#ligascribbles

"Play with us, White Wolf!”

“Carry me!"

"I asked first!"

"No, me!"

Leaning against the doorway, you didn't even bother hiding your smile.

Not a minute later, the broad shouldered, grumpy super soldier was on all fours in the grass, one giggling boy on his back, tiny heels nudging Bucky's sides as though steering a horse.

"Faster, White Wolf!" the boy shouted, pointing across the yard. "We can't let those traitors escape!"

Bucky lurched into a gallop, the children shrieked with laughter as they scattered across the yard, and you laughed so hard your sides hurt. 

"You're good with children," you said later that afternoon while repairing the fence bordering the fields. "They adore you."

Bucky drove another nail into the weathered wood.

"They don't know me."

His answer came so quietly you almost missed it.

"If they did..." He paused, staring at the hammer in his hand. "They'd be afraid."

You set your own hammer aside.

"They look at me like I'm good," he continued and you could see a muscle tick in his jaw. "But I'm not."

"Bucky..."

He exhaled slowly and looked at you.

“I can't escape this hell. So many times I've tried, but I'm still caged inside and nothing can change that.”

An excited shriek split the quiet.

"There he is!"

Three kids barreled into Bucky, almost sending him stumbling into the grass. Tiny hands tugged at his clothes, proudly presenting the wooden toy he'd repaired in the morning.

"Our White Wolf fixed it!"

“White Wolf is the best,” another small voice echoed and then they were gone as quickly as they had come. 

"I think they know you better than you know yourself," you placed your hand on his shoulder.

He didn't answer.

Your bosses wanted dirt, whatever it was – a photograph, a letter, some stupid secret, anything that could crack the image of the man leading the polls as election season drew closer. Barnes was becoming untouchable, and your job was to prove he wasn't. 

Your fingertips drifted across the walnut paneling, testing each carved section until one shifted beneath your touch.

Click.

"Gotcha," you smiled as the panel sank inward and a hidden door slid silently aside. 

You stepped inside and froze.

Holy heck… your jaw slackened, mouth falling open as your eyes jumped around the semi dark room with a massive bed in the centre of it.

"So..." the word brushed your ear with the warmth of another person's breath.

You jumped.

"...this is where my little intern disappeared to."

A broad hand covered your mouth, muffling the surprised sound you let out. 

"Looking for secrets?" 

You shook your head frantically, but your eyes remained fixed on the walls, sweeping over cuffs, ropes, whips, chains, paddles... your pulse hammered in your throat.  

Your back met the wall and a large metal palm closed around your wrists, pinning both your hands above your head.

A pair of impossibly blue eyes scanned you, looking rather amused than angry.

"Afraid, little spy?"

You drew in a sharp breath, and swallowed hard, looking up at him. 

Bucky’s metal thumb stroked slowly along the inside of your wrist. A knee nudged your thighs apart, making you gasp.

"Listen carefully,” his eyes held your. "You have two choices." 

"I'm going to count to three, let go, and step aside." He licked his lips. "You can walk out that door, forget this room exists and we never speak of it again." 

A beat of silence.

"Or..."

The corner of his mouth lifted.

"...you can stay,” he leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear, and you whimpered. “You can choose to let it go and I will show you why none of these things are about fear." 

"One... two... three."

Before you could even grasp the meaning of what he had just said, Bucky's fingers released your wrist. One step back and the space between you was open. 

You looked at the doorway. Swallowed. Then back at him. You didn’t move. You crossed your wrists and stretched your hands toward him.

OK, the ring wasn’t really that simple to tell the truth. 

The band was from polished white gold, with a breathtaking emerald-cut diamond, easily ten carats, perhaps more, the kind of diamond that belonged behind museum glass.

Anything less had never been an option.

You deserved the finest things life had to offer, and Bucky Barnes had made it his mission to ensure you had them.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that the ring had a purpose, and Bucky Barnes probably for the first time in his life was afraid.

Tonight was supposed to be different, at least that's what he'd told himself.

The dinner had gone cold but Bucky had barely touched his food. 

His fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the table.

You tilted your head.

"Bucky?"

His hand froze, and a pair of sharp blue eyes raised to yours.

For a moment he looked almost trapped, then he swallowed. Actually swallowed, hard.

"Bucky, what's wrong?"

He reached inside his jacket.

The small velvet box appeared and was placed carefully on the table like it might explode.

Bucky stared at it. Half a year of trying to find the courage to offer it and he was still terrified like a little boy waiting outside the principal's office, convinced his entire future would be decided by what happened next. 

Finally, he spoke.

"I know what people think I am."

His voice was steady.

Mostly.

"I know what I've done."

Bucky finally looked up.

"I don't know if I'll ever get this right."

His large palm carefully crossed the table. You didn’t pull away and let it settle over yours.

"I'm still learning to love," Bucky let out a shaky breath. "But if you'll let me… I'd like to spend the rest of my life learning with you."

You reached for the box and Bucky's breath stopped midway. 

You opened it and let out a gasp of surprise that dissolved into a stifled sob.

Most people would call that impossible. Emotions don't have a scent.

Most people weren't raised in a Hydra laboratory. Experiment X78 sends its regards. 

"Bucky," you call.

Silence.

"I know you're in there."

There’s a faint rustle and then:

"Go away."

You've seen Bucky on bad days before, this sounds worse.

"No."

There is silence again followed by a sigh.

"How do you even know I'm here?"

Despite yourself, you smile. 

"You know I can smell you."

You push against the door and it gives way.

The apartment looks exactly as it always has. Empty. Temporary. 

Bucky sits on the floor, back against the wall, knees up, something in his hand. 

You recognize the old notebook immediately.

You cross the room and slide down beside him. He doesn't move.

When you reach for the notebook, he lets it go. You open it and browse through it–the names, they are all crossed out. 

"Oh, Buck," you murmur. 

"I got nothin' left to lose, or use, or do," he finally says. 

"You know, you never had to do this. It wasn't you. Hydra made those choices."

"It’s a convenient excuse."

“It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.” 

“Steve used to say that,” he laughs dryly. 

“You should have listened to Steve,” you scoff.

"You were there too," he says quietly. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Keep living without looking back."

"I do look back." You lean your head against his shoulder. "I just don't stay there."

“Baelor, what…,” you gasp as your small clothes are suddenly pulled down, exposing your naked ass. 

What the hell is he doing? 

No, he wouldn’t dare! 

The grip tightens a bit, and then you hear it–first the swing, then a thunderous whack as a large open palm smacks down against the bare skin of your ass, and you feel your cheek wiggle from the impact.

You shriek. The sting is sharp and hot, the clap still rings in your ears, as you go very still.

You are too stunned to move. You just listen to Baelor’s heavy and panting breath behind and above you. 

“Baelor,…” you gasp, making a half-hearted attempt to push yourself up.

“I’m not finished, yet,” you hear, and almost immediately his arm swings again.

His palm lands on your ass, and you squeal helplessly. The sting is sharper than the first one and your flesh starts to throb. 

“Baelor, please, I’m sorry,” you whine. 

“Oh, now you say you're sorry. So tell me, what is my dear wife sorry for?”

“For… for being so impatient,” you stutter and squeeze your eyes shut as another smack lands on your rear. 

Baelor is panting throatily now, whether from the run through the palace chasing you or from something else you cannot tell. 

“Think harder!” he raises his arm while you try to scramble in your mind through the list of all your today’s misdemeanors.

“I’m sorry …,” you croak, “for… making you chase me.” 

Smack.

“There you go. What else?”

“For… for laughing at you during the council,” you mumble. 

Smack.

“Continue, my love.” 

“For teasing you,” you mewl. Swift, and purposeful, his arm raises and his palm hurls down, colliding with your ass in another sharp smack, over the same burning spot.

You squeak and Baelor stills. There is something else in your voice. He can hear it. Something more than just pain and embarrassment as you can’t prevent your gasp turning into a quiet delightful whimper. 

“Teasing…”

Smack. 

“Me…”

Smack.

“In front of …”

Smack.

“The whole council.” 

You breathe shakily, and your eyes are watery, but that’s by far not the only wetness your body responds with to your husband's fury.

You can feel it, no worse, you can hear it, the embarrassingly squelchy sound your cunt makes as you shift slightly in Baelor’s grip.