in his coffee. That same smile you gave him when Becca squealed in your arms and he lit up like it was the first real joy he’d felt in months.

You, so soft. So clean. You, with your dresses and your pretty hair. You, who couldn’t possibly know the things he’d seen.

What he’d done.

How his hand had been sticky when he went to bed. How your voice echoed in his head like a curse. How shame burned in his chest every time you touched his shoulder or brushed past him in the hallway and he hoped it would happen again.

You didn’t say anything.

Not about the way he fumbled with the newspaper when you came into the room. Not about the way he dropped a plate when your fingers grazed his. Not about the way his jaw clenched when you leaned too close with Becca on your hip, your breath warm on his cheek as you laughed at something small and stupid.

You let him suffer. Sweetly. Silently.

And every time he mumbled your name or avoided your gaze, you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Because he thought you didn’t know. He thought you were just a sweet, oblivious girl. He thought he was the sinner, and you were the angel he was ruining.

It was almost adorable.

If only he knew how long you’d been watching him. How many times you’d imagined his hands around your throat. How many times you came to the thought of him begging you to stop—and you whispering, “But I don’t want to stop, Mr. Barnes.”

Now, he couldn’t even sit next to you without shifting in his seat. Couldn’t hear your name without tightening his fists. Couldn’t sleep without dreaming of you, waking up soaked and aching and disgusted with himself.

And all you ever gave him… was that soft smile. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes. Did you sleep well?”

Like you didn’t know he hadn’t. Like you didn’t know exactly why.

He came home looking like the day had tried to wring him out.

Boots heavy on the tile. Shoulders stiff beneath the fabric of his shirt, soaked through at the collar. The front door shut too hard, not quite a slam but just enough to make you pause. Your hand stilled on Becca’s blanket as you tucked her in.

You gave it a minute. Then padded down the hall.

The kitchen lights were dimmed to warm gold. Bucky was sitting at the island, elbows on the counter, face in his hands. He wasn’t doing anything. Just being. That sort of heavy silence that clung to people who’d been carrying too much all day and had no idea how to put it down.

You stepped in, voice soft. “Rough day?”

He exhaled through his nose, sat up a little. His eyes found you—but only for a second, “Yeah. Little bit.” His voice was lower than usual. Scratchy, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

You moved easily around the kitchen. The kettle on. Mug pulled from the cupboard. You didn’t ask what kind of tea he wanted—you already knew. Honey chamomile. One sugar. No lemon.

“Becca’s down,” you said gently, glancing over your shoulder. “Didn’t even fuss tonight.”

He gave a tired smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s good.”

You walked over, setting the mug in front of him, the ceramic warm between his fingers. Your hand brushed his—accidentally. Not really.

He didn’t move.

“Mrs. Barnes not back yet?”

He shook his head. “Work thing.”

There was no emotion behind it. Not anger, not resentment. Just resignation. The quiet kind.

You leaned against the other side of the island, arms resting atop the granite, body close enough to feel the warmth of him radiating in the stillness between you.

“You always come home looking like this when she’s not here,” you said softly.

His brows ticked upward. “Like what?”

You tilted your head, eyes tracing the lines of strain on his face. “Like the world’s sitting on your back. And no one’s ever offered to help carry it.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared into his tea like it held something deeper. A pause stretched between you—comfortable for you, unbearable for him.

You smiled gently. Then pushed the mug a little closer to his hands. “Drink. You look like you need it.”

His fingers wrapped around the mug. Rough, calloused. Hands that built things. Repaired things. Worked themselves to the bone.

He looked up at you again, slower this time. And for a moment—just a second—there was something vulnerable in his eyes. Something tired. Something that made your pulse flutter with heat.

You gave him a small smile, “You work too hard, Mr. Barnes.”

He let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh. And shook his head. “You don’t always have to call me that.”

“Why not? It suits you.”

Your voice was just on the edge of teasing. Just enough to make him shift in his seat. Not uncomfortable—just… aware.

You could feel it happening. The gentle unraveling.

The way his shoulders lowered. The way his eyes lingered just a bit longer on yours. The way his hand didn’t move when yours brushed his again as you reached to take the sugar spoon.

You didn’t need him to kiss you. Not yet.

You just needed him to need this. This moment. This feeling. You.

You watched the way his shoulders moved when he exhaled—one slow rise, one slower drop. The tea was almost gone now. His calloused fingers tapped idly against the ceramic, like he couldn’t quite unwind no matter how hard he tried.

“You’ve got tension in your neck,” you said gently, rounding the island as you dried your hands on a tea towel. “Can see it from here.”

He huffed a small laugh—just air and exhaustion, “Yeah, well. Comes with the job.”

You gave a tilt of your head, stopping behind him, “Contracting?”

“No,” he murmured. “Being married.”

That made you smile. He didn’t see it. So you moved closer, voice light, teasing—like it was nothing.

“Y’know… you’re not the only one around here who’s good with their hands.”

He turned a little, glancing back at you. You could see the way his brows lifted slightly—half amused, half confused.

“You offering me a massage now?”

“Mhm.” You stepped behind his chair, the towel now slung casually over your shoulder. “What kind of nanny would I be if I didn’t take care of everyone in the house?”

He let out a breath, shaking his head. “That’s—nah, that’s alright. You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Your hands brushed lightly over the back of the chair, fingers ghosting the fabric just inches from his shoulders. “Come on, Mr. Barnes. Let me help.”

He hesitated. You could feel it in the pause. Hear it in the slight clink of the spoon against his mug as he placed it down carefully on the counter.

“You sure?”

“Course I’m sure,” you said softly. “Now lean forward.”

He did—reluctantly. His forearms resting on the kitchen island as your fingers finally touched his shoulders. And immediately, his whole body tensed. He was warm. Solid. Tight like a wire strung too long and never loosened.

You started slow—thumbs pressing gently into the muscles where his neck met his back. Circling, kneading. You could feel his resistance like static under his skin. Like he didn’t want to give in to how good it felt.

But then he sighed. Deep. Almost involuntary.

“Jesus Christ…”

“Told you,” you murmured, lips curving as you leaned in a little. “Good with my hands.”

His head dipped. Shoulders sagged beneath your touch. And that was all the permission you needed.

You worked your way down slowly—thumbs dragging along the base of his neck, the curve of his spine, the edges of his shoulder blades. Firm pressure, purposeful. Like you were unwinding him thread by thread.

You watched his hands. How they flexed and relaxed. How his fingers twitched like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You carry so much tension here,” you whispered, fingers pressing just under the blades of his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Just… part of it.”

“Well,” you said softly, leaning close enough for your breath to skim his ear. “You don’t have to carry it all tonight.”

Your hands moved slower, more intentional. No longer just soothing—but searching. Palms dragging along the muscles of his shoulders, the slope of his spine, the tension that pulsed beneath his skin like something alive.

You weren’t doing it to help anymore. You were savoring him.

“There,” you murmured, kneading into a spot that made his hips shift forward a little in the stool. “Feel that?”

He let out a low grunt, biting it back halfway through.

“Yeah—fuck.”

The sound made your stomach flutter. Your core clench. You smiled, sickly sweet, “Language, Mr. Barnes.”

His reply was a breath. A half-laugh. Tired, flustered, “Sorry.”

You hummed, trailing your fingers over the base of his neck. You knew he was trying not to react. You knew what you were doing to him.

His hands gripped the edge of the island. Not to hold himself steady—but to ground himself. You could see the tension in his forearms, the way his head hung forward, chin tucked to his chest like he didn’t trust himself to look at you.

And then another sound slipped out—softer this time. A low, guttural exhale that came from deep in his chest when you pushed your thumbs just beneath his shoulder blades.

God.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. You imagined him above you. Inside you. Making that same sound into your throat as you whispered sweet things in his ear and begged him to give you more.

Your thighs pressed together.

“You’re so tense,” you said, voice dropping slightly. “When was the last time someone did this for you?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally did, it was low. Rough, “Long time.”

“That’s a shame.”

Your hands skimmed lower, just above his waist now. Still innocent—but only barely. You leaned in, breath warm against the side of his neck.

“A man like you should be touched more often.”

He stiffened.

You felt it—right under your hands. His body went rigid. His breath caught. His fingers gripped the counter. And still, he said nothing. No protest. No step away. Just… stillness. Like he didn’t trust himself to move.

You let your palms settle on his back, thumbs brushing softly, voice barely a whisper. “All that strength, Mr. Barnes… and no one to take care of you?”

This time, when he exhaled, it shook.

You swallowed your smirk, dragged your nails lightly down the fabric of his shirt—just enough to make him twitch. You pretended not to notice the way his hips shifted. The way he shifted to hide what you already knew was there.

His cock was hard. And he hated it.

“I should…” His voice cracked a little. “I should probably check on Becca—”

“She’s fine,” you murmured. “Sleeping like an angel.”

You rounded the chair slowly, hands brushing the tops of his shoulders as you stepped in front of him. He couldn’t even look at you.

So sweet. So ashamed. So ready.

You smiled, soft and pretty, “Want me to keep going?”

His jaw clenched. His hands were still white-knuckled on the island. He nodded once. Barely. His jaw tight.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. Hoarse. “Okay.”

So you started with his arms.

You took the left one between your hands—his thick, scarred forearm lined with sinew and years of work—and rubbed your thumbs into the muscles with slow, practiced care.

And still, he wouldn’t look at you. Just stared somewhere past your shoulder. His lips slightly parted.

“Y’know…” you said softly, head tilting, “you never answer me when I compliment you.”

He blinked slowly, eyes drifting to yours like it took effort, “What?”

“When I say nice things to you,” you smiled. “You always act like you didn’t hear.”

His lips twitched. But it wasn’t amusement. It was guilt. Embarrassment. Maybe shame.

“Guess I don’t hear that kind of stuff much anymore.”

Your thumbs worked up his arm, just under the short sleeve of his t-shirt. You pressed into the tension there, soft and deliberate.

“You should.”

His eyes closed. He swallowed.

You moved to the other arm. Slower now. Letting your hands linger on his skin just a moment longer than necessary.

And then they drifted. Lightly. Across his chest. Not a grope. Not overt. Just a gentle press of your palms, circling the center of his chest where the tension was thickest.

You could feel the heat radiating off him. His heart beat strong beneath your hands.

His cock strained visibly against the front of his jeans—and the second your eyes flicked downward, he shifted, thighs squeezing together as if to hide it.

Like it was shameful. Like it was unwelcome.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck—I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t apologize.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper now, “It’s not a bad thing.”

His mouth parted, eyes searching yours like he couldn’t tell if you were mocking him. Or testing him. Or tempting him.

(Spoiler: you were doing all three.)

You let your hands stay on his chest a little longer. You liked the way he breathed under your palms. How his ribs moved. How his throat flexed when he swallowed hard, over and over again.

“You’re really tense here too,” you said, thumb grazing near his collarbone.

He only hummed. A barely-there sound. So dazed. So quiet.

You leaned in a little. Voice softer than ever, “You can let go, Mr. Barnes. I won’t judge you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours again—and there it was. Need. Not desire—not yet. But need. Quiet. Gutted. Heavy. Like he hadn’t been touched or praised or looked at like this in years.

And still, he said nothing. But he didn’t stop you.

Not when your hands dipped just slightly lower. Not when you pressed your thigh subtly between his knees. Not when your fingertips grazed the hem of his shirt like you were testing the weight of that silence.

His breath hitched—and that was it.

That tiny, broken sound cracked through the moment like a fault line.

He stood suddenly, stepping back so fast his thigh bumped the stool leg. It scraped against the tile with a sharp screech.

“I—uh. I should…” he cleared his throat, avoiding your eyes as he ran a hand down his face. “I should go shower. And—get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

His voice was tight. Brittle.

“Of course,” you said softly, taking a graceful step back. Hands folding in front of you like you hadn’t just been touching him like a man you wanted to devour. “You’ve earned it.”

He gave you a tight, forced smile. Didn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Thanks for the massage,” he mumbled, then turned.

He was out of the kitchen in a few quick strides, broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt, like they were holding the weight of what he almost let happen.

"Goodnight," you called lightly.

But he didn’t answer. Just disappeared up the stairs, his footsteps thudding quick and uneven against the wood.

You waited a moment. Let the silence settle. It was getting exhausting—watching him pull away just when he was ready to fall into you.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed lightly as your eyes drifted toward the stairwell.

You were getting impatient. You’d done everything.

The soft smiles. The innocent touches. The vulnerable looks. You’d watched him bite his tongue raw trying not to moan under your hands. You’d watched his eyes drift toward your tits like he was fighting for his life. You’d caught him jerking off in the shower with your name bleeding out of his mouth like a sin.

And still… nothing. No kiss. No stroke of his hand down your back. No whispered invitation to his bed.

He was trying so hard to be good.

But you didn’t want him to be good. You wanted him desperate. You wanted his hands shaking as he gripped your thighs. You wanted him to apologize to God after.

Your nails tapped absently against your arm as you thought.

He was scared, sure. Guilty. Thought of himself as broken and unworthy. Still loyal to a wife who didn’t touch him. Didn’t see him. Didn’t care if he came home most nights.

While you gave him tea. Rubbed the ache out of his shoulders. Giggled at his jokes. Smiled when he walked in the room like he’d brought the sun with him.

And still he couldn’t let himself have you.

But everyone breaks eventually. You just needed to help him along.

You pushed off the wall, mind already moving faster than your feet. New ideas rising like heat under your skin.

Something bolder. Not a touch. Not a glance. Not a whisper behind his chair. Something he couldn’t ignore. Something he couldn’t explain away as accidental.

Maybe you’d walk in on him half-dressed, pretend to be embarrassed, linger just a little too long. Maybe you’d let the straps of your nightgown fall when you “didn’t know he was there.” Or maybe…

Maybe you’d make him jealous.

Let him see you bent over for someone else in the dark, panting and moaning as if he wasn’t the only one you wanted. Let him ache with it. Let him snap.

Your thighs pressed together at the thought.

God, you couldn’t wait anymore.

Your mouth was watering for him. Your cunt slick just from the memory of his voice. The way he’d whispered your name like it was a plea. Like it tasted too good to say out loud.

He wanted you. You knew it.

It was time to give him no choice.

It was cold again. That brittle kind of chill that settled in the floorboards when October came creeping. The kind that pressed into Bucky’s bones even though he’d turned up the heat.

He padded down the stairs in a t-shirt and sweats, bare feet against cool wood, rubbing a hand over his face. The house was silent—Becca fast asleep upstairs. Sharon hadn’t come to bed yet. Or maybe she had and he hadn’t noticed.

He just needed water. That was all. But what he wasn’t expecting was the candlelight. Soft and low, flickering against the far end of the hallway. Orange glow bleeding faintly across the entry rug like a secret.

He stilled.

A sound followed—low. Wet. A breathless, shuddering little ahhh that made his skin prickle instantly.

And then another.

“Oh—God…”

A voice he knew. Yours. He moved without thinking. Slow. Quiet. Stepping past the hall table and toward the living room—heart in his throat, the glass forgotten in his hand.

And there you were. On the floor. Bathed in candlelight like a fucking painting. Your body arched, bare and glowing with sweat, the curve of your breasts rising with every shallow gasp. Head thrown back, lips parted, fingers threaded in hair that didn’t belong to you.

A redhead.

Beautiful. Unfamiliar in a way that made his stomach twist. Pale hands gripping your thighs as her head moved between them—slow, deliberate licks that made your whole body jolt. Her mouth devouring you. Tongue working you open like it was the only thing she’d ever learned how to do.

You were writhing. Helpless. Blissed-out. Moaning so softly it felt like a sin.

“Please, Nat—please—”

He stood frozen. He could’ve left. Could’ve backed away. Should’ve gone back upstairs and pretended he saw nothing. But his feet wouldn’t move. His hands wouldn’t unclench. He couldn’t breathe.

You were so fucking beautiful. Your skin shimmering with sweat. The soft mound of your belly flexing every time she sucked your clit into her mouth. Your thighs trembling like you were about to break apart in her hands.

And worse—

Worse than any of it—

You were smiling right at him.

Eyes half-lidded and heavy, that sweet, familiar look of yours softening into something molten. You weren’t startled. You weren’t scared. You knew he was there. You wanted him to see.

And he did. He watched your lips part as your voice turned high and fragile and perfect—

“F-fuck, I’m gonna—”

—and then you came.

Right in front of him.

Back arched. Toes curled. Moaning like you were begging God himself to spare you. And that woman—Nat—kissed your inner thigh and smirked. Licked you once more for good measure.

Bucky’s hands were fists at his sides. His cock was hard. Hard like it hadn’t been in years. Shame pooled in his gut like bile.

And you just… laughed. Laughed as you reached down to thread your fingers in the redhead’s hair and tilt her chin up. Kissed her slow and lazy and deep, like a reward. Like you had all the time in the world.

Then your eyes flicked back to him. You didn’t stop smiling. Didn’t flinch or pull away or pretend to be startled.

You just stayed right there—naked, flushed, glowing with sweat and pleasure—lounging back against the pillows you’d dragged to the floor. Natasha stretched lazily beside you like a well-fed cat, licking her fingers and watching Bucky like he was the next meal.

But you were the one who spoke first, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Your voice was soft. Sugar-sweet and teasing, like he was the one acting inappropriate.

Bucky stood there, frozen. He hadn't moved. Couldn't. His throat felt dry, and his fingers twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Didn’t think anyone else was up,” you added, tilting your head.

You shifted, thighs nudging open a little wider, like it was accidental. Like you weren’t dripping onto the carpet, still sensitive and warm and flushed from being eaten out in his living room.

“You look tired, Mr. Barnes.”

The sound of his name in your mouth made something snap in his gut.

He swallowed harshly, “I—I just came down for water.”

“Mm.” You nodded slowly. “You look like you could use something else.”

He blinked, “I—what?”

You gave a little shrug, your lips parted just enough to make him wonder if it was intentional.

“I mean, look at you.” Your gaze dropped—slowly, deliberately—to the outline of his cock pressing against his sweats. “So tense.”

Natasha chuckled low beside you, chin resting in her palm.

“So easy,” she murmured, not looking away from him. “Like clockwork.”

You gave her a little glance, then turned your eyes back to him.

“You could sit,” you offered, gesturing to the empty spot beside you with a lazy tilt of your fingers. “You don’t have to do anything. Just watch. If you want.”

His breath caught. His hands curled.

“Or,” you added sweetly, voice dipping lower, “you could join.”

You saw it in the way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes dropped again to the curve of your bare thigh, the slick sheen between your legs, the redhead still purring beside you like a devil in disguise.

You leaned back on your elbows. Opened your legs wider.

“Come on, baby,” you cooed. “Don’t you want to feel something warm for once?”

You saw the moment it hit him. The realization that he wasn’t going to leave. He should’ve. Any decent man would’ve. But his feet didn’t move. He stayed. And that was enough.

Natasha moved first, brushing her lips across your collarbone, slow and deliberate. Her tongue followed—dragging hot and wet across your skin—as she grazed her nails up the outside of your thigh. Her other hand slid over your stomach, fingers spreading, teasing just above your mound.

You sighed like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t touching you at all. But your legs eased open wider.

Bucky made a choked sound.

Your eyes flicked up to him, soft and coy.

“She likes to watch too,” you whispered, as if that explained anything. “But not as much as you do.”

Natasha bit your shoulder. Not hard—just enough to make you whimper.

You could feel his stare. Fixed right where he shouldn’t be looking. His jaw was clenched, and there was a flicker of motion below his waistband where he’d shifted his stance—adjusting, maybe. Or trying not to show how hard he was.

You tilted your head with mock sympathy. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared as Natasha’s fingers slid down and parted your folds. A wet sound filled the space. Slick, obscene.

His throat bobbed.

“I was just telling her,” you went on, breath starting to catch as Natasha toyed with your clit, “how handsome you are when you’re tired. That little crease between your brows, the way your hands look at the end of a work day…”

“They look heavy,” Natasha added. Her voice was velvet. “Like they’d leave bruises.”

You let out a soft whine as her fingers slid lower again—just barely dipping into you before retreating. Teasing. Taunting.

“Do you want to see what she feels like, Mr. Barnes?” she murmured.

You gasped. Half from her fingers, half from the way his name sounded in her mouth. Natasha dragged it out like it was something she owned. Your legs trembled.

“She’s soaked,” Natasha went on, not even looking at him now. “All this for you.”

“N-Nat…” You barely got the word out. “Stop teasing…”

But your hips were rocking, chasing her hand. Eyes locked on Bucky.

“You sure?” she asked you. “Because I think he likes it.”

You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering, “Do you?”

His hand twitched at his side. Then again. You couldn’t tell if he wanted to bolt—or come closer.

You clicked your tongue softly.

“Guess he’s not coming,” you sighed, pouting as you glanced at Natasha. “His loss.”

She smirked like she’d known all along. Didn’t even look at him when her mouth found yours again, hot and open and lazy, tongue sliding against yours.

Your fingers were already threading into her hair. And then you let yourself fall back, slowly, your spine curving against the carpet, tugging her down with you. Your legs parted. And hers followed as her gorgeous body covered yours.

The heat of her skin brushed yours. Chest to chest. Lips to lips. Then lower.

She rolled her hips, and your thighs locked around hers. Wet. Warm. Center to center, slick meeting slick as your bodies found that perfect press. That grind.

You let out a whimper. And then another, “F-fuck, Nat—”

She was panting already, her mouth dragging down your neck, nails digging into your hip as she moved. Slow, tight, steady rolls of her hips, wet friction spreading between you. You could feel her everywhere—tits pressed tight against yours, her thigh sliding against your pussy, her cunt sticky against your own.

You let it all out for him. Every moan. Every gasp. Every desperate whine that you couldn’t hold back. Loud. Messy. Unapologetic.

And he was still there.

You could see the way his chest rose and fell—shallow, ragged. His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t even flinch when Natasha buried her face in your neck and you cried out from the pressure and the pace.

You moaned again, louder this time.

“Bet he's touching himself,” you breathed.

Natasha smiled against your skin.

“He’s not,” she whispered. “But he wants to.”

You cried out again—she’d changed the rhythm—faster, harder now, and your whole body trembled.

“Come here,” you moaned suddenly, your voice cracking. “Come watch us up close—”

But he didn’t move. Still frozen, still wide-eyed, one hand clenched into a fist at his thigh. And so you didn’t beg.

You just fucked Natasha harder. Writhing. Grinding. Nails clawing into her shoulder, your thighs twitching with every tight, wet rub of cunt on cunt.

The air was thick with it—sweat, sex, candlewax. And you looked up at him the whole time. Smiling. Like you knew something he didn’t.

He was so fucking close.

Your voice was a sweet moan in the candlelight, breathless and fucked-out, as that woman's mouth moved down to your boobs, your hips bucking wildly against hers, soaked and sticky and glistening.

And he—God.

Bucky's jaw clenched, eyes glued to the sight of you two, bodies tangled, writhing. His fists were clenched tight at his sides. His cock pulsed so hard it hurt, and he barely registered the tremble in his thighs, the guttural sound that ripped from his throat as heat built fast and brutal in his gut.

He was cumming. Right there. Just from watching. He didn’t even touch himself—

And then he was awake. Gasping. Back arching off the mattress, damp skin sticking to sheets as he bolted upright in bed with a grunt. His chest rose and fell in short, panicked bursts.

Sharon stirred beside him. Didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t turn toward him. Just let out a sigh and curled deeper into the duvet.

His pulse didn’t calm.

A dream. Just a dream. His heart hammered. And then he looked down—Jesus Christ.

There was a wet patch spreading across the front of his boxers. The kind that bled through the sheets. The kind he hadn’t had since he was a goddamn teenager. His cock still throbbed slightly, twitching against the damp cotton.

He pushed the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed, bracing his elbows on his knees. His hands scrubbed over his face, trying to erase the images still clawing at the back of his eyelids. It had felt so real.

“Fuck…”

The candlelight. The slick sounds. The smell of rose and vanilla. The way your mouth had opened for that redhead—your moans, your body—

It was like he could still feel it. Still smell you.

He lay back down slowly. Didn’t sleep at all after that dream. By the time morning came, his stomach was knotted with guilt.

Sharon had already gone downstairs to take a call, and he barely managed to drag himself out of bed, heart heavy and head spinning.

But it got worse when he stepped into the kitchen. Because there you were.

Sunlight spilling through the windows. Your hair was soft and unstyled, your body wrapped in one of those little dresses you liked to wear around the house—short, cotton, innocent. You were barefoot, moving calmly around the stove like you belonged there.

Like nothing had happened.

You glanced up at him, smiled sweetly.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes. Would you like some breakfast?”

He blinked. Cleared his throat. Didn’t answer. Didn’t speak at all, just grunted and dragged a hand through his hair as he slumped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Couldn’t look at you. Not once. Not when you brought him his coffee. Not when you knelt to wipe something off Becca’s tray. Not when you turned around at the stove and the light hit your thighs just right.

Not when his cock twitched, again, already remembering the way your voice sounded when you moaned his name while another woman was fucking you.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was you. Not Sharon. Never Sharon.

You, with that soft voice and warm smile. You, who always touched his arm when you passed behind him. You, who smelled like rose and vanilla and temptation. You, who should not have been the subject of the thoughts that kept him hard through every shower.

It made him sick. No. Worse. It made him ashamed.

He wasn’t some teenage boy with no self-control. He was a married man. He had a daughter. He had a wife, even if—God help him—she hadn’t looked at him with anything close to warmth in over a year.

But you did. You looked at him like he mattered. You laughed at his jokes. You fed his daughter with love. You always listened when he spoke. You saw him.

And now…

Now he was stuck in this disgusting cycle where he’d try not to think about you—really try—only for his mind to spiral into images of your lips wrapped around his cock. Your eyes tear-glazed. Your thighs trembling as he fucked you open.

He hated himself for it.

He hated the way his hand would slide beneath the sheets before he could stop it. And worst of all, how he never lasted long. Because the version of you in his head? You begged him. You begged him to be rougher. You told him to use you. You moaned like a good girl, praised him for being big, for filling you so deep, for ruining you.

It wasn’t just sex. It was filth. And he liked it? He liked how dirty it was. How good it felt to imagine pulling your hair and hearing you cry his name.

And that—that—was what truly made him feel vile.

He was falling in love with a girl he should never touch. A girl who lived in his house, took care of his daughter, called him Mr. Barnes like she didn’t know he’d already fucked you a hundred times in his mind.

So every morning, he’d avoid your gaze. He’d sit at the table, quiet, shame burning in his throat like bile, while you handed him his coffee with a smile. He couldn’t even say your name without remembering how it sounded in his head when you screamed it.

James.

Bucky.

Daddy.

Please.

His cock twitched just thinking about it.

At first, he tried to rationalize it. Said it was because you were pretty. Young. Sweet. Barely mid-twenties, soft around the edges, kind to his daughter. It was natural, wasn’t it? To notice. To appreciate. He was still a man.

But then he started imagining things. Dark things. Depraved things.

You’d lean over to adjust Becca’s straps in the high chair and suddenly he’d picture you kneeling between his legs—eyes wide and innocent, mouth slick with spit as you smiled and waited for his permission to swallow.

In the middle of conversations, he’d zone out—watching the way your tongue flicked the tip of your thumb before turning a page in your book. And his brain would replace it with your lips stretched wide around him, spit and drool running down your chin as you gagged on his length. Eyes watery, proud of yourself.

Sometimes he’d lay next to Sharon, listening to her steady breath, and his mind would conjure you again—naked and whimpering under him, begging him not to stop. Telling him how good it feels. How full you are. How you’ve never taken anyone so big before.

And sometimes—

Sometimes you cried.

Tears down your cheeks, eyes glazed, voice wrecked from screaming his name—but you didn’t stop. You wanted it. Needed it. Told him you’d die if he didn’t fuck you again.

He’d wake up sweating.

Hard as a fucking rock. And ended up biting his fist when Sharon was asleep beside him, pumping his cock in furious silence—fantasizing about you, not his wife.

He didn’t even trust himself to shower anymore. Every time he did, it was like you were there. That perfume. That warmth. The ghost of your hands on his back, your lips at his shoulder, your voice cooing filth like it was a lullaby.

He’d brace his arm on the wall, bite down on his forearm, and pump himself in the shower so quick and quiet it felt like punishment. He didn’t even moan. Didn’t say your name. Just came with a grunt and then leaned his forehead to the tile, full of shame.

He hated how much he wanted you. Hated how it wasn’t just want anymore. It was… need. And it was rotting him alive, while you didn’t even seem to notice.

You kept walking around in those soft, low-cut tanks that didn’t hide a goddamn thing. No bra. No shame. You’d smile up at him with wide, warm eyes like you had no idea how badly you were undoing him.

You’d place your hand on his shoulder when you passed by. Brush your fingers across his palm when handing him Becca’s bottle. Press your chest against his back when reaching around him to grab a dish.

And he started to think… maybe you did know. Because sometimes, you’d look at him a second too long. Smile a second too slow.

And when you hugged Becca goodbye for her nap, you always bent just far enough to show the curve of your ass under those dresses. The sheer fabric clinging to the softness of your thighs.

One day, you’d been washing dishes at the sink. The afternoon light behind you, your nipples visibly tight through your dress. And he imagined walking up behind you, grabbing your hips, and taking you—right there against the counter. No words. No warning. Just you arching, whimpering, crying out as he fucked you rough and ugly until you couldn't stand.

Then he imagined doing it again. And again. And again.

Until your voice was hoarse and your thighs trembled and your handprint was on the glass above the sink.

He shook the image out of his head. But it always came back. Like rot under the floorboards. Like temptation under his skin.

You floated through the house like sunlight, soft hands and soft voice and soft dresses that clung to your hips when the breeze came through the windows. You smiled at him like you didn’t know what you were doing. Like you weren’t undoing him.

And maybe—maybe—you weren’t.

Maybe you really were that sweet. That good. That nurturing, soft-spoken little thing who had Becca asleep in her crib in six minutes flat, who never raised your voice, who left fresh tea in the microwave for him when he got home late from site.

But maybe not.

Maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you leaned over to get a pan in the low cupboard, ass pushing back in those shorts. Maybe you meant for your shirt to slip off your shoulder when you stretched. Maybe you wanted him to think about you in the shower, fisting his cock like a sinner.

And those sounds had started getting more specific. Too specific.

He could hear you, sometimes. Hear you through the walls. Whimpers. Moans. Wet, lewd little noises. He told himself he was imagining it. But it always came right when he was trying not to think of you. Like something pulling him back in.

He’d catch himself staring. At the curve of your neck. The slope of your thighs. The little gap between your legs when you sat on the couch and crossed your ankles in that silky nightdress.

And the thoughts… they weren’t gentle anymore.

He didn’t just want to hold you, or kiss you. No. He wanted to drag you onto the kitchen table and make you cry. He wanted to tear that dress in half and fuck you until you forgot your own name. He wanted to make you say his name. Over and over again.

He wanted to hear what you’d sound like with his hand on your throat. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t that man.

He loved his baby. He tried to love his wife. He wasn’t some perverted old man with a thing for the nanny.

But every time you bent over to kiss Becca’s cheek, he imagined how your mouth would feel on his cock.

Every time you called him “Mr. Barnes” in that voice—soft, low, lilting—he imagined how it would sound breathless, broken, whispered into his ear with his hand buried between your thighs.

You weren’t just sweet anymore. Not just the soft-voiced nanny with a kind smile and a calming touch. No—something darker had started seeping in, curling around you like cigarette smoke.

And it clung to him. No matter how hard he ignored it. No matter how hard he tried to fuck his wife and pretend it wasn’t you he was seeing when he came.

It had been building. And now it was snapping.

Sharon was gone. Becca was napping. The house was quiet, too quiet. And there you were.

In the kitchen. At the sink. Bubbles on your wrists. Hair up in a lazy little knot, neck bare and warm. Wearing his wife’s apron.

And smiling like you didn’t know.

Like you hadn’t been haunting his dreams, like you hadn’t been playing with yourself just down the hall from his marriage bed. Like you weren’t the goddamn devil.

He didn’t even realize he was walking until the glass in his hand banged on the kitchen island.

You turned just as he entered the room.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said sweetly, drying your hands, that same lilting voice you always used. “Want some tea? The honey and chamomile kind you like is—”

“Stop,” he snapped.

You blinked, head tilting just slightly. “Is everything okay?”

His jaw clenched, breath shallow, chest rising in hard bursts.

He stepped closer. “You’ve been toying with me.”

“Me?” You pressed your fingertips to your chest, looking perfectly bewildered. “I—I don’t know what you—”

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t lie to me.”

He was close now. Too close. The air shifted. The light seemed to dim as his presence crowded the room, heavy and unrelenting. His hand slammed against the cabinet beside your head, not touching you—but nearly. You didn’t flinch.

His voice dropped to something colder. Rougher.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You think I don’t hear you at night? The way you moan—fuck, the way you whimper my name in the dark—”

You parted your lips, only slightly, as if in protest. But said nothing.

“I’ve been seeing things,” he hissed. “You. In the mirrors. On top of me. Under me. Wearing nothing.” He laughed bitterly. “I wake up hard and ashamed and you’re always here in the kitchen the next morning, smiling like a little fucking saint. You think I don’t know?”

You looked at him for a long moment. Silent. Innocent. Your hands still smelled like soap and lemon.

“I think…” you said softly, with a little pout, “you might be confused, Mr. Barnes.”

His hand slammed against the cabinet again, louder this time.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” Bucky snapped.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. “Pretend what?”

He let out a breath like he could barely hold himself in. His jaw was locked so tight it looked painful.

“That you’re just the fucking nanny.”

You tilted your head. “I am the nanny.”

“Cut the shit.”

His voice cracked around the words—rage barely masking the desperation underneath. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Months of tension, of teasing glances, of him fucking his fist in the dark thinking about you and hating himself for it. It all hung in the air between you now, sticky and electric.

“You wear those little dresses on purpose,” he hissed. “You bend over when I’m in the room. You look at me like you want me to lose control.”

“I would never—” you started, placing your hand gently over his chest.

He stepped back like your touch burned him.

“I’ve been good,” he snarled, voice trembling. “I’ve kept my distance. I haven’t touched you. I’ve let you stay in this house. With my daughter.”

“And I’ve been good too,” you said softly, lips twitching with something too close to a smile. “I clean. I help with Becca. I’m always quiet when you and Sharon—”

“Don’t.” He flinched. “Don’t talk about her right now.”

You took a slow, careful step forward.

“I just want to make things easier for you, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He backed up another step.

“You’re not sweet,” he snapped, pointing at you like he needed to convince himself. “You’re not innocent. You’re fucking—you’re the devil.”

“I’m just the nanny,” you said, eyes wide and lips pouty. “You’re scaring me.”

You were lying through your teeth, of course.

Inside, you were thrumming—heart pounding, thighs pressed together, blood roaring in your ears. He looked so unhinged, so wrecked, so close. You swore you could see his cock already hard through the fabric of his sweats, the outline thick and twitching as he tried to fight it. His chest heaved with every breath. His eyes kept flicking to your lips, your throat, the swell of your breasts.

You licked your bottom lip slowly, like you didn’t even know you were doing it. Just a nervous tick.

And that’s what broke him.

Something feral snapped in his chest.

He reached out and grabbed you hard—hands at your waist, yanking you forward so your body collided with his. You let out the softest gasp and blinked up at him, all faux-confusion and perfect submission.

“Is something wrong?” you asked sweetly.

He snarled, “You’re gonna fucking pay for this.”

One second, his hands were gripping your waist—tight, trembling—and the next, he was lifting you like you weighed nothing, your back hitting the edge of the cold marble counter with a thud.

You gasped, but didn’t fight it. Not even close.

His chest pressed to yours, his breath ragged as he hovered over you, eyes wild and unblinking like he barely recognized himself. Or maybe he did—maybe this was who he’d always been underneath.

“You walk around this house like some sweet little thing,” he growled, shoving your knees apart with one hand, the other curling around your jaw. “Smiling at me. Saying please and thank you like you’re fucking innocent.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, heartbeat fluttering like hummingbird wings, “I just wanted to help…”

His laugh was low. Broken. Cruel.

“Bullshit.”

He shoved your skirt up—rough, fast, no care for fabric or modesty. The soft cotton bunched at your hips as his eyes dragged downward. He groaned when he saw you—no panties.

Of course.

“You’re not innocent,” he hissed. “You’re not sweet. You’re the fucking devil.”

His fingers slid between your thighs and you gasped, a choked sound you didn’t bother hiding. You were soaked. You knew it. You’d been soaked since the second he raised his voice.

“I thought you were an angel,” he muttered, voice husky as he rubbed slow, heavy circles against your clit. “The way you coo at my kid. The way you smile like the sun comes outta your mouth.”

His voice dropped lower. Meaner.

“But you’re not an angel. You’re a goddamn curse.”

You whimpered—quiet, like you didn’t understand. Like this was too much, too sudden.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you whispered.

He growled.

“You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as his fingers dragged through your slick and then slapped against your cunt, making your thighs jolt and a low moan escape from you.

“You walk around this house with no panties like you’re not begging for this. You leave your bedroom door cracked so I can hear you. Moaning. Playing with yourself. Calling my name.”

He pushed two thick fingers inside you and you gasped—legs jerking, your back arching against the cabinets behind you.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he spat.

You looked up at him, blinking like you were confused, lips parted, chest heaving.

“…I—I just wanted to be helpful.”

He laughed again, teeth bared, and fucked his fingers deeper.

“Liar.”

His fingers worked deeper—thick and wet inside you, the heel of his palm grinding up against your clit with every thrust. Your hips were already starting to twitch, legs falling wider apart on the counter. You looked like a dream. A hallucination. A trap disguised in skin.

Still, you played the part.

Soft moans spilled from your lips, breathy little whimpers like you didn’t know what was happening. Like you didn’t know what you were doing to him. Your hands gripped the edge of the counter behind you, knuckles white, lips parted.

“M-Mr. Barnes…” you gasped, fluttering around his fingers. “That’s not— this isn’t appropriate…”

He snarled under his breath and shoved his fingers deeper, faster, twisting them just right. The wet sounds were obscene in the silence of the kitchen. The marble was cool beneath your thighs. Everything else was fire.

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “Soaked and shaking. You wanna pretend this is some accident?”

You bit your bottom lip. And then—

Your hips rolled down into his hand. Your fingers crept forward and curled in the collar of his shirt. And your voice… oh, your voice turned darker.

“Such a bad husband,” you whispered, the words dripping from your lips like venom in honey. “Neglecting your wife. Fucking the nanny in your kitchen.”

His entire body jolted.

Your lashes fluttered as you looked up at him, all sugar and sin. “What would she say if she saw you like this?” you murmured. “Two fingers deep in the babysitter while your daughter sleeps upstairs.”

His jaw flexed.

You smiled.

“I always thought you were lonely,” you cooed. “Watching me. Wanting me. Touching yourself and pretending it wasn’t me you were thinking about.”

He groaned—low and broken—and crooked his fingers just right, dragging against the spot that made your knees shake.

“Poor thing,” you gasped, still teasing, still sweet. “Didn’t she give you what you needed? Is that why you’re so desperate now?”

He growled and slapped your clit with his slick fingers—once, then again. You cried out, bucking into the sensation, breath caught in your throat.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say what you are.”

You gasped, eyes locked with his.

“I’m the nanny,” you whispered.

He pulled his fingers out with a wet sound and grabbed your jaw.

You smiled.

“…and your filthy little secret.”

He yanked your face toward him, mouth crushed to yours in a brutal, messy kiss—no sweetness, no hesitation. Just teeth, spit, heat. His fingers were still slick with your arousal as they fisted in your hair, tugging your head back.

“You’ve been begging for this,” he rasped. “Every look. Every little dress. Walking around this house like you fucking own me.”

You gasped against his mouth. “I do.”

That was all it took.

He stepped back just enough to free himself—shoving his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, flushed and angry, leaking at the tip. You moaned at the sight of it. Thick. Heavy. Already twitching for you.

“Spread your fucking legs,” he growled.

You did it slow—almost mocking—dragging your heels up onto the edge of the counter, thighs falling open for him like a promise. Your cunt glistened, soaking wet and so ready for him, fluttering around nothing.

“Look at you,” he muttered, staring down at your dripping hole like he hated you for it. “Fucking dripping for me. Goddamn whore.”

And then he lined himself up and slammed into you.

You cried out—head falling back, hands flying to grip the counter as he bottomed out in one punishing thrust. Your walls clamped around him instantly, fluttering, sucking him deeper, and he groaned—loud, guttural, like he’d waited years for this.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re tight,” he gasped. “You’ve been walking around this house like this? With this perfect pussy just waiting to be fucked?”

You moaned, high and helpless. “Mr. Barnes…”

His hips snapped forward, driving into you harder. Rougher. The counter rattled beneath your ass, your body jostling with every thrust.

“What’s my name?” he snarled.

“James,” you gasped.

He growled again—more animal than man—and leaned down, hand wrapped around your throat now as he fucked into you like it was a punishment.

“You think this is what good girls do?” he hissed. “Let married men fuck them in their kitchens while their baby sleeps upstairs?”

You choked out a laugh—broken, breathless.

“Good girls don’t exist,” you moaned. “Not in houses like this.”

You clenched around him and he nearly collapsed forward, forehead dropping to yours.

“You’re sick,” he panted.

“I’m yours.”

His cock throbbed inside you at that, hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt again and again, each thrust angrier than the last.

“Tell me I’m better than her,” you whispered, eyes rolling back. “Tell me that I'm a better fuck than she ever was.”

He bit your shoulder. Hard. His grip bruised your hips.

“You fuck me like you hate me,” you breathed. “And it’s so—fucking—good.”

He went rabid.

His thrusts got harder, meaner—hips snapping into yours, cock dragging against the deepest part of you like he wanted to bruise it. Like he wanted to own the shape of your insides.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I should’ve done this the first night. Should’ve bent you over that goddamn crib and—”

“Then why didn’t you?” you gasped, legs trembling around his hips. “Too scared to fuck the nanny, Bucky?”

He slammed into you so hard the entire counter jolted, dishes rattling in the sink.

“Watch your mouth,” he hissed. “You’re fucking lucky I don't tie you up and leave you in the basement for this.”

You let out a soft, breathless moan, hands curling in the front of his shirt.

“Oh, I’d like that,” you whispered. “All alone in the dark with nothing but your cock.”

He groaned like it hurt him.

Your cunt clenched around him as he fucked into you harder, faster, chasing the high with wild eyes and flushed skin. You swore you saw him falter—like he was close—and you smiled, soft and teasing, like it wasn’t ruining you just the same.

“You’re gonna cum,” you murmured, smug and dreamy. “Inside me. While your wife’s name is still on the mail.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he panted, but his voice cracked.

“You’re such a bad husband,” you gasped. “Fucking the nanny in your kitchen. Putting a baby to bed and then stuffing me full. You think Becca’s gonna call me mommy someday?”

He snapped.

One hand flew to your throat, forcing your back down flat to the counter as he bent over you, snarling into your ear, fucking you harder than ever—rough and punishing, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“Shut. Up,” he growled. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You moaned, drooling now, skin sticking to your chin. He was hitting something inside you over and over, and you were shaking—legs trembling, walls fluttering around him.

“I do,” you breathed. “I know everything. I know you think about me more than her. I know your cock’s harder when I’m around. I know you came in your pants the night you caught me in my room—”

He groaned and then he broke.

His hips faltered, one last thrust burying him deep as his whole body seized—cock twitching, thick heat spilling inside you in messy pulses. He came with a shuddering gasp, forehead pressed to your neck, his breath stuttering across your breasts.

And still—you clenched around him. Still trembling, still smiling.

He stayed there, cock softening inside you, the kitchen thick with the scent of sex and sweat and sin. The baby monitor crackled faintly on the counter.

When he collapsed onto you—his chest was heavy on your body, forehead damp where it pressed into your collarbone. His arms wrapped around your waist, trembling slightly, knuckles white from how hard he’d been gripping the counter just moments before.

You could feel him shudder with every breath. Silent. Shaking. Wrecked.

You turned your head slightly, eyes fluttering shut as you exhaled through a dreamy, satisfied sigh.

He’d finally broken.

And it had been so, so beautiful.

You threaded your fingers through his hair—slow and gentle, like you were soothing a feverish child. You stroked the damp strands carefully, tenderly. His breathing was shallow. Disoriented. Like he didn’t know where he was anymore. Or who he was.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “You did so good for me, James.”

No answer. Just his breath ghosting over your skin. Hot. Human. Still inside you. Still twitching.

You shifted your hips slightly—just a tiny, intentional grind—and he groaned softly, like he couldn’t take it. Like it hurt and healed him at the same time.

Your walls fluttered around him again. Slow. Lazy. Wet and warm. You kept moving.

A slow rock, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t being milked for every last drop of cum. You clenched, then relaxed, clenching again like your pussy was thanking him.

You smiled to yourself.

He made a sound behind you. Broken. Hoarse.

“I… I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop.”

And there it was. The confession. The prayer.

You turned your head just enough to kiss his cheek. Delicate. Final. Your voice was soft enough to damn him.

“You don’t have to.”

He let out a strangled breath—and you felt it. The twitch. The way his cock started to harden inside you again, like his body belonged to yours now.

Like something sacred had been corrupted, and he was already aching to do it again.

You laughed. Quietly. Innocently.

Your hand cupped the back of his neck, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and you pulled him tighter against you.

“I’ll help you,” you whispered. “Every time. Every night.”

He didn’t answer. He just stayed buried in you. Letting himself get hard again. Letting it happen.

You knew he was ashamed of what he did.

You saw it in the way his eyes wouldn’t meet yours in the mornings, the way he kissed his wife’s cheek with trembling lips and unsteady hands. The way he held his daughter a little tighter, like she might disappear too.

You knew he was mourning something. He’d broken every vow that ever mattered.

To his wife. To God. To the man he once thought he was.

Because he used to be a good man. The kind who stood up straight and shook hands. The kind who tucked his daughter in every night and kissed his wife’s cheek with nothing but loyalty in his chest. The kind who would’ve slammed the door in your face the second you smiled too sweetly or reached for something that wasn’t yours.

But you changed that. You took that.

Not a person. Not a loss. But himself.

That man had vanished the second he stepped between your thighs. The moment your cunt clenched around him, wet and wanting, and he heard himself moan like he’d been starving for years—

That man died.

And the one left behind? He kept coming back. But when he did, he didn’t speak the first few times.

Not beyond gritted teeth and filthy words spat into your mouth, not beyond the hoarse way he groaned your name when he came so deep inside you that you felt it for hours. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t make promises, didn’t beg forgiveness.

He just kept fucking you.

Like it was a need. A curse. A habit so deeply embedded in his skin that he didn’t know how to exist without it anymore.

You’d feel him in the morning—standing behind you while you washed a bottle, still in your nightgown. His hand curling around your hip. His cock pressing into your ass. And then you’d be bent over the counter again, your cheek to the marble, his hand in your hair, fucking you full while the baby slept upstairs.

He liked fucking you where it started. Said you looked best bent over the counter. Said the sound of your slick dripping on the tile made him lose his mind.

Sometimes it was the living room—you in one of your cardigans, curled up with a book, pretending not to notice him staring. Until he stalked across the room, took the book from your hands, and dragged you down onto the rug to use you.

Other times it was the laundry room. You were folding Becca’s clothes, sweet and humming, when he walked in and wordlessly lifted you onto the dryer, pushing your panties aside, fucking into you so fast and filthy that the machine rocked beneath your thighs. He kept a hand over your mouth, whispering “Be quiet, baby. Be good. Be good.” You came twice before the cycle finished.

And eventually…

His bed.

Their marital bed.

That was the night Sharon left town for a conference.

You wore nothing but one of his shirts. You’d slipped into their room like you belonged there, curled into the sheets like you wanted to be caught.

He didn’t even turn the light on. He just climbed over you and slid into your body like he was home.

He didn’t say a word as he fucked you into the mattress he used to share with his wife. Didn’t blink when you moaned his name into her pillow. Didn’t flinch when you said, soft as a prayer, “Was I better than her again tonight?”

He never answered.

But you always knew the truth.

Because no matter how ashamed he was… No matter how much he tried to hold onto the man he once was…

He always came back to you. Came in you.

Again and again and again.

It happened one night—just like you'd always known it would.

He left her.

Not for good. Not officially. Not in the way that would cause gossip or divorce papers or screaming matches downstairs. No.

But in the quiet, in the dark—he left her.

The mattress shifted sometime after midnight, and she didn’t stir. Didn’t notice the way his body slipped from beside hers. Didn't notice how he stood at the door, hand on the frame, breath caught in his throat like he already knew where he was going.

He padded down the hallway barefoot. Past the nursery. Past the room with the door always slightly ajar.

And straight to you.

You didn’t say a word when the knob turned. You didn’t need to. You were already awake. You always were when he came to you like this.

You just sat up slowly, your nightgown slipping off one shoulder, the sheet pooling in your lap, eyes sleepy-soft like a woman who was used to being visited. Used.

He didn’t speak. He just came to you, and you opened your arms.

He fucked you slow that night. Not like the others. Not like the countertop or the dryer or the nursery floor.

This wasn’t need. This was seeking.

He moved inside you like he didn’t want to finish—hips grinding, cock heavy and thick inside your soaked cunt as you held him close, your hands in his hair, your thighs around his waist.

And when he started to shake—when his voice broke against your throat and he buried his face between your breasts—you didn’t tease.

You just stroked his back. Whispered sweet nothings into his ear like lullabies.

Like comfort. The kind he never got from her.

“You’re okay,” you whispered. “You’re safe now.”

You felt him tremble. You felt his cock throb inside you. You felt every inch of him that he tried to pretend didn’t need this.

Because you gave him something Sharon never did. Warmth. Softness. Devotion. Greedy devotion, yes—but real all the same. And in return, he gave you everything. His weight. His breath. His brokenness. His love—even if he still couldn’t call it that.

Because he told himself it wasn’t love.

Even as he stayed the night. Even as he kissed your shoulder when he thought you were asleep. Even as he whispered your name like it meant something.

He clung to the lie. That this was just sex. Just release. Just weakness.

But you knew better. You knew it in the way he held you after. Head against your chest like he wanted to disappear inside you. Arms around your waist like he never wanted to leave.

You knew he loved you.

He had loved Sharon once—but never like this. Never with his soul in his throat. Never with tears in his eyes.

He could go back to that bed every night. But this was the only place he ever truly slept.

You liked watching him sleep. Not in that way that meant curiosity. Or affection. Not the kind of watching a wife might do in passing, noting the twitch of his brow or the slow rise of his chest.

No.

You watched him like you were planning.

His mouth slack. His arm draped over your body. His wedding ring still catching the faint silver of the moonlight from the window.

So vulnerable. So trusting. So… yours.

You’d fucked him to sleep. Whispered sweet things while he came inside you, soft and trembling. He’d pressed his face into your neck and moaned your name like a confession.

Now you imagined how you'd kill him.

Maybe it would be slow. A blade. Right between the ribs, angled upward into the heart. He’d wake with your name on his lips, and you’d kiss his forehead while he bled into your hands.

Or maybe it would be soft. Hands around his throat. A gentle press. No struggle. Just your eyes on his as his body relaxed into the truth of it. Into you.

Or quieter still. A pillow, held gently over his face, your body straddling his while you grind down against his cock one last time. He wouldn’t even cry out. He’d just give in.

Because it wouldn’t be murder.

It would be love.

You weren’t taking anything from him. You were giving him forever.

No more sneaking out of his wife’s bed. No more pretending he didn’t need you. No more guilt. No more shame. No more leaving you behind.

Once he was dead, he’d stay. He’d haunt the nursery with you. He’d fuck you against the walls for eternity. He’d hold your undead-body in his arms when the wind howled and the pipes screamed and the new tenants cried that they couldn’t sleep.

You and him. Together. Always.

That wasn’t a curse. It was the purest kind of devotion. The ultimate act of love.

And when he looked at you—just before the final breath, just before the lights dimmed in those beautiful, broken eyes—he’d understand.

Bucky stirred a little in his sleep—tightened his arm around you, nuzzled his face into your chest like a child. You smiled.

Not tonight. But soon.

And when the time came, you’d do it slow. You’d do it right.

You’d bind his soul to the house the same way yours had been bound. Tie him to you with blood and lust and finality.

And he’d never leave you again. Because he couldn’t. Because he wouldn’t want to.

a/n | he still doesn’t know she’s dead. that’s the best part. bucky’s gone full “i fucked the nanny and now I can’t stop” mode. you’re gone. he’s gone. we’re all going to hell. i love Sharon Carter. i swear. i’m just using her as narrative seasoning for ghost smut. she did nothing wrong except marry a man haunted by the sexiest nanny alive. comment your favorite depraved moment below.

kinktober taglist:

The news hits Bucky’s desk first thing on a Tuesday morning. Early for once, he prints off some files, pours himself a crappy, greyish cup of coffee and watches the granules swirl and melt in the canteen while he tries to wake himself up. He is sat in his office by the time the whisperings start. 

It’s Yelena who is chosen to deliver the blow. She perches herself on his desk in the way she knows he hates, but her smile is more self-conscious than mocking. She speaks a little softer than usual, though tolerably emotionless - like she isn’t sure whether he would find her sympathy patronising. He takes the news like a bullet - chest out, resolute and proud, snapping out a stroppy: “Okay. Thanks for telling me,” before locking himself into a bathroom stall for thirty minutes. 

Bucky hadn’t taken much notice of the killings in the beginning. Sure, it was odd, but he had been preoccupied with some higher-level stuff, mostly alien-adjacent. A flurry of ex-SHIELD agents being murdered didn’t feel like something he could help with, even if it did strike quite close to home. And besides, they had enough detectives on the case anyway. 

Just not enough protection, as it turned out. 

Benjamin Keller had been a rare friend in many ways. When Steve made the decision to start a new life with Peggy, Bucky had been thrown off-balance. Steve had dragged him into the light, before abandoning him to work it all out by himself with an unspoken ‘If I can do it, you can too’. As if de-programming seventy years worth of brainwashing and trauma was an overnight job.

Sam had helped. But there’s only so many deep conversations and urgings to see a therapist that he could take before he started to get pissed off. Bucky needed normalcy and routine and he had finally found that as part of the Thunderbolts. Finding his footing with them and coming into a leadership position made him feel like the pieces were finally fitting together. Something was clicking.

In that bathroom stall, rotating between sitting on the closed seat and standing in a lightheaded frenzy, Bucky can’t help feeling that everything was clicking back out of place. Something is shifting and he isn’t sure whether it would ever feel right again.

He remembers meeting Keller for the first time in a lab at Stark Tower, back when he was still working at SHIELD - a greying, haunted old man of twenty-six. A lot of the more senior agents had that same look, like they had had the youth bled out of them by the things they had seen. Bucky remembers vainly wondering whether he looked like that too.

He became an everyday presence in his life for close to a decade. Keller was perpetually tired, and always imparting some sort of wisdom in a kind-of annoying but mostly constructive way. He offset Bucky’s grumpiness - knew how to laugh at him when others would be intimidated. Beers together on a Friday became a given thing, even after SHIELD collapsed and they both began to work for Val. 

Bucky had a few years on him and it always surprised him to be reminded of just how young he was. When Bucky received invitations to weddings and baby showers and birthday parties, it was a stark reminder that something else actually existed for him outside of work. Somehow, this man who had become one of the principle figures in Bucky’s everyday life - like background noise you don’t even hear anymore - was also building himself something entirely separate. Bucky couldn’t even picture what he was like as a husband or father outside of the rare glimpses he got.

And now he is dead. Just like that.

In a sturdy endeavour of self-will, Bucky walks out of the bathroom, dragging his feet behind him. He darts up a staircase, passing familiar fax machines and printers. Gives a steely glare to Collins who returns it - asshole - before approaching Magda Barrington, a dark-haired case officer who he knows has been working on the ex-SHIELD killings. A daunted frown crosses her face when he asks for every file related to the case.

When Bucky made the decision to get involved in the case, he had expected it to be a bit slower-paced than other jobs he was used to doing. He knew there was probably a bit more research and a bit less urgency involved in finding a serial killer than in, say, stopping a potential invasion. 

But, goddamn. 

He had been standing in the same dusty apartment for two days with nothing to observe but the blistered peach wallpaper and some sagging yellow curtains which had potentially not always been yellow. You hadn’t even been home today and he was losing his patience.

You had been doing some under-the-counter work for some pretty dodgy factions since SHIELD’S disbandment - nothing crazy, mostly gathering intel for vigilante operations, but illegal nonetheless. 

It made sense given your file. You had somewhat above average test results as a trainee which failed to impress, but you were scrappy. A recurring theme was that you thrived off adrenaline on the field and had instincts that carried you through where other more talented recruits failed. 

He had looked over every picture, document and spreadsheet he had available to him and was able to pull together a pretty decent picture of who you were. Shifty. Argumentative. Attractive.

He vaguely remembers bits and pieces about you from his time at SHIELD. You were part of Keller’s team, but he couldn’t call to mind anything substantial he had ever said about you. Mostly, he remembers Steve telling off Sam for flirting with you once at a team event a few years back because you were too young.

It was Bucky’s job to survey. Meaning, sit on his ass and watch you go about your day. He had almost been caught by you a number of times, managing to disappear just as your eyes flickered up to his location. Those instincts really were no joke.

He is bored more than anything. He doesn’t know how anyone has the patience to sit and wait like this, much less how he used to do it himself.

He jerks up straight in his armchair when he spots you at the door to your apartment. He hadn't even seen you approaching. 

Bucky is starting to feel a bit rusty and old - like this kind of work requires a level of subtlety and patience he no longer possesses. He watches you look around almost imperceptibly, before slotting your key in the door and slipping inside without ceremony. 

He pauses for a second, watching the door slam behind you, and then he is grabbing a neat bunch of pictures off the coffee table and walking out the door. 

The sky has dimmed from a blistering late summer heat into an inky dusk and the creatures of New York’s night are slowly emerging. The sounds of the Lower East Side are rumbling around him like an earthquake - street musicians, sirens, mothers yelling for their children to come inside in broken English. He feels the subway vibrating underfoot and takes a breath. It’s the first time he has left that dingy apartment in two days.

He only really starts to feel trepidation as he crosses the street and makes his way up to your door. He is not supposed to be doing this, technically. But it’s for your own good. He’d be damned if he just waited around for something to happen.

When he knocks on your door, he hears you go still on the other side. He listens to your impossibly quiet footsteps padding over to the door and tries his best not to make eye contact with you through the peephole.

You open the door and Bucky feels the ridiculously devastating force of a woman he immediately desires. Your hand is on your hip in a bratty sort of way and your eyes are asking him what the hell he wants. He has seen your picture before - watched you from a bird’s eye view - but locking eyes with you is different. You look like trouble. He wants to knock some sense into you or fuck you senseless or something in between.

“Hi there.” Bucky tries for charming but can hear it coming out as gruff. He hasn't flirted in god knows how long - has forgotten how it works, really. “Can I come in?”

“Who are you?” you ask, unimpressed.

Maybe casual and flirtatious isn’t the right route, because you raise an eyebrow at him and edge the door a little closer to you, as if blocking him from looking further into your home. He changes tactics.

“I’m with the CIA. I just have a couple questions for you.” Not technically a lie - the New Avengers were working under the CIA’s authority - but he doesn’t have a badge to flash you and he can see you registering it.

“I don’t have time right now. Sorry.”

You don’t look all that sorry. Your lips are flattened into an unimpressed line and your nose is in the air. You might as well tell him to get lost.

He hadn’t wanted to do this, but he passes you over the wad of pictures in his hands with a smile, and watches you flick through them one by one, brow furrowing further and further as you reviewed each one.

He had snapped a few pictures of your dealings with some shady bunches over the last few days. You were careful, but he had enough material to raise questions. Another thing he should not have really been doing but, again, he is winging it.

He is also bluffing. There was no way he would actually use the blackmail. He’s not a narc. But you are twisting his arm here.

He can see your teeth gritting, your eyes switching between the pictures and boring holes into him. You are absolutely seething. He almost thinks you might shut the door on his face. 

“Fuck you,” you spit.

Bucky hadn’t been expecting your response to be so bold. He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like it at all.

The two of you stand watching each other for just a beat, waiting for the other to fold. The attraction that hit him like a wave when you first opened the door is now an entirely reluctant one. He almost has half a mind to pack in this whole mission and let someone else deal with you.

You huff a sigh, popping out a hip like a goddamn teenager, and stand to the side to let him into your apartment. He walks in briskly, hearing the door totter shut behind him.

Your space is messy, but it looks to Bucky like the same organised chaos he himself harbours. Files strewn everywhere, a sad orchid dying in the corner. A black cat is flying around the place, crying for food. Some 90s sitcom that Bucky doesn’t recognise is playing as background noise in the living room area.

Your space is small. Not quite a studio, but he can see the bedroom clearly as soon as he steps in the door. Hardwood floors dulled by decades of shoes - covered with a slightly ratty but clean green rug. The sofa is sturdy and worn and probably thrifted. A radiator is steadily ticking somewhere around him. The whole place is so old-school New York, it tosses Bucky off his feet and back into 1942 for just a moment. 

“Sit down.” you demand, brushing past him and pointing half heartedly towards the couch. You busy yourself with your files, tidying or perhaps hiding what you didn’t want him to see. Bucky takes a seat on your sofa that he is too large for and feels himself awkwardly sink into the too-soft material.

“Why do I recognise you?” Bucky hadn’t realised that you had - you hid it well.

“My name is James Barnes. You can call me Bucky,” he says and watches recognition light up your face.

“They have the Winter Soldier doing house visits to blackmail low-grade ex-SHIELD workers?” you ask, an attractive little grin playing on your lips. “Bit of a fall from grace, huh?”

Bucky is not amused. Not in the slightest. He is finding your attitude abrasive and irritating rather than charming, but he can’t deny that it makes him want to teach you a lesson. He can see why this sort of girl would be Sam’s type - in the most derogatory sense possible. He wants to wipe that teasing smile off your face.

“I wouldn’t exactly say you were low-grade,” he huffs. 

When you don’t respond, he moves on.

“I need to know if you have been experiencing anything odd recently. Like, your phone ringing and nobody speaking when you pick up.”

Casually, without event the slightest hint of urgency, you move around the room, still slowly picking up files and tucking them neatly into folders. 

“Nope. Don’t think so.” you say, not looking at him.

“Have you noticed anyone suspicious lurking around you? Or hanging around your apartment?” 

“Not that I recall.” 

You are speaking in such a way that lets Bucky know you were getting satisfaction out of frustrating him. You are just answering to get him out of your space as fast as possible. He feels his jaw twitch. 

Partially because he knows he will never get any real answers from you with his current tactic, and partially just to wipe that irritating, mocking look from your face, Bucky snaps.

“Someone has been taking out members of your old team.” 

Coming to your apartment and questioning you - even blackmailing you - dimmed in comparison to this. He is absolutely, categorically, not supposed to tell you that. He regrets it almost instantly. 

Bucky watches you pause, hands tightening on a piece of paper before setting it down slowly. Your eyes settle directly on him for the first time since he stepped inside your home and hesitantly, slowly - you make your way over to sit beside him on the sofa.

He had wanted to rattle you, but seeing it happen is awful. Seeing your face fall, all smugness melting away like candle wax, makes guilt seep in through his pores and sit - heavy and heady - under his skin.

He watches you battle with yourself, clearly still not trusting him but not having another choice or source of information.

“Keller?” you whisper.

Bucky almost jolts, hearing his friend’s name be mentioned like that. He knows you had been on his team, but somehow these two people seem worlds apart in his head. He can’t picture the two of you ever having a conversation, let alone being friends. He doesn’t know how to feel about it and he is uncomfortable with how it makes him see you a bit differently.

“Found dead last week in his home.”

You wince. “Laura? The kids?”

“Alive and unharmed.” He sees relief flash through the pain on your face. “I’m here because we think you might be the next target.”

Why not? All cards are pretty much on the table already anyway. 

You don’t respond. He recognises the look on your face - imagines it somewhat resembles his own in a past life where he was the one being hunted. He watches you looking down to your lap, thinking, and he wants to dig into your brain, scoop out what was going through your head and excavate any information that might help. Instead, he repeats his questions.

“Have you been receiving any unusual calls?” 

“Yeah. On my landline for the last couple weeks. Just, like, heavy breathing and nothing else. I have some weird exes so I just assumed…”

“That’s something our other victims experienced before they were attacked. What about suspicious lurkers?”

You give him a snide glance. “I don’t exactly live in the Village. This street is full of suspicious lurkers, but it’s kind of hard to decipher between normal-suspicious and serial-killer-suspicious. I’ve felt some eyes on me from the building across the street for the last two days, but now I’m thinking that was probably you.”

He ignores that.

“Were you working on anything with Keller, Pearson, Montgomery and Morris - anything that might make your team a target for these attacks?”

Bucky pauses, suddenly aware of the terrible blunder he made when your eyes flick to him. He recognises the jaded and suspicious countenance you now hold as the same one you had when opening the door to him. He curses himself. This is far more difficult than he remembers - or maybe you are just particularly obstinate.

You crack a smile, watching him flounder. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

It makes Bucky want to bite back, but he had already shaken you enough for one day. He moves on.

“If you don’t want to tell help me out here, that’s fine. But you’re going to need to start looking out for certain things. Any information you can provide will help me to protect you. I’ll be staying across the street from you for now.”

“I can take care of myself.” you say distractedly, picking at the loose threads on a cushion. “I’m a trained agent.”

Bucky’s teeth grit. 

“Is that why Keller’s dead? He couldn’t take care of himself? Maybe he didn’t get enough training.”

You look at him then, grave eyes assessing him for a moment without urgency or reservation. He can’t get a read on you but he can tell you are considering his words. You have to know Keller was the best of the best. He must have been a mentor to you. 

“Whoever is doing this” Bucky goes on, “is extremely dangerous. They’ve taken out four members of your team - all agents with more experience and training than you. You need protection and you need it from someone like me. A super soldier.”

You don’t like it - he can tell that much. As much as you like to talk about being a ‘trained agent’, you pout like a petulant child. Bucky can’t decide whether he finds that look pleasing or annoying - he likes the way your eyes flicker up to him, mouth set into a defiant little line. He finds it endearing. Cute, even. But he is also losing his patience with you.

“I’ll need to think about this.” you say finally, standing up and ushering him up with you. Like a cow being herded by a sheepdog, Bucky stands up and lets himself be conducted to the door, before remembering that he is about a foot taller than you and a hundred times stronger. If he lets you kick him out, he is certain he will never get back in to talk to you again. He digs his heels in and is turning around to argue with you, when he hears it.

A faint scrape from above - on the roof window. 

It takes a super soldier to hear it. You are still babbling on - lying, most likely - about how you would call over to him tomorrow to talk more when Bucky puts a light hand on your shoulder. A silent command to stop.

Your eyes follow his upwards to the roof, wide and shining. 

With coiled precision, Bucky begins to move. Slowly and deliberately, he walks towards the window and you follow behind him. In three or four strides he is there, lifting up the rotting wood and watching paint flake off it like confetti. The cold air rushes in and the night comes with it - diesel fumes, sirens, the pulse of the city flooding in.

The sound comes again -  the crunch of a footstep moving on the roof - and this time you hear it too.

He climbs out onto the iron grating, the metal rattling beneath his shoes. His eyes sweep the darkness above, the line of the roof sharp against the jaundiced glow of street lamps. For a moment he catches it - the suggestion of movement, a shadow pulling back just beyond reach. He follows, boots striking hard, the city yawning open around him.

But when he reaches the roof’s edge, there is nothing. Only the scatter of gravel beneath his feet and the hum of the city swallowing every trace of the intruder. Whoever had been there had melted into the dark.

Bucky stands still, chest heaving, scanning the empty skyline. Under him, through the roof window, your figure is framed in the apartment’s glow, small and fragile, waiting. He lingers there a moment longer, listening, before climbing back down, carrying with him the cold certainty that they had been watched - and that the watcher is gone.

Bucky can’t sleep that night. He lies down for a grand total of about twenty minutes, before he’s back on that ragged old armchair, still only in his briefs, looking at the roof of your apartment again for any sign of the intruder.

He knows he’s not a normal level of invested in this. Knows that he no longer has any reason to worry, knows that whoever is there has long since cleared out. But something about the situation isn’t sitting right with him. He should have been able to catch them. Should have at least heard them getting away. But no - they had disappeared, seemingly into thin air.

He thinks about how you looked when he told you the person had gone - face almost impassive, but slightly pale. You had thanked him - in quite an ungrateful way, Bucky thinks, but he can tell you were spooked by the whole thing - and disappeared into your room, closing the door behind you. He had knocked on your door to let you know there would be agents parked outside your apartment all night, but you hadn’t responded. He left a note with his number on your kitchen table and went back to the apartment across the street.

The sounds of the city had now died out. The streets are empty except for the occasional lone silhouette hurrying by. All that is left of a once vibrant night are street lamps and neon shop fronts.

The blinds in your room aren’t drawn - he supposes you want the agents outside to notice if someone breaks in. He tries not look at your bed where you are stretched out across the sheets, duvet kicked off in your sleep.

You’re in a large plain t-shirt, rucked up to your upper thigh. He can’t see whether you’re wearing any shorts underneath but he imagines you’re not anyway. Your hair is loose and splayed out on your white pillow, and your legs are on display for him - long, naturally toned from your work and covered in an appealing, thin sheen of sweat. The light of the laundromat below him is reflecting off you, white speckled light flickering and dancing on your skin. You’re not wearing a bra and Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his seat, noticing your nipples peaking through the fabric and trying to ignore the growing pressure in his abdomen.

When he wrestles his eyes away from your legs, he realises your eyes are open now and locked on him. 

His breath catches, but he doesn’t look away. Can’t.

Your eyes are hazy with sleep and you watch him scrupulously through your eyelashes, like you can’t quite decide whether or not you’re dreaming him up. You move leisurely up to your knees on the bed, sitting back on your feet, and Bucky is in a trance. He feels himself coming apart at the seams, watching the hem of your shapeless, white t-shirt where it’s resting on your mid-thigh. You’re looking at him as innocently as a baby deer, sleepy and curious. He swears he sees your eyes travel his body. He feels heat prickle wherever they focus.

He sits up further in his seat when you get to your feet, making your way over to stand at the window - eyes shining in the dark, skin glowing. You are drinking his soul through his eyes and he feels a pang of longing he believed had ceased to exist when he fell from that train in Austria. He wants to be in that room with you and to feel your skin on his.

His heart is running away from him, miserable and delirious, his mouth filling with liquid.

You look at him for just a second longer, before reaching up and closing the blinds with one swift movement, severing the fragile current between you.

You are quiet in the days following. Bucky shows up at your apartment every day to check in, but you always rush him out within ten minutes. So he lounges shamelessly in his armchair, legs spread and eyes heady. He watches you come and go, no longer bothering to hide himself when your eyes flicker up to his window. You usually shoot him a scowl and continue about your day, but his gaze doesn’t drop. 

Sometimes he catches you looking at him from your window, wide-eyed and probing. It’s always a surprise - he has come to feel like he is behind and one-way mirror, forgetting that you can see him too when he isn’t paying attention. It lights a match inside him every time he sees it.

Maybe it’s being cooped up in the same room for hours on end with nothing to do, but he’s losing the run of himself just a little bit. Sometimes he forgets that he should be looking out for intruders or suspicious behaviour at all - busying himself with drinking in the sight of you whenever he can catch it.

He savours the moments when you look up and lock eyes with him, even if he can feel the resentment shooting out of your eyes like beams. He wants you to call - to need him - even if it’s just to wipe that smug, self-important frown from your face.

When you finally do, your voice is thick with chagrin.

“My place was ransacked.” Bucky can almost hear your lip curling with displeasure. He bathes in it.

“When?”

“Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one staring in here the whole time.”

Bucky says nothing. Lets the seconds tick by. For the first time since you opened the door to him, he feels entirely as if he has the upper hand between you. You called him. You needed him.

“I came home about twenty minutes ago,” you say, finally. You sigh and the receiver muffles and crackles. “Place was turned upside down.”

Bucky imagines you fretting for twenty minutes, trying to decide whether to ignore the situation or swallow your pride, before finally giving in to him. It gives him immense pleasure. But then he thinks about a strange silhouette in your apartment and the pleasure evaporates like steam. 

“Give me thirty seconds.”

Bucky walks out of his apartment and towards yours as if in a dream. He doesn’t register whether he looks for cars before crossing the street to your door.

When he approaches your home this time, you usher him in quietly without so much as a cutting word. He sees your eyes flicker quickly to his biceps when he takes off his jacket. Satisfaction shoots through him before he looks around. 

What had previously been organised chaos is now simply chaos. Files and papers are no longer splayed across coffee tables and desks in neat bundles - they are strewn across the floor and crumbled into ragged orbs. Drawers of silverware are pulled out and emptied into the sink, along with shards of glass, as if all the glassware in the cupboard had been broken there methodically, one after the other. The rug is pulled up, the table is on its side. Chairs had been smashed and the cotton has been emptied, almost systemically, from each of the cushions on your couch. The door to your room is closed. Bucky makes a note to inspect it later - from across the street if necessary. 

He wonders if this is what Keller experienced. If his final days were plagued with acts of intimidation like this, before he finally met his end. Why didn’t he say anything?

Bucky stops himself from following that thought further. He refuses to go down that spiral again.

“Doesn’t look all that different to me.”

You roll your eyes but there’s no animosity in it. He thinks you might actually be fighting a smirk.

“That was my grandmother’s.” you say, pointing dejectedly at a green and black gingham rocking chair that is lying in four separate pieces. 

Your cat is hightailing it around the living area, dipping in and out of the broken pieces of your apartment like it’s an obstacle course. You wrangle it into your grasp and flop down on the sofa, one of the only things still standing upright. The cat is wiggling and fighting its way out of your lap but you hold it there, petting it to complacency. You watch Bucky closely as he observes the room. 

The strange prickling feeling under his skin as he feels your eyes on him makes him self-conscious and he is suddenly hyper-aware of his facial expressions, as if he is playing the part of himself for a film. He wonders if this is how you feel when he watches you from across the street. He doesn’t like it much.

“Did you have any sensitive notes lying around? Anything that might be worth finding?”

You scoff. “Of course not. I’m not an idiot.”

Bucky thinks of his own apartment - not the one across the road, but his real apartment in Brooklyn - and of the very sensitive documents shoved recklessly into the drawers in his desk. His jaw twitches in irritation.

“Don’t be so snarky. I’m trying to help.”

“Where was your help when my place was getting raided?” you snap. Bucky has his back to you, but he imagines you rolling your eyes like a brat again. He detests it. 

“In the goddamn shower. Sorry that I have to wash. And besides, you’ve been keeping your blinds closed so I wouldn't have been able to see the fucker anyway.”

“Because I can feel your eyes on me all the time!” you splutter. “Why don’t you try waking up in the middle of the night and finding someone staring at you from across the street.”

“That’s my job.” Bucky spits back, trying not to sulk. And yes, okay, maybe it’s more of a choice to continue surveying when he has other agents as backup throughout the night but he isn’t going to sweat the details.

“Isn’t your job to protect me and catch the person doing this? Look around you. An A for effort.” 

He turns around to look at you. The way you’re glaring up at him with an insolent little frown sets his teeth on edge. Because who the hell are you to tell him what his job was? Some brat with a few years of service on her resume isn’t going to boss him around.

He hates this part of it. The power struggle he can feel even when just looking at you from across the street. He wishes you would just submit to him - maybe in more ways than one. He thinks about what it might be like to see submitting to him more than he would admit. But instead all he gets, day after day, is this ungrateful, disapproving pout. Like you don’t know that he’s there to help you.

In fact, he doesn’t even have to be doing this. He could so easily let someone else deal with you - someone much worse - and see how you like that.

The thought of someone else taking his place to watch over you sits in his stomach uncomfortably. But maybe he could give you just a taste of it.

“I’m gonna bring you to HQ. They’ll probably want to ask you some questions.”

The change in your countenance is instant. The disapproval on your face withers and dies. It’s replaced first by a flicker of surprise, before you adopt a charming look he has never seen before. You gaze up at him, innocent and doe-like. It’s so adorable that Bucky wants to box you in or put you in his pocket or brush a hand over your face. 

“Can’t you just ask me questions here?” you ask him, blinking fast so that your eyelashes flutter just a little.

Bucky is intrigued. Almost giddy.

Seeing you like this has lit a fire inside him that he knows won’t burn out easily. He wants to see that look again and again. Wants to see it while you’re under him.

“No can do. Whoever was here was clearly trying to intimidate you rather than trying to find anything, which makes them more dangerous. Safer to go to the Watchtower.”

He enjoys telling you no so much that seeing the scowl reappear is almost worth it.

Bucky will admit, if pressed, that he hadn’t thought this whole thing through. He was so preoccupied by you and your bratty scowl and your superiority complex and playing this damn game the two of you had going on. He didn’t really consider the headache that bringing you to HQ would cause. And he definitely didn’t think about all the fucking paperwork.

He is knee-deep in it by the time you even get seated in the interrogation room. He is well hidden by the one-way mirror but he can tell you’re aware of him. You shoot little frowns that you seem to save specifically for him - but Bucky doesn’t feel so bad about it, really, when he sees the looks you’re shooting your interrogator.

Collins starts off trying to charm you - much like Bucky did that first day on your doorstep. He stretches back in his chair, his white shirt crinkling and suit pants lifting enough so you can see his designer socks peeking up over his Oxford’s. You sit in front of him with crossed arms and furrowed eyebrows.

“How are you doin’ today, sweetheart?”

You say nothing - stare at him blankly. If possible, your brows furrow deeper. Your silence is painful and awkward. Bucky knows the only thing that can be done is to wait in silence until you’re forced into a response. Collins, however, does not understand you like Bucky does. He waits just a beat on a response he doesn’t receive, before clearing his throat. He leans in closer, putting on a show of sympathy and sorrow, before running on, clumsy as a lamb.

“You must be pretty shaken. A break-in can be scary for a woman like you, living alone.”

“Asshole.”

Bucky decides he likes you a lot better when watching someone else try to interrogate you. 

Not only does he get the satisfaction of watching Collins flail and misfire at every corner, but it makes him believe that you had actually been going easy on him the last few days. Watching you steadfastly refuse to answer Collins’ questions and fire back with only insults and sarcastic remarks, he really does feel like you must like him a lot in comparison. Consider his ego well and thoroughly stroked.

You remind him a bit of Keller like this. Bucky recognises the dispassionate sullen look on your face as the same one Keller used to wear in meetings with clueless high-ups. The thought makes him smile.

It goes on for hours. As entertaining as it is to watch, Bucky prioritises his paperwork, only tuning in every now and again to hear you dunk on Collins - who has by now become a lot less charming. He is almost finished filling out the forms when he hears his name.

“Then Barnes is just going to have to stay at your apartment with you for protection. Round the clock.” 

Bucky drops his pen and looks up in time to see you shoot up from your seat, the flimsy iron chair rattling and falling behind you.

“You don’t have the right to do that. It’s my apartment!”

“Actually, I think you’ll find that I do.”

Collins is smug and irritating and spiteful, but - as it turns out - correct. He watches on as you argue and plead your way out of the arrangement, but he is unrelenting. He leans back and grins for the first time since the beginning of your conversation.

Bucky is more than aware of the fact that Collins is using this as a sort of punishment for you being uncooperative. And he is also more than aware of the fact that you are very much taking it as a punishment, spewing insults and threats in Collins’ direction in an effort to avoid him rooming with you. A burst of annoyance floods him once again and maybe a touch of embarrassment too.

When it’s clear that you’re making no headway, you pick your chair back up from the floor and sit down with a dramatic huff. Bucky is huffing too - not that you can hear him. Did you have to be such a baby?

Collins swans into the observation room, flashing him a sarcastic grin. “Best of luck with that one. What a bitch.”

Bucky can’t even bring himself to disagree at the moment so he just scowls. Asshole.

It is dark by the time Bucky drives you both back to your apartment. The journey is silent. Bucky’s hands grip the wheel so hard, he begins to feel some of the leather flake off into his hands. His jaw is clenched and his shoulders are tensed.

For the next few days, you are like a storm cloud. Everywhere you go, thunder strikes. 

The two of you settle into an angry rhythm, banging cupboards harder than necessary and slamming doors loud enough to shake the ground. Bucky sleeps on the sofa, even though his feet poke out the end. He rests his feet on the coffee table and eats crumbly foods on the sofa because he can tell you hate it.

As the days go by, the angry rhythm is interrupted by interludes of good-humour. You have moments every so often where you don't seem as cold or sardonic as usual. You two could even have a normal conversation from time to time, though these were often marked by targeted witticisms and snarky comments. On those evenings, Bucky could actually believe that you two might be hitting an important juncture - maybe even starting to get along - before you would arrive in the next day, looking as though you had been sucking on a lemon.

There’s something about seeing you in your natural habitat - close enough to touch - that sends Bucky reeling. Having to sit outside your bedroom door, knowing that you were on a bed just feet away from him, is enough to drive him insane. But watching you prance around in cotton and lace in the mornings, stretching sleepily in a dreamy daze, was even worse. He wants to do unspeakable things to you, things that had never even touched his subconscious before. You look so pliant and delicate and soft before you fully wake up. 

He sees you watch him too, when you think he’s not looking. He pretends not to notice so he can drink in that glazed, deep trance on your face for as long as he can. Why do you insist on playing this game? He will give you everything you want - with pleasure. He just needs you to come to him first. Preferably on your knees.

He usually waits for you to leave the house and jerks off in your shower, lathering himself with your coconut-scented body wash to get your smell and visualising you pressed up against the wall in front of him. He thinks about what it would be like to wipe that disapproval from your face for good - replace it with thorough satisfaction.

He’s usually bad-tempered when he finishes, shooting his cum against your shower wall - that has become part of the routine too. Mostly because of the hot, burning shame that runs through him afterwards at having to do this at all, but also because he can’t seem to find satisfaction by himself since he first laid eyes on you. Sometimes, it’s not even enough to get rid of the erection he wakes up with in the morning. He feels like a fucking teenager again. 

He realises by now that you were so displeased at having him here because you can no longer do your work or host meetings from your house. You were happy enough to continue about your business while Bucky had been observing you from across the street, gaining confidence as time went on that he would not give you away. But Bucky can’t imagine that any criminal groups would be happy to convene in an apartment the Winter Soldier was crashing in, even if they were too low-stakes for him to care about. 

And even though he supposes it’s a reasonable enough cause to be annoyed, he can’t help but sulk. The more you lash out, the more offended he gets. And it doesn’t help that he’d been sleeping on an awkwardly shaped sofa that is about a foot too short for him. 

So when you wander into the house after being away for four hours, Bucky is looking for a fight.

You’re hanging up a long camel coat on the flimsy wooden hook beside the door. You were able to repair most of the damaged items in your apartment over time, but the previous hooks had been torn down and broken when your place was ransacked. Bucky can smell the outside air and diesel fumes that you bring in with you.

“Where the hell were you?”

You scoff, moving in to the living room. You have mascara on and it’s a bit smudged on your cheeks, as if from a busy day. You’re wearing a neat black office-wear dress and Bucky does his best to look at your face instead of your tights-clad legs. “What, do I have to report to you now too?”

“There’s a murderer somewhere out there looking for you specifically. You don’t think it might be a good idea to keep me updated on your location?”

“I don’t need to update you on my location. I don’t even want you here.”

That sets Bucky’s teeth on edge. “You might not like it, but it’s happening. So get a grip and stop being reckless.”

“I’m not being reckless. I’m doing my job.”

He laughs. It’s a bitter sound to even his own ears. “Job. That’s what you’re calling it?”

“Fuck you.”

He can see that maybe he’s pushed it a little too far. A vein is pressing out of your forehead and your expression looks too close to genuine hurt for Bucky’s comfort. He isn’t sure where to go from here.

“Steve Rogers wasn’t there to find us all jobs after SHIELD disbanded,” you spit. “Some of us had to make do. And besides, you’re the one sitting on my couch all day like a bum.”

That isn’t even remotely how Bucky fell into his current job and he strongly objects to you calling him a bum, but he has lost any motivation to fight back. If anything, he just feels a bit guilty. He had never really thought about the job market for the few thousand agents after the organisation was demobilised, but he had been a bit preoccupied with being framed as a terrorist at that time in his life.

Bucky just grunts back. He won’t apologise, but he will take the loss on this one.

For a moment, you look annoyed - like you had wanted him to fight back - but you soon composed your face and stalked over, flopping down beside Bucky on the sofa. Your gaze focuses itself on the television.

This is a surprise to Bucky. He supposes his face must show his confusion, because you smile. It lasts only a second before you spot his feet perched up on the coffee table.

“Get those down.” You roll your eyes but Bucky can feel that any real irritability has melted away. “That coffee table is vintage.”

“Everything in this damn place is vintage,” Bucky grumbles, moving his feet anyway. “Looks straight out of the 40s.”

“Do you feel right at home?”

Bucky won’t humour you with a response to that one. You cross your legs and face him, any pretence that you were watching the series now falling away.

“Why do you bother with all this stuff? You have a gramophone. There has to be an easier way to listen to music.”

“I like it. It’s simple. Nostalgic.”

Bucky snorts. “Nostalgic? These things are as old as me. They weren’t even being sold when you were a kid.”

“Of course they weren’t.” You cock an eyebrow as if you can’t believe he’s not getting it. “But it was my grandparent’s. So I have a lot of memories of playing around with it as a kid.”

“You got a lot of this stuff from your family, huh.” Bucky remarked, looking around. “Lot of this stuff is strange. Nice, but strange.”

“My family are nice but strange people.”

Bucky can tell you regret bringing up your family by the way your eyes flicker away from him and back towards the television. You’re hoping he won’t pry and he doesn’t. Most agents are like this about their families. They want to keep them as separate from this whole thing as possible. Bucky is surprised you had your guard down enough to mention them in the first place.

“Anything strange while I was gone?” you ask after a beat, straightening some pleats on your dress casually. It’s the first time you have hinted about the intruder.

“Nothing,” he says, “Haven’t seen anything since your place was raided except those weird phone calls. I guess whoever it is doesn’t want to try anything while I’m here.”

“Thank god I have you here to protect me.” You words are dripping with sarcasm. Bucky scowls.

“That is quite literally why I’m here, you know.”

“Oh, how noble.”

You’re laughing at him but Bucky finds he doesn't mind it all that much this time.

You lapse into silence then, absently watching the television. Your legs were now folded comfortably under you and he could see your eyes drooping into an adorably sleepy expression. 

He listens to your shallow breaths and unconsciously breaths in time with you, tranquility spreading around his body, pleasant and warm. He sat comfortably, feeling the frayed edges of the sofa, tracing its seams, and listens to an old grandfather clock tick from the wall. The comfortable silence spread between you is interrupted every now and again with intervals of soft chuckles from you at something playing out on the show. Most of the time Bucky doesn’t get the jokes or find them funny but he likes hearing you laugh anyway.

He hadn’t really accounted for how starved for company he was - had never really minded being alone before - but he was finding himself dreading the moment you stood up to return to your room and he was left by himself to this side of the house. His greatest enemy is that grandfather clock - the one that ticks steadily on and tells him that you will soon go. 

When you finally do, you’re so tired that you seem to forget to be snide with him. Wishing him a gentle ‘Goodnight, Bucky’, (that has never happened before), you drag your feet over to your room. He hears you shuffle around a bit, before you collapse on your bed.

He watches you go and turns once more to the show he had been watching, but it has lost all its appeal. The plot seems fickle and the humour is stale. Bucky takes up the remote about thirty minutes later to flick it off. He hadn’t really been paying attention since you walked in the door anyway.

He thinks about going for a run tomorrow when you leave for work - he has to get out of this house somehow. Maybe he can get up before you do and get your coffee started for you. He had seen you making it enough times now to know how you like it.

He stands up to take off his pants and pull his t-shirt over his head, first leaving them in a heap on the floor. He regards them for just a moment before picking them up and folding them, predicting the mouthful he would get from you the following day when you see it. 

When goes to lie back down on the couch, he realises that he has a full view into your bedroom. In your tired stupor, you had forgotten to the door the way you always did.

You have kicked the sheets off yourself once again, lying on your side with one leg bent at the knee, but this time Bucky doesn’t receive salvation by means of a baggy t-shirt. No - this time you are facing him, wearing only a thin black slip which is riding up over your hips, your core just barely covered by a thin strip of lace - can he even call those panties? 

Your hair is messy and outspread on your pillow and a light sheen of sweat, owing to the late summer heat, is making your skin glossy. You look so appealing and he wants to walk directly into your room, clamber in behind you and take you just like this. Bucky’s heart begins to stutter and gallop and he feels his cock stand to attention immediately.

All he can hear is the ticking of that detested clock and your deep breaths as he starts to slip into delirium. Your hips are wiggling, trying to find comfort on the mattress, and the ever-present frown has been wiped off your face, eyebrows relaxed into an easy little manner. It pleases him immensely.

Bucky lets his eyes traverse your form, stopping cold when they reach the spot between your legs. There is a sticky wetness there, causing the lace to stick to you like a second skin. The more you wiggle your hips around, trying to find purchase, the more pronounced it gets. Bucky is frozen solid to his spot on the sofa, watching your hips buck. You suck in a breathy gasp and his body was suddenly plied with tremors. He grows impossibly harder as he realises what is happening.

The rational side of his brain tells him that leaving the door open was an honest mistake - how were you supposed to know that you would be plagued with wet dreams? But oh, he would so like to think that you had done this on purpose. That you had left the door open intentionally, just wide enough so he could watch you twist and twitch your little hips around on the bed in need of friction.

He wishes he could give you that friction you so desperately need - knows he could give you everything you’re looking for and more if you’d only let him. If you weren’t so damn stubborn, maybe you wouldn’t be sexually frustrated enough to be getting wet dreams. He would leave you so thoroughly satisfied, again and again. He would train you, Pavlovian-style, so that just the thought of him would get you riled up like this, and nothing else.

His hands are travelling down towards his cock before he even realises, catching his breath at the familiar sensation of his own hand rubbing himself slowly under his briefs. He sighs, giving in to the urge. It can’t hurt, right? Maybe this is all he needs to rid himself of his thoughts of you. He won’t even come - will just touch himself up a bit.

He watches you squirm and twitch and tries to match his strokes to your timing, but you don’t have a steady rhythm. You are so vulnerable and pathetic, it is almost cute.

Finally, your hips find what they’re looking for. You brush lightly against a cushion which you must have tossed away before sleeping. The way you whine, desperate and needy like the brat you are, sends Bucky reeling and he has to stop stroking himself for a few seconds to prevent him from blowing a load then and there.

You grind down further and Bucky thinks about you doing just this while seated firmly on his face. The thought surprises him - he is the first to admit that he is selfish in bed as a general rule - but something about it being you makes him want it even more than he wants to see his cock between those pouty lips. 

He wants to be the one to reduce you to a mess - not some flimsy pillow. He pictures you exactly as you are now - face crumpled with pleasure, skin shiny with sweat - grinding that sweet cunt on his tongue. He imagines grabbing your hips and lifting you up above his mouth - not much, maybe two or three inches - and letting you feel his breath against your core. He won’t let you feel his tongue again until you beg him, nice and pretty, with that same expression you wore when asking him not to take you to the Watchtower for questioning. He wants you to know, even when you are on top of him like this, he still has all the power over you and he can use it as he pleases.

This is so wrong. Bucky knows it, repeats it to himself non-stop, even while tugging harder at his cock. But what is he supposed to do when you’ve offered yourself up for him on a silver platter like this? Surely, this had to be your way of telling him you were all is, even if you didn't know it.

God, you’re shaking and writhing and grinding down on that pillow, as if it could give you any semblance of relief compared to him. Your eyes are still closed but you look - fuck - you look devastated. Completely wrecked. You have made him so hard, he can feel the veins on his shaft bulging.

You are so small compared to him, he can’t even imagine how you could begin to take him. He would fill you up entirely, stretch you with every inch until you cry. He can picture it as he watches you grinding your little pussy (now in entirely-transparent lace) harder against the pillow, helpless whimpers falling from between your lips. He could put you in any position that he wants and make you take it - and you would beg him to, sob for him to fill you in a way only he can. He wants to get rough with you until your body is singing his praises.

Bucky thinks about how you would look when taking his cock. He would wipe that frown right from your face, make you go wide-eyed and cockdrunk in just a matter of seconds. You would never think of belonging to anybody else.

You jerk around and your breathing staggers, whines and whimpers hitting a new pitch, and he knows you’re close. You’re babbling incoherently. He thinks he might identify a Please, which makes him groan - he has to stop short to make sure he hasn’t woken you. 

You go barreling towards your orgasm, grinding down particularly hard and moaning in such a wanton way, louder than ever. 

His heart stops when he hears it.

“Bucky.”

He stops - tries to stop. He hadn’t planned to come. Felt like that might be crossing the line (as if he hadn’t already) - but the feeling builds so fast, he has no control. The sound of his name on your lips, high-pitched and breathless, sends him hurling over the edge at breakneck speed. His cum sputters up, hitting his underwear and chest and a bit of the sofa. He comes so hard his eardrums bulge and he can barely see, until his chest, splattered with white pearly drops, comes into view.

Familiar white-hot shame soars through him, thicker and deadlier than what he experiences after his showers. He had crossed a line… but hadn’t you crossed one too? Even unknowingly, you had been thinking of him, imagining him as you worked your way towards an orgasm. How could you be anything other than his, now?

His folded t-shirt has to make do as a rag to wipe his cum from his bare chest. He is disgusted at himself as he walks towards the bathroom - resolves not to look towards your bedroom again, even if he knows ultimately his efforts will be futile. 

He catches sight of you sleeping deeply as he passes your room - no more than a vague bump, twisted up once again in your comforter. The moon has now sailed out from behind a dark cloud and flooded your face with a bright glow. His heart twinges momentarily.

He reaches out and closes the door. 

Brookhaven didn’t feel real.

It looked like it had been painted out of somebody else’s memory—small white houses, quiet streets, a main road with just enough stores to keep people alive. Quaint, but unsettling.

Two days. That was how long you’d been here. Long enough to unpack a few boxes, not long enough for the place to smell like home. Long enough to know that at night, the silence pressed in on you like a hand over your mouth.

You’d told yourself this was a good thing. A fresh start. Freedom. Away from the noise, the constant rush, the strangers brushing too close in New York. You’d wanted peace so badly you convinced yourself this would feel like it.

It didn’t.

It felt like being stranded. No family here. No friends. Just you and your bad people skills, your anxiety that made even buying groceries feel like preparing for a performance.

That’s how you ended up here—aisle five of the only grocery store in town—staring up at the top shelf like an idiot. The box you needed was inches out of reach, and the thought of asking someone for help already made your stomach twist.

Just grab something else. Doesn’t matter. You don’t need it that bad.

But your body stayed there, stupidly rooted to the floor, because of course this was your luck: paralyzed by cereal.

And then a voice behind you, low and steady, slipped through the quiet.

“Need a hand, doll?”

You turned, ready to mumble some excuse, and—holy shit.

For a second your brain just… blanked. Like it couldn’t compute that the voice belonged to the man standing there. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome in a way that felt unfair up close. Blue eyes that seemed too sharp for a grocery store. The kind of face that made your stomach twist with the sudden realization that you were, in fact, staring.

Embarrassment hit like a slap. You cleared your throat quickly, fumbling for composure. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

He grinned, easy, boyish—like he’d been expecting the answer all along. And then he just reached past you, arm brushing close enough that you caught the faint scent of soap and something warmer, something expensive. In one fluid movement, he plucked the Coco Pops from the top shelf, the box that had reduced you to a statue.

“There you go,” he said, handing it over. “Not exactly worth climbing for, but I get it. Sweet tooth?”

You managed a smile, clutching the box like it was proof you weren’t completely useless, “More like comfort food.”

His smile deepened, a faint crinkle by his eyes that made your chest tighten. “Nothing wrong with that. We all need something that makes the day feel better.”

And maybe it was just in your head, maybe it was the anxiety talking, but his eyes lingered too long. Like he wasn’t just looking at you. Like he was searching for something.

“You’re new around here, huh?”

The question was casual, but it still made your cheeks heat. You let out a half-laugh, shifting the cereal box in your arms like a shield.

“Is it that obvious?” you said before you could stop yourself, wincing at how self-conscious it sounded.

He chuckled, eyes never quite leaving you. “It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. Someone new? Kind of hard to miss.”

You dropped your gaze to the box in your hands, not quite able to handle the weight of his stare for too long. “Guess I’m not as subtle as I thought,” you muttered, shifting your grip on the cereal.

“Not a bad thing.” He tilted his head, still smiling. “James Barnes. But everyone calls me Bucky.”

Your throat worked as you nodded, then you remembered—manners, names, normal human interaction. You reached out, hand awkwardly slipping into his. Warm, steady. Firm without being crushing. You mumbled your own name, cheeks heating at how small your voice sounded.

There was a pause, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles before he let go.

“Bucky?” you asked, brow furrowing before your brain could catch up to your mouth. “How do you get Bucky from James?”

Smooth. Real smooth.

His grin widened, the kind that made his eyes crinkle. “Second name. Buchanan. Don’t ask me who decided it sounded like Bucky, but it stuck.”

You laughed, more out of nerves than amusement. “Well, it beats Coco Pops Girl, so you win.”

That earned you a real laugh, warm and genuine, and you paused at the way it made your stomach flip.

Brookhaven was also… nice.

Too nice, if you were being honest.

People smiled at you on the street like they already knew you. The kind of smiles that lasted a beat too long, like you owed them one back.

It should’ve felt sweet. Heartwarming. Small-town America, apple pie, Norman Rockwell painting kind of sweet.

And maybe it was. Maybe this was just how the world worked outside the city—people actually being… decent.

Except you weren’t used to decent. You were used to subway elbows in your ribs, strangers cursing you out if you walked too slow, men shouting “smile!” on the sidewalk like they were doing you a favor. Kindness was transactional where you came from. Nobody held doors open unless they expected your number in return.

So this? This felt alien. You kept waiting for the catch.

Was it my face? Do I just look like a charity case? Or maybe they’re being nice because they think I’m pitiful—tragic new girl with no friends, can’t even reach the top shelf of the cereal aisle without help.

You tried to let it roll off, to remind yourself that maybe this was what “community” looked like. Maybe you’d just been starved of it so long you didn’t know what to do with it now.

You shook it off every time, embarrassed at your own paranoia. Anxiety, that’s all. Just your brain turning harmless niceness into something sinister. You’d wanted a new start, right? You’d asked for this. Peace, quiet, friendly neighbors. And now you had it.

So why did it feel like Brookhaven was watching you?

The Red Room Diner had quickly become your default. Cheap coffee, decent pie, booths you could disappear into without anyone bothering you.

Except today, someone did.

“Refill?”

You looked up and found a girl about your age standing there, dark auburn hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, green eyes warm and curious. Her nametag read Wanda.

“Uh—yeah, thanks,” you said, sliding your mug toward her.

She poured with practiced ease, then lingered instead of walking off like the others usually did. “You’re the new girl in town, yes?”

It wasn’t a question.

You offered a small, awkward smile. “Yeah… I guess so.”

“Brookhaven doesn’t get many strangers.” She tilted her head, lips quirking. “But… you don’t feel like a stranger. More like you finally made it here.”

Your smile froze halfway, brain scrambling to make sense of it. What does that even mean?

“Oh—uh. Thanks?” you managed, heat creeping up your neck. You glanced around the diner to see if anyone else had caught that, but no one seemed to be paying attention.

Wanda just smiled like she hadn’t said anything weird at all. “Don’t worry about the check. It’s on the house today.”

“Really?” you said, blinking. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” She slid the coffeepot back onto the warmer and leaned against your booth like she had all the time in the world. “So, what brought you here?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing the rim of your mug. What’s the short version? Without sounding like a total disaster?

“I just… finished school. Needed a break from the city, I guess. Too loud, too busy. Thought I’d try something different for a while.”

Wanda nodded like she understood. “Yeah, city life can chew you up. Here’s quieter. Slower.” She tilted her head. “Do you like it so far?”

“Still getting used to it.” You smiled, a little sheepish. “Everyone’s… really nice.” Too nice, but you didn’t say that part.

She laughed lightly, and the sound made your shoulders loosen without you realizing it. “That’s Brookhaven. People look out for each other here.”

Or watch each other, you thought, but bit your tongue.

You found yourself leaning in, warming to the conversation. “It’s actually kind of nice, talking to someone my age. Most people I’ve met here are…” You trailed off, searching for a polite word. Older. Married. Staring at me too long.

Wanda smirked like she knew what you meant. “Yeah. I get that. But you’ll fit in. You’ll see.”

There was something in the way she said it, calm and certain, which made you pause.

Wanda lingered a little longer, fingers drumming on your table. “Hey—do you go to church?”

You blinked. “Uh… not really.” Too quick. Too blunt. You winced and backtracked fast. “I mean—I was never super religious. Not against it or anything. Just… not my thing.”

Great. Perfect. Say you hate Jesus next, why don’t you.

But Wanda only smiled, unfazed. “Neither was I.” She shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the world. “It’s not really about the Bible, not the way people think. It’s more… community. A chance to be together, you know?”

You nodded slowly, unsure what else to do. “Right. Togetherness.”

Her eyes lit up, earnest. “Exactly. We share meals, stories, just… connect. It’s actually my favorite part of the week.”

You gave a little laugh, hoping it didn’t sound as nervous as you felt. This is fine. Small towns and their Sunday churches, nothing weird about that. “Sounds… nice.”

Wanda grinned, leaning back just a little. “You should come sometime. You’d fit right in.”

Your stomach twisted at the phrasing—fit right in—but you forced your lips into a polite smile, humor in your tone to soften the refusal. “I’ll think about it.”

Which, translated, meant: absolutely not, but thanks anyway.

Still, you held her gaze, nodding along like you weren’t already picturing yourself awkwardly standing in a pew while strangers tried to pray over you.

After that first time meeting him, it kept happening.

Not that you were complaining.

But you didn’t chalk it up to anything either. Small town meant one diner, one grocery store, one of everything. Of course you’d run into people more than once.

The second time you saw him, it was the diner.

You’d gone in for coffee and pie, needing somewhere to sit that wasn’t your half-furnished living room. He was already there, two seats down at the counter, stirring sugar into his mug with an absent sort of focus. When you slid onto the stool, he glanced up, those blue eyes meeting yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“City girl learns to love diner coffee,” he said with a crooked smile.

Your heart gave a stupid little kick, and you laughed because what else were you supposed to do?

After that, you kept running into him—the post office, the clinic, and then the narrow sidewalk outside the bookstore, where you nearly collided. He stepped aside with that steady grace, hand brushing your elbow just enough to keep you from stumbling.

“Careful,” he said softly, as you balanced a too-heavy grocery bag against your hip.

“Sorry.”

He’d taken the bag from you without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, carrying it to your door with one arm while his other hand stayed casually tucked in his pocket.

You’d stammered a thank you, embarrassed at how winded you were from a short walk, while he barely looked strained.

You were here for a fresh start. And if that fresh start happened to include a hot older guy who was nice enough to smile when no one else did?

Well. You weren’t going to question it. You just… didn’t notice the way he kept finding you.

The bell above the door gave a tired little chime as you stepped into the herbalist shop. It smelled like dried lavender and something sharper, almost medicinal, and the shelves were stacked high with jars of teas, oils, powders in neat little labels that made your head spin.

You weren’t even sure what you were looking for—just something to fill the silence of your house, maybe. Something that made it smell less like dust and more like… home.

“Hello, dear,” came a voice, warm and clipped in that old-fashioned way.

You looked up to see the woman behind the counter—white hair pinned back neatly, glasses perched on her nose. She smiled at you, kind and sharp all at once.

“Hi,” you managed, returning the smile as you drifted toward the shelves. “Just… looking.”

“Of course. Take your time. First month in town, is it?”

You blinked. “Uh… second, actually.”

She nodded, already pulling down jars as if she knew what you’d want. Chamomile. Peppermint. A little vial of lavender oil. You hadn’t said a word, but they were exactly what you’d been eyeing.

“Sleep can be restless when you’re adjusting to a new place,” she said gently, wrapping the jars in brown paper. “A cup of this before bed, and you’ll dream easier.”

You smiled awkwardly, shifting your weight. Okay, small towns, sure. People talk. Harmless. “Thanks. That’s… thoughtful.”

The old lady looked up at you then, her eyes soft but penetrating, and said it as easily as if she were commenting on the weather,

“You’re very pure.”

You froze, smile stiffening on your face. “Oh…thank you?” What the fuck.

She didn’t look embarrassed, didn’t even seem to notice your awkward laugh. Just tied the parcel with twine, sliding it across the counter. “We don’t see that much anymore. It’s rare.”

“Right,” you said quickly, grabbing the bag like it might help you escape faster. “Well. Thanks for the teas. Appreciate it.”

You were already halfway out the door when she called after you, still sweet as ever, “Brookhaven’s lucky to have you, dear.”

The bell chimed again as you pushed into the street, heartbeat hammering.

You didn’t stop walking until you were two blocks away, clutching the paper bag like it might explode.

By the third month, you’d mostly figured out how to blend in. You had your grocery routine, your diner booth, even a few neighborly waves you didn’t hate returning. You still felt like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong picture, but at least you weren’t flailing anymore.

Until this random kid.

You were waiting outside the bakery, paper bag of bread warm in your hands, when a little boy in a striped shirt wandered up to you. Couldn’t have been more than six, hair sticking up in every direction, a smear of chocolate on his cheek.

He stared at you like kids do—too long, unblinking, blunt curiosity written all over him.

You offered a polite smile, because what else do you do? “Hey, honey. Shouldn’t you be with your mom?”

He grinned, a gap where one of his front teeth should’ve been. “You’re the bride.”

Your smile froze. “…What?”

“The bride.” He rocked on his heels, sing-songing it now like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mommy says you’re the one.”

“Oh,” you said, voice pitched too high. “That’s… nice.” You glanced around frantically, praying someone would swoop in and collect him.

As if on cue, a woman appeared from the corner, hurrying over. “There you are,” she scolded lightly, taking his hand. She gave you a smile—apologetic, practiced. “Sorry about that. He’s chatty.”

“No problem,” you managed, forcing a laugh that sounded fake even to your own ears.

The kid tugged at her hand as they turned to leave, still looking back at you. “Bye, bride!” he chirped, cheerful as anything.

You stood rooted to the spot, blood pounding in your ears.

Bride. Bride of what? Bride of who?

You wanted to drop the bread right there on the street and keep walking until you hit the highway. Instead, you clutched it tighter, pasted a smile on for no one but yourself, and forced your legs to move.

You walked faster than you meant to, bread clutched so tight the paper crinkled in your hands. Your chest still hadn’t stopped buzzing, the kid’s voice echoing in your skull—the bride, the bride, the bride.

It was nothing. Just a kid. Just a weird, stupid kid saying weird, stupid things.

So why did it feel like your skin didn’t fit right?

You were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice the figure rounding the corner until you collided, stumbling back with a startled gasp.

A hand caught your elbow, steadying you before you could trip.

“Easy there, doll.”

You looked up and felt the air leave your lungs. Him again. James. Bucky.

Of course.

Your panic stuttered, tempered by the calm weight of his hand, the easy smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t look alarmed, didn’t ask questions—just steadied you like you were something fragile, breakable, but worth holding onto.

“Sorry,” you blurted, too quick. “I wasn’t— I didn’t see you.”

“No harm done.” His grip lingered for a second longer than necessary before he let go. “Where’s the fire?”

Your laugh came out shaky. “No fire. Just… distracted.” By creepy children calling me a bride, but sure, let’s not unpack that here in the middle of the street.

He tilted his head, studying you with that unreadable focus that always left you a little warm. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, because you didn’t know how to explain any of it. You weren’t about to sound crazy in front of the one person in Brookhaven who didn’t make you feel completely out of place.

His smile deepened, soft but steady, like he believed you even if he didn’t. “Good. Hate to think this town scared you off already.”

Something in the way he said it made your stomach flutter. You found yourself smiling back, nodding too much. “I’ll survive.”

He didn’t just leave it at steadying you.

“Let me walk you,” he said, already matching your stride before you could argue. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

You glanced down at the single loaf of bread clutched in your bag, lips twitching. Yeah, real heavy lifting there. But you didn’t push it. A part of you was… relieved, actually. Company meant distraction. Distraction meant you didn’t have to replay the kid’s words on loop.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, adjusting the strap on your shoulder.

“So,” he said after a beat, voice low and easy. “Settling in yet? Brookhaven treating you alright?”

You shrugged, eyes on the sidewalk. “Trying to. It’s… different.”

“How so?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek. He had that kind of voice that made you want to fill the silence, even when you shouldn’t. So you did. Words spilling out before you could filter them.

“I don’t know. Everyone’s really nice, which should be good, but sometimes it feels like too much. Like I stick out. Like…” You trailed, then huffed a laugh. “Honestly, maybe Brookhaven isn’t the right fit for me. I probably should’ve picked a bigger town. Or closer to the city. Or somewhere with more people my age, or at least—”

You realized you were rambling, but your mouth kept going. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful here. Quiet. Just—maybe too quiet. And I thought that’s what I wanted, but now I’m not sure, and—”

You finally looked up, words faltering, because his gaze was on you. Steady. Unblinking. And there was something darker there now, something that made your chest go tight.

He didn’t look annoyed. He didn’t even look surprised. He looked like you’d said something unacceptable.

Then his expression softened, that easy smile sliding back into place like it had never left. “You belong here more than you know.”

The words landed heavy, almost like an order.

You forced a smile, awkward and thin. “Guess I don’t feel that way yet.”

“You will,” he said simply. His eyes held yours a beat too long. “Sometimes it just takes a little time.”

You nodded, pretending to believe him, because what else were you supposed to do? “Well… thanks for walking me home.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, sliding back into that easy smile, the one that looked harmless if you didn’t stare too long.

You reached for your keys, fumbling a little, when his hand brushed lightly against your hip. Not a grab, not overt—just a steadying touch as he leaned close enough that you caught the warmth of his breath.

“See you around, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Your throat tightened. You managed a nod, muttered something that might’ve been “goodnight,” and slipped inside as fast as you could without slamming the door.

You stood there with your back against it, heart pounding too loud in the quiet.

Just neighborly. Just friendly. That’s all it was.

The next few days, things only got stranger.

At first it was small stuff—easy to ignore, easy to laugh off. The clerk at the grocery store greeting you by name even though you’d never introduced yourself. The mailman telling you your package was “already waiting” before you’d even mentioned one.

Fine. Small town. Gossip traveled fast. Normal.

But then you stopped at the bakery and the woman behind the counter—Mary-Jane, you remembered her name was—slipped an extra pastry into your bag with a conspiratorial smile. “For our girl.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Our girl,” she repeated, like it explained everything. “You’re settling in beautifully.”

You laughed awkwardly, mumbled thanks, and bolted before she could say anything else.

And it kept happening.

At the farmer’s market, a man you’d never met pressed a bouquet of daisies into your hands, saying they were “meant for you.” At the laundromat, two women paused their folding to smile at you, one of them murmuring, “She really is perfect.”

Perfect. Pure. Bride. Words stacking in your head like bricks you didn’t know what to do with.

You’d catch yourself scanning faces for the smirk, the prank, the joke you weren’t in on. But there was nothing. Just wide, genuine smiles that never seemed to falter.

By the end of the week, your nerves were shot. Every knock at your door made your stomach lurch. Every “hello” on the street felt loaded. You lay in bed at night staring at the ceiling, whispering to yourself that you were fine, that you were imagining it.

It’s just small town kindness. It’s fine. You’re fine.

The Red Room had become a kind of refuge, the only place that felt remotely normal anymore. Or at least, it had.

Wanda slid into the booth across from you before you could even react, balancing a tray with your refill already poured. “Thought you might need this,” she said with a smile, pushing the mug toward you.

“Thanks,” you muttered, wrapping your hands around the cup.

She watched you for a moment, chin resting on her hand, before she spoke again. “So… you’re coming to the celebration, right?”

You blinked. “What celebration?”

Her smile widened. “Behind the church. This weekend. It’s big—bigger than anything else in Brookhaven. You can’t miss it.”

Your stomach tightened. “Church,” you echoed, weary. “Right.”

“It’s not what you think,” she said quickly, eyes lighting up like she’d practiced the line. “It’s not sermons and prayers. It’s… a gathering. Like a festival.”

You gave a humorless little laugh, lifting your brows. “What kind of festival?”

For the first time, Wanda hesitated. Her gaze flickered, and then she leaned in slightly, her voice softening. “It’s… special. Something that’s never happened before. Everyone’s been waiting a long time for it.”

Your grip on the mug tightened. “Okay,” you said slowly. “That sounds… vague.”

She tilted her head, unfazed, like she hadn’t heard the edge in your tone. “It’s hard to explain. You’ll understand when you’re there.”

You stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. Something that’s never happened before. Everyone’s been waiting. What the hell did that even mean?

“Right,” you said finally, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I’ll… think about it.”

Her expression softened, almost pitying. “You should come. You’ll fit right in.”

That fucking phrase again.

You nodded, even though your chest was crawling. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You took a long sip of coffee just to avoid looking at her.

Soon the air sharpened with autumn, leaves crisping into gold and red, and suddenly the town didn’t just feel different—it looked different.

Flyers plastered every storefront window, every lamp post. The White Star Festival, scrawled in bold letters, surrounded by little sketches of lanterns and wheat stalks. A smiling family at the bottom, arms linked.

Banners stretched across Main Street, stark white against the brick, swaying in the chilly breeze. White paper lanterns hung in neat rows from every awning. Even your mailbox had been stuffed with a pamphlet detailing the “celebration of unity.”

Everywhere you looked, Brookhaven was dressed in white.

And you hated how it made your stomach twist. It should’ve been festive—pretty, even. But all you could think about was Wanda’s voice in the diner, something that’s never happened before. Everyone’s been waiting.

Your mind snagged on the phrase like a burr you couldn’t shake.

Everyone.

Waiting for what?

You tried to shake it off, tried to pretend it was nothing more than a town fair. Apple cider, hay bales, kids running with sparklers. That’s what festivals were, right? Normal. Harmless.

Still, walking down the street with those white banners fluttering above, you couldn’t help feeling like Brookhaven wasn’t celebrating something.

It was preparing.

You’d buried yourself in work that afternoon, reshelving a cart stacked with hardcovers, the smell of dust and old paper clinging to your sleeves. The library had become your sanctuary—quiet, predictable, safe.

Or so you thought.

“Didn’t know you worked here.”

Your head snapped up, heart stumbling in your chest. And there he was again—James. Bucky. Leaning against the end of the aisle like he belonged there, like he’d just happened to wander in.

Of course.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just part-time. Keeps me busy.”

He nodded slowly, eyes scanning the rows of books before landing back on you. “That festival’s coming up fast. You planning on going?”

Your hands froze on the spine of a book you’d been sliding into place. “I don’t… I don’t think so.”

It came out more hesitant than you meant it to, your voice catching like you needed to explain yourself. “Crowds aren’t really my thing. And I’m not… you know. Church-y.”

He chuckled, low and warm, like you’d just told him something endearing. “It’s not about church. Not the way you think.” He moved closer, slow and unhurried, until he was right at your cart, his fingers brushing the edge like he was just making himself at home. “It’s about community. Belonging. You should be there.”

You shifted, tucking some hair behind your ear, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the aisle felt. “I mean… maybe. But nobody’s gonna miss me if I don’t.”

That was when his eyes caught yours, steady and too focused, and the easy smile curved his mouth. “That’s where you’re wrong, doll. Everyone’s expecting you to be there.”

The words sat heavy in your chest, too firm to be casual, too smooth to argue with.

You laughed nervously, trying to wave it off. “Well, that’s… flattering, I guess. But I’m really not much of a party person.”

He leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice, his tone soft as if he were letting you in on a secret. “You don’t have to be. You just have to show up. Let us take care of the rest.”

You smiled, because you didn’t know what else to do. But he didn’t let it go. His tone stayed easy, smile never faltering, but there was something behind it—something steady, determined.

“Thing is, I’m on the festival committee,” he said, almost casually, like it was just another line in conversation. “Been helping organize with the church for years. Kinda my job to make sure people show up.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could stop yourself. A laugh slipped out, half disbelieving. “Really? You? I didn’t exactly peg you as the church type.”

He chuckled, low and warm, tilting his head in that way that made it hard to look away. “People can surprise you.”

You shifted a book from one hand to the other, pretending to be busy. “Guess so.”

He leaned against the cart a little more, his presence filling the space in a way that felt deliberate. “Look, sweetheart, it’s important you come. Everyone’s looking forward to meeting you proper. Getting you involved.”

You laughed again, this time thinner, uncomfortable. “Meeting me? I think I’ve already met the whole town at this point.”

“Not like this,” he said softly, his gaze holding steady on you. “The White Star’s different. Special.”

The name of the festival landed heavy, colder than it should’ve. You fiddled with the strap of your bag, trying to keep it light. “Special, huh? And I’m guessing there’s a dress code?”

“White,” he confirmed smoothly. “Head to toe.”

That made you huff out a nervous laugh before you could bite it back. “An all-white party doesn’t sound like the best thing, if I’m being honest. Little cult-y and… klan-ny.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to bite it back.

He smiled at that, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “White’s tradition. Purity, unity, all that.” He shrugged, casual, his voice low. “Don’t think too hard about it. Just wear something light. You’ll be taken care of.”

Taken care of. The words prickled, but you nodded anyway, the automatic polite response slipping out before you could stop it. “Right. I’ll… think about it.”

He straightened then, pushing off the cart, but not before brushing your arm in that casual, claiming way. “Do more than think about it, doll. Be there.”

You forced another laugh, too breathy, too thin. “Yeah. Sure.”

But long after he walked away, his words clung to you, heavy and inescapable. Be there.

You’d braced yourself for… you didn’t even know what. Hooded robes? Candles? Something out of one of those documentaries that made you swear off small towns in the first place.

But when you crested the hill at the edge of Brookhaven and the festival came into view, your breath caught—because it wasn’t creepy at all.

It looked… fun.

Streamers crisscrossed above the square, fluttering in the autumn breeze. Booths lined the street, their tables piled with candied apples, jars of honey, homemade quilts. A Ferris wheel rose against the backdrop of the church’s white steeple, lights blinking cheerfully. Music carried over the crowd, fiddles and tambourines, voices lifting in song.

Kids darted between adults, faces painted, sticky fingers clutching caramel popcorn. Couples swayed near the bandstand. Even the air smelled warm—roasted nuts, cinnamon, fried dough.

You blinked, half-laughing under your breath. Okay, so maybe you were being dramatic.

Your shoulders loosened a little as you stepped into the square, weaving between stalls. People greeted you with smiles, but they didn’t feel as weird today. Just… normal. Happy.

For the first time in weeks, the knot in your chest eased. Maybe you’d been wrong. Maybe all the paranoia was just boredom and nerves after all. Because this—this was exactly what a town festival was supposed to look like.

You tugged your cardigan tighter around you, breathing in the sweet, spiced air, and told yourself to stop overthinking.

Look. Normal. Totally normal.

You hadn’t taken more than three steps into the square before someone was calling your name.

“Hey! There you are!”

You turned just in time for Wanda to come barreling toward you, a grin splitting her face. Before you could react, she’d grabbed your hand, tugging you deeper into the festival.

“Come on, you have to see everything!”

You stumbled after her, laughing despite yourself at the sheer enthusiasm. “Okay, okay—I’m coming!”

Her hand was warm in yours, her excitement infectious as she wove you through the crowd. She pointed out booths like a tour guide: the pie contest table, the row of hay bales set up for a sack race, the Ferris wheel creaking overhead.

Everywhere you went, she pulled you into introductions.

At the candied apple stand, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard handed you one on the house. Thor, he introduced himself, voice booming as if the title of apple vendor was just a side gig.

At the quilting booth, a woman with sharp eyes and short red hair—Natasha—smirked as she measured fabric. “You’ll fit in here just fine,” she said, the phrase that made you laugh nervously before Wanda tugged you onward.

You even met the guy running the popcorn machine, a young one with brown hair falling into his eyes—Peter—who tripped over his words when you smiled at him.

It was overwhelming, dizzying, but… kind of nice. People’s faces were bright, voices warm, the energy buzzing around you so much that you almost forgot the way your stomach had been knotted tight this morning.

God, you thought, laughing as Wanda shoved a cone of roasted nuts into your hand, you really had been working yourself up for nothing. Like a horror movie playing out in your own head.

And now here you were—eating sugar, meeting locals, hand-in-hand with a girl who’d practically adopted you as her best friend. Normal. Harmless.

You’d been laughing at something Wanda said—something about how Thor cheated at the pie-eating contest every single year—when you heard it.

Your name.

That voice.

Low, steady, smooth enough that it curled right down your spine before your brain even caught up.

You turned, already knowing.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Except not like you’d ever seen him before.

He was dressed head to toe in white—shirt, tie, blazer that fit him like it was made for him. It should’ve looked ridiculous at a fair, but somehow it didn’t. Somehow it made him look important. The kind of man who owned the ground he stood on.

Your first thought was—who the hell wears a suit to a festival? Your second was that you were staring too long.

He smiled when your eyes met, that easy, practiced curve of his mouth that always seemed to say more than he ever actually did.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he said, coming closer.

“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you managed, forcing a grin that you hoped passed for casual.

Beside him stood another man, older, hair thinning but neatly combed, his pale eyes so blue they almost looked glassy. He was smiling too, but it didn’t reach those eyes.

“Alexander Pierce,” Bucky said, touching the man’s shoulder. “Mayor of Brookhaven.”

The mayor extended a hand; you took it automatically, his grip firm, too warm.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” he said. His voice was soft, polite, the kind of tone that was supposed to be reassuring but somehow made your stomach twist. “We’ve heard such wonderful things about you.”

You blinked. “You have?”

Bucky chuckled quietly. “Word travels fast around here, doll.”

You let out a small, awkward laugh. “So I’ve noticed.”

The mayor—Pierce—tilted his head, eyes still on you. “We’re glad you came today. It’s an important one for us.”

You nodded, not sure what to say. “It looks… amazing. I wasn’t expecting something this big.”

“Brookhaven likes to celebrate,” Bucky said easily, but there was something behind his tone. Pride, maybe. Or something heavier.

“Mayor Pierce is also our priest,” he added, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked, sure you’d misheard. “Wait—you’re the mayor and the priest?”

Pierce smiled wider, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Small town. We all wear a few hats.”

Right. You nodded slowly, trying not to look as weirded out as you felt. Totally normal for a guy to run city council and Sunday service.

Bucky’s hand settled lightly on your lower back. Not possessive, not yet—just there. Solid. Anchoring.

“Pierce gives a beautiful sermon,” he murmured. “You’ll see for yourself later.”

The way he said later made your skin prickle.

You tried to joke, to shake it off. “Guess I’ll have to stick around for the show, then.”

Pierce’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, I think you will.”

You laughed, mostly to fill the space, pretending not to notice the way both men’s eyes stayed on you as Wanda reappeared at your side, tugging at your hand again, oblivious to how your pulse had started to thrum in your throat.

The festival from then on went… weirdly well.

Even after the bizarre run-in with Bucky and the mayor-slash-priest, you’d somehow managed to loosen up again. Maybe it was the cider; maybe it was Wanda’s relentless cheerfulness. You let yourself drift through the fair beside her, watching kids chase each other with sparklers, the Ferris wheel lights winking against the deepening sky.

The air was cooling, that in-between hour when day tips into evening and everyone looks a little softer in the fading light. Music still floated from the bandstand—fiddles, laughter, the murmur of a hundred conversations blending together.

You found yourself smiling. See? Normal. Completely normal.

Then, somewhere around six, you noticed the shift.

The music stopped first—just sort of faded mid-song. Then the crowd began to move, slow and purposeful, all in the same direction. Toward the church at the far end of the square, its white steeple cutting into the darkening sky.

Wanda squeezed your hand. “Come on,” she said brightly, tugging you after her.

You blinked, thrown. “Where’s everyone going?”

“To the service,” she said, like it was obvious. “It’s the blessing part of the festival. You’ll love it.”

“Oh.” You hesitated, half-laughing. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna head home. It’s been a long day.”

She stopped, turning to you with that same open smile, but her grip didn’t loosen. “You can’t leave now.”

“I really should—”

“It’s tradition.” Her voice stayed gentle, but there was something underneath it now—an edge of insistence that made your chest tighten. “You’ve already come this far. You don’t want people to think you’re rude, do you?”

You felt the heat rise in your face, guilt creeping in before you could stop it. God forbid the town’s new girl skips church and becomes gossip fodder for a week.

You sighed, forcing a chuckle that sounded a little too light. “Right. Wouldn’t want to break tradition.”

Her smile softened again, victorious but sweet. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

You let her pull you into the slow-moving tide of white-clad bodies, your shoes scuffing the pavement as lanterns began to glow overhead.

Just one more thing, you told yourself. Stay for the blessing, smile, clap, then go home. Normal people do this all the time.

The church was bigger inside than it looked from the street, whitewashed walls glowing under the flicker of candlelight. The scent of melted wax and something faintly floral hung in the air, heavy enough that it clung to your throat.

You followed Wanda down the center aisle, every pew already filling with people dressed in the same white you wore. The same faces you’d seen all afternoon—smiling, laughing, passing cider and candy—now solemn, silent, eyes fixed on the front like they were waiting for a cue.

Wanda motioned for you to sit. You slid into a space halfway down, the wooden pew cold through the thin fabric of your dress. The hum of conversation had faded to a hush, that thick, expectant quiet that made you feel like breathing too loud would draw attention.

You glanced around, heart ticking a little faster. Every single person in town is here. No kids, you realized suddenly. Not one. You frowned, scanning the back rows—nothing but adults, all standing, hands clasped loosely in front of them.

“Where are the—” you started to whisper, but Wanda only smiled and shook her head, eyes still forward.

Before you could ask again, movement at the front caught your attention.

Alexander Pierce was stepping up toward the chancel, his white robes—or maybe it was still that suit, you couldn’t tell in the dim light—bright against the candles. He didn’t speak yet, only lifted his hands in greeting, and the murmur that had been building behind you died instantly.

The silence was absolute.

You shifted in your seat, trying not to fidget. Okay, you told yourself, it’s just a church thing. A small-town sermon. Normal people lighting candles, saying prayers. You’ve seen this in movies. Totally fine.

Still, your palms felt damp against your skirt.

Pierce finally began to speak, his voice calm, steady, echoing off the walls like it had been built to fill this room.

“Brothers and sisters of Brookhaven,” he began, spreading his hands. “What a blessing it is to see so many gathered beneath the White Star tonight.”

You looked around again, and saw heads nodding. Lips moving soundlessly.

Everyone except you.

Wanda’s hand brushed yours lightly, as if to steady you. You managed a tight smile, your throat too dry to answer.

He launched into it—some history lesson about how the White Star represented unity, purity, the light that binds the town together. A few people murmured “Amen.” You tried to follow, but the words washed together after a while, pleasant but empty.

Still, everyone else seemed rapt. Not polite-listening rapt, but locked-in. Their heads tilted slightly the same way, bodies perfectly still, eyes fixed on Pierce like he was the only thing in the room.

You shifted on the bench, glancing around for something—someone—familiar. Bucky, maybe. You hadn’t seen him since earlier, and you’d half-expected him to be front and center for this. But there was no trace of him anywhere. Just a sea of white.

Pierce’s voice kept flowing, steady and soothing. “The White Star shines for all who walk in its light… its purity cleanses the unclean, joins the lost to the found…”

Your brow furrowed. Okay. Bit intense, but whatever. Small towns love metaphors.

He smiled at the congregation, the candlelight catching on his pale eyes. “We are reminded that only through the vessel of innocence can renewal be born. Through her, we become whole again.”

You froze. Through who?

No one else reacted. No shifting, no murmurs. Just quiet, content faces turned toward the pulpit.

Pierce’s voice grew softer now, almost tender. “Tonight we give thanks that the wait has ended. That what was promised has come to pass.”

A ripple of something moved through the crowd. Not applause, not words—just the faint rustle of movement as people straightened a little taller.

You forced a small, nervous laugh under your breath, whispering to Wanda, “I think I missed a memo. What’s he talking about?”

She only smiled, eyes shining in the candlelight. “You’ll understand soon.”

Your stomach turned.

You tried to keep your polite face in place, hands folded on your lap, eyes aimed somewhere near the pulpit. At first Pierce’s voice just blended with the soft hiss of candles and the occasional cough from the back rows.

Then the tone began to change.

He stopped sounding like a mayor reading a proclamation and more like someone caught up in his own conviction. The rhythm quickened, words sharper, carrying across the rafters.

“…for in the cleansing, we are made new,” he said, palms open, rising and falling with every sentence. “…through the sacrifice of what is unspoiled, the Star burns brighter.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the room. Not loud, just that unified yes sound people make when they already know the words.

Pierce went on. “Purity is not a state of being, but an offering. The unblemished light that passes through the vessel and brings forth renewal.”

Your hands twisted together in your lap. Okay. Definitely getting weird.

Everyone around you looked entranced. Heads slightly tilted, eyes bright, lips moving with the familiar phrases. You glanced toward the exit—only a few steps away—and forced yourself to stay seated. Leaving now would draw every eye.

Your pulse drummed in your ears. Just a sermon. He’s being poetic. You’re tired, that’s all. Don’t be rude.

But Pierce’s voice kept climbing, echo bouncing off the high ceiling.

“The Star asks for faith,” he said, almost shouting now. “Faith and purity! Through the cleansing, we return to the light!”

The congregation answered in a low, unified murmur, “Through the cleansing, we return to the light.”

You stared straight ahead, heart hammering, pretending to follow along while your thoughts tripped over each other. What cleansing? What the hell is this?

The candles guttered with the force of his final words.

“…and tonight,” Pierce’s voice rolled over the congregation, slow and deliberate now, “the vessel we’ve prayed for sits among us.”

He didn’t even have to say your name.

You felt it anyway—the way every head in the church turned as if on cue, eyes drifting from the pulpit to you. Candlelight flickered across dozens of faces, all serene, all fixed on you like you’d just stood up in the middle of a movie.

The air went thin.

Stay still, you told yourself. Don’t make a scene. You’re imagining it.

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “Wanda…”

But Wanda was already staring at you. Not smiling. Not looking confused. Just… watching.

Yeah. Nope. Uh-uh.

You shifted on the pew, ready to slide out, get to the aisle, walk fast, anything—when two hands clamped down on your shoulders from behind. Heavy, immovable.

“What the—”

You twisted to look back and your breath caught. Thor. The candied-apple guy. The booming laugh, the twinkle in his eyes. Only now his face was unreadable, eyes bright but cold. His grip didn’t budge.

Another hand wrapped around your arm—Sam, the Ferris wheel guy, the one who’d been cracking jokes at the fair an hour ago. His expression was calm, almost kind, like he was helping you to your feet, not holding you down.

“Let me go!” you hissed, panic spiking up your throat. “What the hell are you doing—”

They didn’t answer.

“Wanda!” Your voice cracked as you tried to jerk free, heart hammering in your ears. “Help me!”

She didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

They pulled you upright as easily as if you weighed nothing. Your shoes scraped against the floor, your hands clawing at their wrists. The pew creaked as you were dragged out into the aisle.

“No, no, no—stop, please—” Your voice rose into a full yell now, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Let me go!”

Nobody in the congregation moved. Nobody gasped, or whispered, or tried to intervene. They just sat there, rows and rows of white, eyes calm, faces soft, as you thrashed between Thor and Sam’s iron grips.

You dug your heels in, twisting hard enough to hurt your shoulder. This is it. They’re going to sacrifice me. This is real. This is happening.

Pierce was still at the chancel, hands raised as if in benediction, watching you with that same patient smile.

You kicked once, twice, desperate, but their hands didn’t slip.

“Please,” you begged, voice breaking now, “please, don’t do this—”

You twisted, kicked, nails clawing at their arms, but it was like fighting statues. Their grips stayed steady, almost gentle but unbreakable, like they weren’t restraining you so much as carrying out something inevitable.

Pierce’s voice rose over your panic, steady as ever. “…the vessel walks unwilling, but the Star guides her steps…”

The crowd murmured back in unison, their calm faces blurring in the candlelight as you were dragged down the aisle.

“No—stop! Somebody help me!” Your voice cracked, echoing off the high ceiling.

Nobody moved. Nobody even blinked.

The altar loomed closer with every step—a simple wooden platform draped in white cloth, candles burning at its corners. When Thor and Sam lifted you up, your stomach lurched.

You thrashed, trying to plant your feet, but your back hit the cool cloth and your arms were already being pulled above your head. Sam’s hands pinned your wrists to the wood. You bucked against him, but Thor caught your legs easily, pressing them down, forcing them to the far corners of the altar.

Rough ropes—where had they even come from?—snaked around your wrists, your ankles, cinching tight. You gasped as the fibers bit into your skin.

“No! Please—don’t do this!” Your voice sounded high and raw, almost childish to your own ears.

Pierce kept speaking over you, his words rolling on like a tide. “…her body given to the light, her purity the bridge to renewal…”

You shook your head violently, hair falling in your face, trying to block out his voice, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. You’re dreaming. Wake up.

But the ropes didn’t loosen.

Your arms trembled above your head, wrists burning. Your legs strained against the ties, the position leaving you exposed, helpless.

And the worst part—the part that made your stomach twist—was how calm everyone still was. Rows of white, faces serene, watching like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

You choked out a sob, twisting to look for Wanda, for anyone. “Please!”

But she was in the front pew now, hands folded, eyes fixed on you like she was watching a ceremony.

And Pierce’s voice rose again. “…and through her offering, we become whole.”

The congregation answered in a low murmur.

You were still fighting the ropes when a ripple moved through the congregation. Heads turned. A low murmur rolled across the pews like a tide going out.

And then you saw him.

Bucky stepped out from the side of the chancel, all white from collar to boots, his hair brushed back, the candlelight making his eyes look almost translucent. He didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate—he walked like a man taking his rightful place.

Your stomach flipped. Relief and terror collided in your chest.

“Bucky!” Your voice cracked, desperate. “Please—please help me!”

He looked at you. Really looked. His face was unreadable, the easy smile gone, replaced with something colder, older. For a heartbeat you thought you saw a flicker of softness in his eyes… and then it was gone.

Pierce lifted his hands, his voice rising over yours. “Brothers and sisters, the time has come. The White Star burns brightest tonight as we anoint our new leader. The vessel has been brought forth for his initiation, as it was foretold!”

“No! Please!” you screamed, twisting against the ropes until your wrists burned. “Don’t do this—”

But your words were swallowed by the low chant of the congregation, by Pierce’s sermon rolling on, “…he who leads must be reborn through purity. He who carries the Star must take the vessel, and through her, bind himself to the light.”

Bucky mounted the steps to the altar, his footsteps slow, measured. He stopped at the edge, looking down at you where you were stretched out, shaking.

“Please,” you sobbed, breath hitching. “You don’t have to do this. Just untie me—please—”

He didn’t answer.

Pierce turned to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, his voice ringing out. “You have served faithfully, James Buchanan Barnes. Tonight you ascend. Tonight you become the Shepherd of the Star.”

The congregation murmured again, a wave of white and flickering candles.

You thrashed harder, your chest heaving, panic clawing up your throat until you could barely breathe.

Pierce’s voice dropped to a near whisper, but the microphone caught every word. “And as the prophecy decreed… the vessel has come to you.”

All eyes turned to Bucky.

You pulled at the ropes until they cut your skin, your voice breaking on his name. “Bucky. Please. I’m begging you. Help me.”

When he reached you, he crouched low, his fingers brushing your cheek as if you were fragile porcelain. His thumb wiped a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“Shhh,” he murmured, but it wasn’t meant for you. His eyes were fixed on the congregation.

Then he stood, straightening to his full height, turning to face them, his hand still resting on your face like a claim. His voice rang out, deeper and louder than Pierce’s, filling every corner of the church.

“Brothers and sisters,” he intoned, “tonight the Star delivers what was promised.”

You shook your head violently, sobs tearing through you. “Bucky, please—”

But your voice was nothing under his, a trembling note swallowed by his sermon.

“Through her, I rise as shepherd,” he went on, his fingers sliding from your cheek to cradle the back of your head, holding you still. “Through her, we renew our covenant. Through her, the light takes flesh.”

The congregation echoed him in a low murmur, the sound vibrating through the pews, through the floor, through your ribs.

You twisted your wrists, your ankles, anything to get free. “Let me go—please.”

His eyes flicked down at you then, soft and burning at once. He didn’t look cruel; he looked devout. Like a man in prayer.

“You were chosen,” he said, so low only you could hear it. “It’s already done.”

Then he lifted his gaze back to the people and raised his voice again, drowning yours completely.

“The vessel is before us,” he declared. “The Star shines upon us. Tonight, the old leader dies and the new is born!”

The roar of voices answering him rolled over you like a wave. You gasped, sobbed, tried to speak, but his hand stayed firm on your head, holding you in place as if you were anointed, not bound.

You couldn’t tell anymore if you were crying or shaking or both. You couldn’t even hear yourself over them.

He reached for something on the altar. Metal glinted in the candlelight.

Your breath snagged in your throat. A dagger. Long, ceremonial-looking, its blade etched with symbols you couldn’t make out.

Your whole body went cold. This is it. This is where they stab you. This is where it ends.

You jerked against the ropes, sobs clawing up your throat. “Please don’t—please—”

Bucky didn’t pause. He turned slightly, showing the blade to the congregation like a priest lifting a chalice. His voice rolled out over their heads, steady, commanding.

“Tonight the vessel is revealed. Tonight we strip away what is false, so only what is pure remains.”

Your heart was hammering so loud you couldn’t hear the crowd’s murmur.

He lowered the dagger. For a heartbeat you braced for the strike—but instead the cold flat of the blade touched your collarbone. You gasped, flinched—and then heard the faint sound of fabric tearing.

Your dress.

He was cutting through it. Slow, deliberate, the blade whispering down the center seam. The cool air hit your skin where the cotton parted, your chest heaving as the white fabric fell away.

You couldn’t stop the sob that tore out of you. “Why are you doing this—please stop—”

He didn’t look at you. His eyes were on the crowd, his voice rising, even as his hands worked.

“We shed the trappings of the world. We bare what is hidden. We reveal the vessel in her true form.”

The knife slid lower, parting the last of your dress. Cool steel grazed your bra, then sliced through the strap with a single, neat flick. You gasped as the cups fell loose, your arms straining instinctively against the ropes that held them above your head.

The congregation didn’t stir. Their faces were serene, eyes fixed on Bucky as if nothing about this was strange.

Your vision blurred with tears. They’re not killing me. They’re—what are they doing?

Another clean movement of the blade, and your panties were gone too, the last shred of fabric falling away. The ropes bit into your wrists as you tried to curl inward, but your legs were still tied to the corners of the altar.

Bucky’s voice rolled over your sobs, calm and sure, “Through the vessel’s unveiling, the covenant is renewed. Through her, the Star is born again.”

You couldn’t stop crying. The ropes dug into your wrists every time you jerked against them, but you couldn’t lie still. They’re going to do it. They’re going to kill me. Any second now the knife—

But the knife was gone. Pierce had taken it from Bucky, setting it on the edge of the altar like it was just another piece of silverware. He dipped his fingers into a shallow bowl you hadn’t noticed before. Oil, thick and glinting in the candlelight.

Bucky, still in his white suit, stood at the foot of the altar. Calm. Collected. Like a man about to deliver a speech, not preside over a sacrifice.

Pierce’s oiled fingers pressed to your forehead. The scent was sharp—frankincense? Something bitter and floral at once. You flinched at the touch.

“Be anointed in the light,” Pierce murmured.

He turned to Bucky next, daubing the same oil across his brow. “And you, Shepherd of the Star. Be reborn.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear the blood in your ears.

Then Bucky started unbuttoning his blazer.

You stared through the blur of tears as he shrugged it off, laid it neatly on a nearby chair, then began unfastening his shirt.

“What are you—” Your voice broke.

He didn’t answer. His fingers moved calmly down the buttons, revealing skin as pale as the candles, a lattice of scars you couldn’t make sense of.

The congregation murmured in a low, unified hum.

“Through the vessel, the Shepherd takes his place,” Pierce intoned.

Bucky’s shirt joined the jacket. He kicked off his shoes, undid his belt, as steady as if he were alone in his bedroom.

You shook your head violently. “No—no, please don’t—please—”

But the words coming from his mouth were still a sermon, not a reply. His voice carried easily over yours,

“Through her flesh, the covenant is sealed. Through her blood, the light enters me.”

His trousers slid to the floor. White fabric pooled at his feet.

You went still, shock rooting you to the altar.

Bucky stood bare now at the foot of the altar, skin slick where Pierce’s oil had touched him, eyes fixed on you as he spoke to the crowd. His body was lean and scarred, his cock already heavy and upright, the image so surreal it barely registered through your terror.

The congregation didn’t gasp. They didn’t blink. They just watched, serene, as if this was exactly what they’d come for.

Bucky’s voice dropped, still loud enough for the furthest pew. “The Star has chosen. The vessel is before us. Tonight, I ascend.”

He stepped closer to the altar, his hand reaching out, warm and oiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face with almost tender care. His eyes were bright, unblinking, his lips still moving, still preaching to the congregation as if you were an object, a symbol, not a girl bound beneath him.

And for the first time, you understood what his words meant.

Bucky climbed onto the altar, slow and deliberate, like a priest ascending steps to the pulpit. The oil on his skin glistened in the candlelight; the smell of incense and sweat closed in around you. You tried to scoot back, to shrink away, but the ropes burned against your wrists and ankles, biting into your skin.

“Please,” you whispered, your throat raw. “Please don’t do this…”

He didn’t answer your plea. Instead, he straddled you, knees braced on either side of your hips. The weight of him pressed down on you, warm and solid, pinning you to the altar more effectively than the bindings ever could. His palm cupped your cheek again, thumb smearing a tear down to your jaw.

“Look at me,” he murmured, so low only you could hear. It was a request and a command at once. “Don’t be afraid. This is what you were born for.”

You turned your head away, squeezing your eyes shut, but he followed, his mouth brushing your temple, your cheek, his lips soft and damp from whispered prayers.

His hand slid from your face down to your throat, not choking, just resting there, the weight of it a brand. His thumb stroked your pulse as if to calm you, as if you were a frightened animal. “Shhh…” he soothed, his voice a dark lullaby. “The pain is only for a moment. After this, you’re mine, and you’re safe.”

You felt his other hand drift lower, tracing your breastbone, then his hand cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple slowly, deliberately. You gasped, jerking against the ropes; the jolt only made the cords bite deeper into your wrists.

No. No no no.

His mouth ghosted over your temple, your cheek, his stubble scratching your skin as he whispered, “So beautiful… so pure… made for me.”

His hand moved lower, fingers sliding down your stomach to your hips, then between your thighs. The calloused pads of his fingers stroked you with reverence, parting your folds, gathering slick. You choked on a sob when you felt it—slick betraying you on his fingertips. He groaned quietly at the touch, a sound that made your stomach twist.

“No… no, please—” you whimpered, turning your face into your shoulder. But your hips twitched anyway, a tiny involuntary movement against his palm. Heat bloomed low in your belly, shame thick in your throat.

Goddammit stop. Stop it. Don’t feel anything. Don’t.

He groaned softly at the feel of you, voice still that lullaby, “That’s it… your body knows me. It’s welcoming me already.”

His fingers circled you again, slow, patient, coaxing you open while his thumb stroked your pulse. Each stroke dragged a fresh tremor out of you, and the sound of the congregation grew louder, as if they too could smell your arousal.

His palm left your throat and slid back down, slow as oil over stone. He traced every inch of you with his hands, as if cataloguing a treasure he’d waited years to unearth. Across your ribs, down to your hips, up the inside of your thighs; each pass rougher, more insistent, until his fingers were pressing and parting you with shameless precision.

Your breath hitched. Stop. Don’t react. Don’t.

Bucky leaned down, his mouth close to your ear, his voice a low rasp that threaded under Pierce’s booming sermon. “Shhh,” he murmured, almost soothing. “It’s all right. Let it happen.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, but his words slid right through you, warm and heavy.

“This is what you were chosen for,” he whispered. “All that time. All those signs. All leading here.”

You tried to squeeze your knees together, but the ropes at your ankles held you open. You could feel how wet you were now, slick gathering on his fingertips, slick he spread over your clit in lazy circles. The sound it made against your skin was obscene. You bit your lip to keep the sound in, but a small, strangled moan slipped out anyway.

“God…” he breathed, almost to himself, eyes hooded as he worked you with his fingers. “Look at you. Look how perfect you are for me.”

You turned your head, tears sliding into your hairline. “Please,” you whispered. “Stop. Please stop…”

He bent closer, lips brushing your ear, the words meant only for you.

“This isn’t stopping. This is beginning. Your body’s already chosen.”

“No…” you breathed, but it came out more like a whimper than a protest.

His fingers slid lower, one dipping inside you, slow, then another, stretching you with patient pressure. The sting of his intrusion made you gasp; your hips twitched upward, a tiny involuntary thrust into his palm. He caught the movement, groaned against your cheek.

Stop. Please stop. Why is this happening to me?

Around you, the chant had changed. The hum had become a low, rhythmic moan, dozens of voices vibrating through the room. Dresses and coats swished and the scrape of wood echoed as the congregation rose from their pews. Through the blur of your tears you saw them moving closer, encircling the altar, hands extended as if reaching for a blessing.

Bucky’s fingers curled inside you, thumb circling your clit in slow, deliberate patterns. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Show them. Show them you were made for this.”

Your breath hitched, another moan breaking free. The crowd’s chant swelled in answer, bodies pressing closer, brushing the edge of the altar as if trying to touch the heat radiating from the two of you.

You couldn’t stop trembling; your body was opening under his hands, slick and shameful, even as you turned your face away and sobbed.

He withdrew his fingers from you slowly, dragging them up to your clit one last time before lifting them to his mouth. He sucked the wetness from them like a blessing, eyes never leaving yours. Then he shifted back on his knees, his cock heavy and flushed, veins standing out against the oily skin.

The congregation had crowded in close now, everyone mysteriously wearing robes they retrieved from God knows where. Through the blur of your tears you saw their faces tipped upward, hands raised, mouths open in silent prayer.

Somewhere behind you and Bucky, Pierce’s voice had risen above the murmur—deep, rhythmic words spilling out like scripture, each syllable echoing against the rafters. You couldn’t make sense of it; the only thing you could focus on was the man between your thighs.

Bucky slid the head of his cock along your soaked lips, up and down, spreading your wetness over himself with slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass dragged over your clit and made you jolt, shameful heat pulsing low in your stomach. He hissed under his breath, eyes half‑lidded.

“God, you’re perfect…” he muttered, almost to himself. “Look at how ready you are for me.”

You turned your head away, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of him, the smell of oil and incense, the crowd’s breathless worship. Don’t look at him. Don’t give him that.

Tears kept slipping down your cheeks. “Please…” you whispered, voice trembling. “Stop…”

He reached out, caught your chin with his slick fingers, and forced your face back toward his. His thumb stroked a tear from your cheek, smearing it across your skin like another kind of oil.

“No hiding,” he whispered, eyes bright and unblinking. “Look at me. Only me.”

Then he pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, sliding it against you again and again, smearing himself in your wetness until you felt the thick weight of him poised at your opening.

Pierce’s voice rang out, manic and booming now, echoing against the high ceilings of the church. “As the vessel is taken, so shall the bond be sealed! Let the light of the White Star bless their union! Let the old blood pass, and the new bloom through her!”

Each line was echoed back by the robed figures, their chant swelling, hands lifting higher, bodies leaning in as though they could draw the power from the air. The candles guttered, wax dripping down like blood.

Bucky’s gaze never left yours. His pupils were blown wide, blue irises lit by the flames. He stroked the head of his cock over your opening one last time, groaning as your slick coated him. His palm cradled your cheek again, thumb brushing a tear away.

“Breathe,” he murmured, low enough for only you. “It’s time.”

Then he pushed forward.

The blunt head of him breached you slowly, inexorably. The burn was immediate and sharp, your body clenching around him in panic as your cry was swallowed by the chants. He grunted, jaw tightening, but kept pressing, inch by inch, stretching you wider than you’d ever been, until his hips were flush with yours.

Your breath hitched on a sob. You felt full in a way that was almost unbearable—burning, stretching, the ropes digging into your wrists as you tried to pull away from the intrusion.

You tried to cry out, but the sound barely left your lips, trapped beneath the thunder of the chanting. Your back arched, wrists pulling against the binds, and Bucky… Bucky only groaned like a sinner at the altar, his forehead pressing to yours like a benediction.

‘So full,’ you thought numbly, dazed. ‘It burns. Oh god, it burns—’

“God, look at you,” he whispered, voice breaking on a prayer. “Perfect. Mine. My bride.”

You didn’t realize you were shaking until his hands came to hold you down again, fingers reverent, murmuring something soft you couldn’t hear over Pierce’s ecstatic sermon,

“She is the flame and the offering! The womb and the weapon! Through her, the Order shall rise again!”

Above you, Bucky was gone—or maybe more present than you’d ever seen him. His eyes were locked on yours, unblinking, his forehead touching yours, his breath ragged.

He wasn’t looking at the crowd, or Pierce, or the candles. Just you. And in his gaze there was nothing of the easy man from the grocery store. He looked like someone seeing God for the first time.

Pierce’s voice was a roar now, echoing off the walls, drowning your cries, “The Bride takes the Shepherd! The Star burns in the flesh! The bond is sealed!”

He moved inside you once, deep and deliberate. The stretch sent a hot sting through your core; the friction made you shudder and whimper, tears streaking your temples.

He bent down, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice shaking as he whispered, “Stay with me. Breathe. It’s us now. Just us.”

The crowd blurred. Pierce’s voice became a distant chant. All that remained was the searing fullness inside you and the heat of his body caging yours.

Then he began to move.

Slow at first, each thrust deep and steady, dragging a fresh burn from your core. You whimpered with every push, the sting sharp, your body still struggling to accommodate the size of him. Your wrists pulled uselessly against the ropes. The altar creaked beneath you.

Above you, Bucky was breathing heavy, sweat slicking the hollow of his throat. His hair stuck to his temples, his lips parted as he rocked into you with the reverence of a man praying. No—worshipping. Like you were the altar now.

You squeezed your eyes shut, shame burning hotter than the stretch inside you. But your body betrayed you with every second. The pain began to shift, still raw and aching, but now there was pressure. Heat. Friction. His cock dragged against something deep inside you and your hips twitched upward before you could stop them.

He felt it.

His rhythm faltered for half a breath, then he groaned—loud, rough, broken.

“There she is…” he murmured, forehead pressing to yours. “That’s it. You feel that? You’re opening for me now. You were made for this. For me.”

You shook your head, but the moan that tore out of you ruined the lie. He thrust deeper, slower, grinding into you like he was planting something sacred. And the crowd saw it—heard it.

Their chant twisted into something else now, not just words but moans, cries, hands pressed to their own bodies, to each other. You didn’t know if they were crying or cumming or praying.

One woman sobbed, “She accepts him,” and someone else shouted, “She brings the light!”

Your back arched. Your thighs trembled. Your cunt clenched around him again and again, wetness now pooling, obscene, making each thrust louder, filthier. You hated it. Hated the way your body was betraying you. But it was happening. Your pleasure had bloomed without your permission.

And Bucky knew.

“That’s it,” he panted, slamming in harder now. “That’s it, sweetheart. Don’t fight it. Give it to me. Let me have all of it.”

His lips brushed your jaw, your mouth, your throat. He kissed you like a husband would, tender and adoring, while his cock pounded into you like a sinner.

Then his rhythm shifted.

Whatever restraint Bucky had held onto crumbled as your body writhed beneath him, slick and hot and clenching around him with every thrust. He gripped your hips harder, fingers bruising, and drove into you rougher now—sharp, relentless, the slap of skin against skin echoing over the altar.

Your cry cracked into a sob, but it wasn’t just pain anymore. Not even shame. It was something worse—need.

Your back arched against the ropes, legs trembling as he pounded into you, faster, harder, his groans turning raw and guttural. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged and hot as his cock dragged against that spot deep inside that made you clench and twitch.

“That’s it, beautiful. Let them hear you. Let them see what you are.”

Your cunt clenched around him again, fluttering involuntarily. He moaned—loud, filthy—and slammed in deeper.

Below the altar, the congregation had collapsed into chaos. No longer chanting in unison, they cried out in scattered gasps and sobs, some on their knees, others standing, clothes open or clinging to each other in ecstatic fever.

Pierce’s voice still rang through the room from his place at the pulpit, but it was nearly drowned out now, his sermon buried under the sound of you—your whimpers, Bucky’s groans, the wet slap of him rutting into you like a man possessed.

“The Star descends… the vessel is filled… the flesh becomes divine—”

The words were there, but no one was listening.

Not even him.

Bucky’s hands slid under your thighs, lifting your hips off the altar, so he could drive in deeper. The new angle made you sob aloud, the friction unbearable, pleasure blooming so hard it felt like punishment.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, jaw slack, sweat dripping from his brow. “You were meant for me. You were born for this.”

He fucked you like a man claiming territory. Like a beast. Every thrust rocked the altar, dragged a cry out of your throat, made your soaked cunt gush louder around him. It was filthy, carnal, and unstoppable—and the congregation worshipped it.

They reached for the altar. Some screamed your name. Others cried Bucky’s. You heard sobbing, gasping, someone whispering prayers. You couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. You were floating—no, drowning—in sensation.

And still he moved inside you, harder, faster, his body pounding into yours as if salvation could be fucked into your bones.

When suddenly… Bucky’s rhythm stuttered.

He stayed buried inside you, panting, sweat dripping from his jaw. You gasped, disoriented from the abrupt pause, your cunt fluttering helplessly around his cock, desperate for more friction even as your mind screamed no.

Then you saw his hand reach out to the altar.

Your stomach dropped.

Your eyes went wide. The dagger. Oh God, he’s going to—

He lifted it, the blade catching candlelight, and your stomach dropped into ice. Your body went rigid under him, wrists pulling at the ropes until your shoulders screamed.

But instead of striking, the blade moved downward. You flinched when you felt the cool kiss of steel against your ankle—and then the rope loosened. One leg. Then the other. He cut them free with two swift, clean motions.

Your legs collapsed inward, but jelly-soft and shaking, you couldn’t even try to kick him away.

He reached for your thighs, spreading them again himself, gently draping them over his waist like a man cradling his lover.

“No more restraints,” he said softly, like a vow. “You’re not my offering anymore. You’re my bride.”

You stared up at him, gasping, not daring to say anything.

Then, still inside you, he raised the dagger again, but this time angled it toward his own mouth. You watched, breath held, as he pressed the tip to his bottom lip and nicked it—just enough for a bead of blood to rise and glisten. His eyes were on you the whole time, burning and unblinking.

Before you could form words, the blade dipped toward you. You flinched, expecting pain, but all you felt was the lightest sting at your own lip—a mirror of his. Warmth. A drop of blood.

Then the dagger clattered to the floor.

Bucky’s hand slid behind your neck and he crashed his mouth down onto yours, his bleeding lip pressing to yours, smearing the taste of iron between you. The kiss wasn’t tender; it was consuming, anointing.

You made a sound—half‑sob, half‑gasp—as he pulled you up with him, his hands grabbing your thighs, yanking your legs higher, and wrapping them around his waist.

“Now you’re mine,” he growled into your mouth. “Bound by blood. Sealed in flesh.”

He thrust back into you hard, deep, dragging a ragged moan out of you as your walls clenched around him, overstimulated and soaked. The kiss was brutal, all teeth and tongue and iron. His thrusts became frantic again, rough and messy, your now-freed legs trembling as they locked around him instinctively.

He shifted, palms sliding under the backs of your thighs, lifting you higher. In one smooth movement he folded you in half, your knees pressed up to your chest, his shoulders braced under your legs. The new angle left you completely open, his cock driving even deeper.

You cried out, the sound torn from your throat. The ropes on your wrists creaked as you clawed at empty air. The altar rocked with each thrust, the wet slap of his hips against yours echoing louder than the congregation’s chants.

Bucky’s face hovered above yours, flushed and slick. His eyes were wild now—not priestly, not calm, but a man caught in revelation, groaning with each brutal push. He kissed you again, messy and open‑mouthed, his tongue tasting the blood at the corner of your lip.

“Mine… mine… my bride,” he muttered between thrusts, voice rough with pleasure.

He drove harder, faster, his cock hitting something so deep inside you it made your stomach clench and drop. The pressure built low in your belly—hot, unbearable, like you were going to burst. You whimpered, panicked, “No, no, I—” but the words dissolved into a sob.

The feeling grew, impossible to stop. His hips pistoned into you, deeper and deeper, and your body arched off the altar, trembling violently. Your vision blurred. It felt like you were going to pee, horror blooming through you, but you couldn’t stop it.

Bucky felt it—your cunt fluttering, the tremors running through you. He growled low in his chest, an animal sound.

“That’s it,” he snarled, thrusting harder, deeper. “Give it to me. Show them. Show me.”

The pressure broke.

You cried out, back arching, and a gush of liquid burst from you, soaking his cock, his stomach, the altar beneath you. It splashed onto his thighs, down to the stone floor. The crowd gasped, then erupted into screams of ecstasy, their chants turning into a roar.

Bucky’s groan was loud, guttural, almost a shout—not of surprise but of triumph. His eyes rolled back for a moment, his hips still slamming into you through your convulsions. “God, yes… look at you… my perfect girl…” he panted, voice hoarse.

Your whole body shook under him, overwhelmed and humiliated by the release, but his grip on you only tightened, holding you folded open in his hands as though he was presenting you to the congregation, to whatever power he believed in.

And he still didn’t slow.

Even as your body convulsed around him, even as your soaked cunt fluttered and pulsed, still leaking from your release, Bucky kept thrusting—chasing the inevitable.

His grip on your thighs was bruising now, holding you folded tight beneath him in that unforgiving press, his cock slamming into the deepest part of you over and over, soaked with your cum, dragging lewd, wet sounds from where your bodies met.

His mouth was everywhere—your throat, your cheek, your parted lips, whispering desperate, broken prayers between kisses.

“So good… so tight… you were made for me—made to carry my seed, to take all of me…”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your whole body was trembling, still fluttering from the violent release, but he was relentless. You felt the way his rhythm began to falter—how his thrusts grew more erratic, how his groans climbed into something ragged and sharp.

And then—

He drove in one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and came.

His whole body jerked above yours, a long groan tearing from his throat as his cock throbbed deep inside you, pulsing with wave after wave of heat. You could feel him—thick, warm, spilling inside your raw, open cunt, flooding you full.

The crowd erupted.

Screaming. Crying. Falling to their knees. Dozens of hands raised toward the altar like they'd witnessed a miracle.

Above the chaos, Pierce’s voice rang out like the final bell of a mass,

“Salvation comes with sacrifice!”

Bucky collapsed over you, bracing himself on trembling arms, still locked inside your spent, soaked body. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, voice no longer performative—just raw, real, and terrifyingly sincere.

“It’s done now,” he whispered. “You’re mine. Forever. My wife. My salvation.”

He kissed you again—soft, blood-warm, possessive.

Your limbs were trembling. Shaking. Fucked limp.

You could feel the slick between your thighs—his cum leaking out of you, your own release still wet and clinging to your skin. Your chest rose and fell in shallow gasps as your head lolled to the side.

The congregation had come undone. Robes discarded, hands clawing, mouths open—a tangle of limbs, moans and gasps. Worship had collapsed into an orgy at the foot of the altar, bodies writhing in the candlelight like a living, breathing thing.

They weren’t chanting anymore. They were fucking, their eyes rolled back in ecstasy, praising what they’d just witnessed with their own bodies.

You couldn’t even process it. Your mind was fogged, floating somewhere between pain, pleasure, and shock.

Your vision blurred, not from tears this time, but from the aftershocks rippling through your body. You felt it in every nerve, every muscle. The rawness. The surrender. The shame. And then—

His breath.

Hot against your ear. His cock softening inside you, but still seated deep.

He didn’t move away. He didn’t release you.

You turned your head weakly—eyes fluttering open—and saw him watching you.

Not the crowd.

Not the light.

You.

He kissed your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—his lips gentle, reverent, claiming. You were still panting when his mouth brushed yours again, whispering something you couldn’t even understand.

Not words. Just devotion.

And in that moment, as the crowd’s voices rose again, a sick feeling twisted in your gut.

Because somehow, you knew.

This wasn’t the end.

It was just the beginning of this cultish nightmare.

a/n — after watching marvels zombies, Wanda gives off such cult recruiter vibes. with her sweet and soothing personality now realistically me, personally would've hauled ass after the first month in town, but lowkey I feel like this cult is the right place to be especially because of Bucky and all the hot ass people in town. anyway hope you enjoyed and tell me what you think!

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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.

How To Get Out of A Ticket How To Tell If He's Into You How To Decorate Like a Grownup How To DIY Dry Shampoo... you don't.

The last one is how you got an itchy scalp for a week. Not exactly something that would win a Pulitzer. House of Allure was one of Manhattan's glossy staples. Fashion, beauty, fitness, celebrity gossip, and the occasional self-help that didn't need to be directed by a therapist.

Was writing about that what made your heart sing? Not necessarily. But it paid well, and the more clicks, the more money.

Did it take entirely too much of your time? Yeah. Should you maybe use it to write about things that actually mattered? Also yes.

"Aid organizations warn that the humanitarian crisis could worsen as rising temperatures make extreme weather events more frequent.” Natasha finished reading your article out loud while standing by your desk in the bullpen. "Y/N, this is really good," her smile faltered as she kept going. "but it's not exactly getting past Carol and getting printed."

Your faint, disappointed smile was all knowing, "I know. I just..." You groaned, throwing your head back and closing your eyes, spinning in your own axis in your chair. "I wanna write about things that matter."

"You just need to keep writing. Send some freelance pieces to the Times, or the Post." She pushed off of your desk and walked to hers — right next to yours — and bent to rummage through her top drawer, grabbing a white envelope and holding it to her chest like a little treasure when she turned back to you with a grin.

"Ding! You got maillllll!" She singsonged, walking over to you. "From that Sports Illustrated editor you've been shamelessly flirting with."

Your eyes bugged out of your head. "Oh my God, Oh my God!" You got up and took the envelope in your hands, "Tomorrow night!" You let out a squeal. "Thank you, Mr. Parker." You grinned.

"What happens tomorrow night?"

You let out a satisfied sigh. "Only the second greatest display of athleticism a man could ever perform at: the NBA finals!"

"Second greatest?" Her left brow raised on her face.

"The absolute greatest has to be in bed, right?" You giggled and put the tickets in your purse. "You're coming with me, right?"

She pretended to ponder. "Mmmmm, fine. I'll let you take me out. But you're not getting into my pants."

You clicked your tongue at her, shaking your shoulder and sitting on your chair. "A big raspberry Truly and a jumbo plate of nachos and you'll be whistling a different tune."

"You know the way to my heart." She let her eyes roll back in an expression of fake pleasure.

You typed away a little at your bullet points for today's staff meeting, a couple ideas floating in the crevices of your brain, bouncing like the screensaver of an old DVD, while you waited for it to hit the corner just right and yield an actual fully formed thought.

The bullpen buzzed around you—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone laughing way too loud about a meme. 

You frowned once the meeting reminder popped up from your calendar and looked up from your computer, looking around for a certain redhead that wore her heart on her sleeve. "Where's Wanda?"

"10:1 she's elbow deep in Godiva and fries. Vision is still ghosting her." Natasha didn't even have to look up.

Pushing yourself up from the chair, you quickly grabbed your cardigan, "It's my turn. Meet me in the corder in 20 with coffee, pleaseeeee." You stacked a cashmere sweater and a bag of makeup samples in your hands on your way out and in no time you knocked on apartment 4B and Wanda's puffy face and tear rimmed eyes opened the door.

Buzzing, the loud sound of horns, and the rumbling of his motorcycle was music to Bucky's brain. No way he'd ever get a car. In Manhattan? The parking fees alone would be enough for him to run and walk everywhere if that was his only option.

He parked in front of the big skyscraper and took his helmet off. Big bold letters on the directory as soon as he got to the main lobby. "Shield Advertising"

Of course, before he got his badge card over to unlock the turnstile gate, Sharon and Maria were walking out, always looking like they knew something he didn't. Thing one and thing two. Like the creepy siamese cats in Aristocats. God, he needs to stop letting his niece take over the TV when Becca visits.

"Hey, Barnes." Sharon's voice was sweet as ever, you wouldn't think she tried to poach every single account from him before.

Bucky gave her a tight lipped smile. "Good morning, Carter." and turned to Maria. "Hill. Anything interesting in the glossy pages today? New hair style?" He eyes the magazine under her arm and gasped, faking surprise. "New nail... color?"

"Sharon and I have a meeting at House of Allure," She mimicked the smile he had on. "fastest growing women's magazine in the country. Seeing as Stark Diamonds is gonna be our new account, wouldn't hurt to do a little reading on the places they'd wanna advertise at."

They were quick to walk out and get in their cab, leaving Bucky to stew on those news. The Stark account? That was his lead, his tip, his charm that got him the deal. They were absolutely not going to yank the rug out from under him on that one. Over his dead, leather-jacketed body.

When the elevator doors opened to the thirty-fourth floor, he pasted on his trademark smirk, the one that told everyone he owned the room—even when steam was practically coming out of his ears.

“Barnes,” Sam called from across the bullpen, following Bucky into his office. “Why do you look like you’re about to commit murder before nine a.m.?”

“Sharon and Maria,” Bucky said flatly. He tossed his helmet onto his desk chair and tugged his jacket loose, already pacing. “They’re sniffing around Stark Diamonds. My account.” He yanked his shirt over his head as Steve came in with two dress shirts in hand, and Bucky motioned for the blue one.

Steve and Sam exchanged looks. "What am I missing? Knicks got an unforeseen injury again?" He paired each button with a fitting hole on the other side of his shirt, chuckling.

"Fury gave the account to them." You could actually hear a pin drop now.

Bucky's hands stilled and his eyes widened. "No way! That was my lead! I did the meeting!"

"He's partial to man-eater energy, you know that." Sam went on. "And we do sports and carts and beer. Diamonds are a little out of our scope."

"The value of a diamond is purely sentimental. I can be sentimental." That just made Steve and Sam exchange another look. "I'm gonna get Kate to show me his calendar, and I'm crashing that meeting."

You got out of the taxi with a dressed Wanda and six minutes to spare. Quickly walking to the elevators with Nat hot on your heels, giving Wanda her coffee and you yours while you tried to make her hair look presentable.

"Why does this always happen? We were having a wonderful time! The first time we had sex it was magical. I cried!" Wanda was still fighting back tears and sniffing. "I'm mystified!"

You and Nat just exchanged a look behind her. "You mean, like, a charming glistening tear down your cheek, right?"

"No, I was really emotional. I even told him I loved him."

"After how many days?"

"Five." There was a beat of silence and you three walked into the elevator. "Okay, fine, two. I wanted to express myself."

"And what did he say?"

"Oh, he didn't have to say anything I know he felt the same." Another beat of silence. "But then he got really busy. And then he was gone." She pouted.

Walking into the meeting, Carol asked everyone for their pitches. When Wanda's turn came, her notebook was empty. "I didn't have the best mindset for this week, I'm sorry Carol."

"She got dumped." Nat said, with a sorrowful pout on her face. That earned all of the aww's and ohh's Wanda could've wanted for a lifetime.

"I lost seven pounds since the split." She sniffled again.

Carol gasped excitedly. "Good for you! Write about it!"

Wanda's face scrunched up. "I can't use my personal life for a story." She shook her head.

"I totally get it..." She nodded in agreement. "Who wants to write about Wanda's life for a story?" Hands were up in the air immediately, and Wanda looked a little anxious. You looked between her and Nat, and decided to raise your hand... and your voice.

"What if I do it? I'll make it a reversed how-to.. A how-to-not?" Carol narrowed her eyes and after a second of making you sweat for it, gave you a beaming smile of approval.

“Now that,” she said, tapping her pen against the table, “is inspired. Y/N, you’re on it.”

Carol clapped her hands once. “Done. I expect a full draft on my desk in ten days. Ladies, this is why Y/N is the how-to girl—she thinks outside the box.”

"T-ten?"

"Well, five days is too short, we go to press in eleven."

The meeting dissolved into chatter, notebooks snapping shut, coffee cups scraping against the table. Wanda was already scrolling through Bumble again like she hadn’t just derailed your entire week.

Natasha nudged your arm. “You look like you just got sentenced to a death march.”

“Death march, romantic comedy, same difference.” You exhaled, pressing your palms into your cheeks. “Now I just have to find some poor schmuck dumb enough to date me for ten days.”

You were halfway out the door, still clutching your notebook, when Sharon and Maria breezed in like they owned the place—sharp heels, sharper smiles.

“Carol,” Sharon cooed, leaning in to air-kiss her cheek. “Always a pleasure.”

Maria’s eyes flicked toward you, then back to Carol. “We’re here for our 10 o'clock?”

Carol beamed at them like they were her long-lost daughters. “Ladies, you’re going to love this. But first—have you heard what Y/N’s working on?” She gestured toward you like a showpiece. “She’s actually going to start dating a guy and then drive him away in a week and a half. It’s going to be fabulous.”

Both Sharon and Maria turned to look at you. “That’s… bold,” Sharon said, her smile tight as a bowstring.

Maria tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Hope you don’t get too attached. Ten days isn’t long.”

Carol chuckled, already steering them toward her office. “Don’t be silly—she knows what she’s doing. It’s research. And women everywhere are going to eat it up.”

The bar was one of those Midtown institutions where the lighting was low, the liquor shelves looked like jewelry displays, and the waiters carried martinis like they were holy offerings. The kind of place Tony Stark would call “casual.”

Sharon and Maria were already there, seated across from Stark himself. Maria had a neat folder of mock-ups, Sharon was flashing her best boardroom smile, and Tony was halfway through an Old Fashioned, looking thoroughly entertained.

“Mr. Stark,” Maria was saying, “Shield Advertising has the best reach for a luxury campaign like this. We’re talking cross-platform engagement, legacy name recognition—”

“Boring,” Tony cut her off, spinning his glass. “If I wanted legacy, I’d call Vogue. I want splash. I want something that’ll break the internet without even trying.”

That was Bucky’s cue.

He stepped out of the shadows of the bar like he owned the place, a dark suit perfectly tailored, hair just messy enough to look like he hadn’t tried too hard. He carried two tumblers in one hand, slid one in front of Tony, and claimed the empty seat beside him before Sharon and Maria even registered what was happening.

“Good thing you called me, Stark,” Bucky drawled, his Brooklyn accent curling around the words like smoke. He raised his glass. “Because splash? That’s my specialty.”

Sharon’s smile faltered. “What the hell are you doing here, Barnes?”

“Having a drink with a friend,” Bucky said smoothly, clinking his glass against Tony’s. “We go way back, don’t we, Stark?”

Tony smirked, intrigued. “Barnes. Didn’t know Shield was sending the pretty boy brigade tonight.”

Maria snapped her folder shut. “This was our meeting.”

“And now it’s a party,” Bucky said, flashing that grin that made interns trip over themselves back at the office. He leaned toward Tony, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “You don’t want legacy, Tony. You want heat. A diamond isn’t about tradition—it’s about emotion. Desire. It’s not what it’s worth—it’s how it makes someone feel.”

Tony tilted his head, considering. “You make a decent pitch.”

Sharon bristled. “We had a presentation prepared.”

Bucky ignored her completely, eyes still locked on Tony. “You don’t need a slideshow. A diamond isn’t about carats or clarity. It’s about emotion. I know emotion. I know what women want. Making a woman want a diamond is like making her fall in love.”

Sharon’s laugh was sharp. “Oh, please. You’re saying you know women well enough to make one fall in love with you?”

Bucky didn’t blink. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Maria pounced, eyes glittering. “Then prove it. Pick a woman. Make her fall for you. And bring her to the Stark Diamonds gala in ten days.”

Tony perked up, clearly entertained. “Now that’s a pitch. Barnes, you pull it off, the account is yours. Nothing sells better than spectacle—and this’ll be a hell of one.”

Sharon leaned back, smug. “Of course, we’d need to make it fair. No picking some girl you already know.”

Maria scanned the room, slow and deliberate, until her gaze landed near the bar. You were standing there with Natasha, laughing over something the bartender said, a pair of tickets sticking out of your purse like a neon sign.

Maria’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “Her.”

Bucky followed her gaze, and his smirk faltered just slightly. You were radiant, unbothered, completely oblivious to the trap being set. "Done."

The bartender slid another cocktail across the marble toward you, and you were mid-giggle at something Natasha muttered under her breath when a shadow fell over the bar.

“Excuse me,” came a low, smooth voice, laced with just enough Brooklyn grit to sound dangerous and charming at once.

You turned, and there he was. Navy suit, hair just tousled enough to make it look like an accident, shirt open at the top making the smallest glint of a delicate chain he had on glint under the light if he moved right.

“Don’t mean to intrude,” he said, leaning casually against the bar, “but I couldn’t help noticing… you’re the only person in this place who looks like they’re actually having fun.”

Natasha arched a brow, but didn’t intervene. Wanda sniffled into her martini, oblivious.

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “Is that your opener? Telling me I look like I laugh too loud?”

Bucky chuckled, signaling to the bartender. “No, my opener was supposed to be something about your smile, but I figured you’ve heard that one a hundred times already.”

Smooth. Too smooth.

“And if I said I’ve only heard it ninety-nine?” you asked, taking a slow sip of your drink.

His grin widened. “Then I'd like to be lucky number one hundred, please.” Natasha made a face like she was choking on her olive, but you ignored her, pulse quickening. "Bucky." A beat of silence. "Barnes." You gave your name in return.

Bucky slid onto the stool beside you, his presence all heat and confidence. “There’s a place a couple blocks from here—tiny Italian joint, best cacio e pepe in Manhattan. What do you say we skip the overpriced cocktails and go eat something real?”

It was impulsive. It was insane. It was exactly the kind of thing you should say no to.

“Okay,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “But if you’re a serial killer, I’m running.”

“I’m worse,” he teased, standing and offering you his arm. “I work in advertising.”

You laughed, slipping off your stool. “Oh, no, Count Dracula of the white collar jobs.”

"I don't bite unless you ask, sweetheart."

Natasha’s eyes went wide as you leaned down to her ear. “I’ll text you. Cover for me.”

“You’re kidding,” she hissed.

But Wanda, still misty-eyed from her breakup, nodded while chugging her Long Island Iced Tea through a straw.

Bucky gave a little half-bow, his grin infuriatingly perfect. “Shall we?”

And just like that, you ended up breaking bread with a guy you were going to send running for the hills in ten days or less. The ride to the restaurant had been a little dicey with your dress and the motorcycle and all, but you made it.

Chateau.. something. You were too busy looking at his ass to read the rest of the sign, to be completely honest.

The restaurant was small, candlelit, the kind of place where the pasta bowls were bigger than the tables and the wine list was longer than the menu. Bucky led you in like he’d been there a hundred times, nodding at the host, slipping him a grin that somehow got you the best table in the room.

“You do this often?” you asked as he held your chair out for you.

“Charm my way into corner tables? Absolutely.” He sat across from you, smirk lazy, confident. “But I don’t bring just anyone here.”

You arched a brow. “Right. Let me guess—you tell all the girls that.”

“Only the ones who look like they belong under candlelight.” He leaned back, picking up his menu, but his eyes didn’t leave yours.

You rolled yours, heat rising in your chest. “That was smooth. I'll give you a point.”

“Honest.”

The waiter came, rattling off specials, but you barely heard him. Bucky ordered with ease, Italian rolling off his tongue like he’d practiced it in the mirror. You ordered your pasta, and when the waiter left, Bucky propped his chin on his hand.

“So, what do you do?” he asked.

“I write,” you said, swirling your wine. “House of Allure.”

“Fastest growing women's magazine in the country.” he teased.

“Oh, I knew good hair and good skin like that came from my column,” you shot back. “Somebody has to do the important work.”

That made him laugh—low, warm, genuine. “I like that. You don’t take yourself too seriously.”

“Do you?”

He smirked. “Not unless I’m on the clock. Then it’s all smoke, mirrors, and selling people dreams.”

“So, advertising?” you you quipped, asking for more information.

“Guilty.” He clinked his glass against yours. “Mostly booze companies, athletic gear, that sort of thing. Trying to branch into jewelry at the moment though.”

The food arrived—steaming pasta, wine refilled. Conversation slipped easy between you, jokes and half-confessions, small glances that stretched too long.

At one point, you said something—an offhand quip about how men never actually read the instructions on shampoo bottles—and Bucky laughed so hard he had to press a hand to his chest, shaking his head.

“I don’t usually have this much fun on a first date.”he said finally, still grinning.

Narrowing your eyes, you immediately responded back. “Who said this is a date?” you teased, twirling pasta around your fork.

“Oh, it’s a date,” he said, leaning in just enough to make your pulse skip.

You looked away quickly, fighting a smile, pretending to study your glass of wine. But Nat’s voice in your head was screaming at you

"This is supposed to be research, not chemistry."

When the check came, Bucky slipped his card down before you even reached for your purse. “Dinner’s on me,” he said. “But next time—you owe me dessert.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Always. And a chocolate guy.”

Neither of you could really explain how you ended up there. One minute you were outside the restaurant, both insisting you weren’t tired yet, and the next you were climbing the narrow stairs to his apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, laughing about how the elevator smelled like wet dog.

It wasn’t fancy. Far from it. A motorcycle helmet on the counter, a record player that looked older than you, stacks of vinyl, a couch with a throw blanket that had definitely seen better days. But it felt lived-in. Comfortable. Like him.

He handed you a beer—bottle caps clinking as he popped them off—and you both sat on opposite ends of the couch, trading little stories, laughing softly. At some point, the words started to thin out.

And then it was just… silence.

Not awkward silence. Heavy silence. Charged silence. The kind where his eyes kept dropping to your mouth, and your fingers kept tracing the label on your bottle just to have something to do.

One beer each, barely touched.

When his hand brushed yours on the couch cushion, you didn’t move it away. You looked at him—really looked—and saw the smirk gone soft at the edges, the question in his eyes.

You set your bottle down on the coffee table. He did the same.

Then you were leaning across the space, and he was leaning too, and suddenly his lips were on yours. Warm. Insistent. The kind of kiss that made your stomach drop and your whole body hum at once.

The couch wasn’t enough. Before you knew it, you were in his bedroom, the city lights filtering through the blinds, painting stripes across the sheets. You fell back onto his mattress, laughter spilling into kisses, kisses turning hungrier, his hands finding your waist like they’d been waiting all night.

He kissed you slow, then fast, then slow again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to savor or devour. You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and the sound rattled through you.

Your chest was rising too fast, your thoughts spiraling, and when his lips trailed to your neck you whispered, breathless, “Okay. Okay—wait.”

He froze instantly, eyes darting to yours, concern etched across his face.

“Too much?” he asked softly.

You nodded, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. “Too fast.”

For a moment, all you could hear was both of you breathing. Then he gave a little huff of a laugh, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah. You’re right.”

The warmth between you shifted—still there, but gentler now. You smoothed your hand down his chest once, then sat up, brushing your hair back. “I should go. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

At the door, he leaned against the frame, watching you with that infuriating, devastating smirk. “This isn’t the last time I’m seeing you.”

You laughed, stepping out into the hallway. “We’ll see.”

"Ohhh, you're already falling in love with me." Bucky said, low enough that only he could hear, watching you walk down the hall. But the moment you turned the corner, you were already smiling to yourself.

"Hook, line, and sinker." And clicked your tongue.

"It could've gone so much worse. She's beautiful, she's funny," Bucky rattled off while throwing the small toy basketball into the matching basket he had set up in his office. "Sharon and Maria gave me the nails for their coffins. Being with her for ten days will be a breeze."

Sam grabbed the ball from where it bounced off the floor and threw it into the basket. "Except that's nine days longer than you've ever spent with any woman."

Steve, leaning against the filing cabinet with his arms crossed, let out a low chuckle. “He’s got a point, Buck.”

Bucky gave them both a flat look, catching the ball when it rolled back toward him. “Har har. I can commit. When I want to.”

“Right,” Sam said, smirking. “Like that yoga instructor in SoHo you swore you’d ‘definitely call back.’”

Bucky shot the ball again. It rimmed out. “She moved to L.A.!”

Steve arched an eyebrow. “Before or after you ghosted her?”

“Not the point,” Bucky muttered, running a hand through his hair. He grabbed the ball again, shooting harder this time, and grinned when it went clean through the net. “This one’s different. You’ll see. Ten days from now, she’s on my arm at that gala, Stark Diamonds is mine, and Sharon and Maria can choke on their disappointment.”

Sam and Steve exchanged a look, the kind that said this is going to be a disaster, and we’re going to enjoy the show.

“Ten days,” Sam repeated, shaking his head with a laugh. “Man, I give it three before she sees through all that charm.”

Bucky smirked, cocky as ever. “Wanna bet?”

"So when are you gonna man up and go through that?" Sam raised his brows and pointed to the purse you had conveniently forgotten at Bucky's the night before.

He scrunched his face. "Never." Another swish into the basket.

"There's no ethical dilemma about going through a woman's purse."

Bucky eyed Sam up and down and turned his gaze to the purse again. "It's her mythical source of.. power. It's not for our eyes to snoop though. Certainly not yours."