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Keep your eyes on the road (aka an unexpected sex pollen adventure)
Summary: Honestly, this is what Bucky gets for not listening to you.
Characters: Bucky x Reader
Words: 2.8k
Warnings: SMUT 18+ only. Oral sex while driving, sex pollen, sex in a car, bad language, Bucky desperately needing to bang. Also please do not try to replicate this unless you are in fact with a super soldier who has super reflexes, as blow jobs while driving should probably be attempted by super people. 
A/N: Is this really my first time writing sex pollen? Yes it is. Is Bucky being needy and desperate kinda fun? Yes it is. Did I enjoy writing this? Yes I most certainly did. I hope you enjoy it too. ;)
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*****
The thing is, you told him you didn’t feel like coming on this mission.
And you told him not to open that container with the giant blood red skull on it. 
And you told him to to wear a mask.
And you told him to let you drive, but he shouted something about you being a passenger princess before unceremoniously shoving you in the getaway car.
So yeah. You told him all these things.
The thing is, Bucky fumes, glaring at the swerve of headlights advancing in his rearview mirror - he really needs to learn how to fucking listen.  
“Shit, shit, shit!” He slams the accelerator to the floor and the car gives a sickening lurch. Beside him, you crack your head on the window, trying to buckle your seatbelt and swearing at the top of your lungs. 
“Bucky what the hell’s the matter with you? Just drive.” 
“I’m trying,” he snaps. He can feel the flushing prickle of sweat beading down his neck. Rubbing a shaking hand down his face, he blows out a harsh breath. “Why in god’s name is the heater on? Turn that shit off, I’m burning up over here.”
Craning your neck, you watch the headlights gaining. Fumbling for the Glock taped under the seat, you shoot him a confused look. 
“The heater isn’t on, it’s freezing in here. I told Steve to fix it and he ignored me because he's a giant asshole.”
Eyes locked on the road, Bucky reaches blindly for the window handle, hurriedly rolling it down. A blast of cold air rushes through the car and he gulps in relief.
“Better, much better,” he mutters. He squints into the rearview mirror again, mentally calculating the time between headlights and taillights, when he feels a twisting wrench in his chest. It sends bursts of heat skimming under his skin, snagging every nerve along the way. A panicked whine slips through clenched teeth. Alarmed, you turn back and meet his wild eyes, sweat now pouring down his face.   
“What the - what’s wrong? Bucky? Talk to me!” 
When you grab his arm, he visibly recoils. 
“No no no, don’t touch me, don’t - ah holy fuck, don’t touch me. If you do, I can’t - I’m gonna put the car in the ditch.” 
“You’re scaring me Bucky, what is this?”
He says nothing, deep in thought as his brain runs through the mission on warp speed, trying to identify something, anything, that could possibly -
Wait.
Oh.
Crap.
It's like a sucker punch when he realizes.
“The gold dust that flew out of that container, did any of it touch you?”
“You mean the one I told you not to open but you did it anyway because you can’t follow directions? Bucky what is wrong, you need-“
“Answer me,” he snarls. In the dashboard glow, you see his face pale. He blinks rapidly, trying to focus. “Sorry, sorry, just - please answer. Did any of it get on your skin?”
Baffled, you shake your head.
“No. None of it touched me, it just hit you.” 
Bucky nods, relieved. 
“Good, okay. Okay. Think I know what this is,” he grits out. Another shudder wracks his body and he grips the steering wheel so hard it squeals in protest. “HRNE-75.”
Your response is a blank stare.
“Am I supposed to know what random letters and numbers mean?”
“It’s a stimulant.” 
“Like caffeine?”
“No, like a drug.” You can hear him breathing faster. “Like a - like an aphrodisiac.”
Still a blank stare.
“What kind of aphrodisiac?”
“People call it sex pollen,” he says flatly. “It makes you horny. Like - really fucking horny. And it hurts like hell unless you do something about it.”
“Well, okay. We’ll figure that out when we get home, but for now - “
“I can’t - I don’t think I can wait until we get home,” he interrupts. Sweat soaks the collar of his shirt and he shifts uncomfortably, glancing down. Following his gaze, you can see his cock straining against his jeans. 
“Jesus Christ. Bucky if you’re in pain, just pull over and let me drive, you can jerk off in the backseat.”
“We don’t have time to pull over, that fucker’s right behind us and if we don’t get us past Steve’s stupid check point, we’re gonna lose him and then the whole mission is wasted and I got sprayed by some bullshit horny dust for no reason and I’m sweating so much right now and I think I’m going to throw up, my dick hurts so fucking bad!” 
His voice reaches an hysterical pitch and you press your lips together, choking down the laughter. 
“Okay okay, I got it. So if you come, does that stop the pain?”
“Yeah, but doesn’t matter,” his shoulders slump miserably. “We can’t stop yet and I can’t jerk off and drive at the same time. Maybe under normal circumstances I could do it, I mean sure I have done that before because sometimes I get bored driving, but I just don’t have that kind of focus right now baby, I don’t.” 
Tremors are rattling through his entire body now, as he fights for control. As he shifts his hips, unconsciously searching for some kind of friction to offer relief, an idea pops into your brain.     
“Hey. Let me give you road head.” 
His hands slip on the wheel and he double-takes. 
“Wha - road head? Like - what does that mean? Like you’d give me a blow job? While I’m driving?”
If this were any other situation, you would tease him mercilessly for the way his voice squeaks, but you smother the urge. Plenty of time for that later.   
“Of course. If it helps.”
“But you mean, you’re going to suck my dick? While I’m driving?”
“Love the emphasis on the important words. Yes, I’m going to suck your dick, while you’re driving.”
Bucky bats the idea around, debating whether you’re actually serious and whether he is probably definitely going to drive down a highway at - he checks the speedometer - 145 miles per hour, while you suck his dick. Another wave of heat roils through him and he stifles a groan. Glancing at your expectant face, he gives a shaky nod.
“You’re sure?”
Rolling your eyes, you unbuckle your seatbelt and scoot closer to him.
“It’s not a hardship Buck. You know I’m your dick’s number one fan.” Carefully popping the button on his jeans, you tug down his zipper and he pushes up his hips, struggling to help. The slight pressure on his aching cock already has him whimpering. “Just drive careful, alright? If I die because you wreck Steve’s car while I’m sucking your dick, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Bucky breathes. “Careful. Sure. Whatever you say.”
Grasping him firmly, you lower your head and take his dick all the way down in one smooth move.
“Oh my fucking god,” he shouts, eyes fluttering. “Sweet shit that’s good!” 
He keeps one hand in a death grip on the wheel, while he places the other against the back of your neck, keeping you firmly in place. Bobbing up and down, your tongue strokes along the ridges of his cock and you feel him swelling impossibly thicker. Tightening your lips, you suck hard, dragging slowly up  and he croaks out a garbled plea.   
“Keep going, keep going, please keep going.” Beneath your practiced mouth, his entire body begins to vibrate and he grips the back of your neck tight, chanting desperately. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, holy fuck, I’m gonna come.”
He thrusts up, holding your head tight as he comes down your throat. When your fingers scratch along his thigh, his foot inadvertently pushes the accelerator harder. The car climbs to 155 miles per hour and above you, the sound of ragged panting fills the car. 
Releasing his dick with a soft lick, you look up and Bucky chokes at the sight of your spit slick, swollen lips curving into a smile.
“That was fast. Feel better?”
He breathes a whispered yes, but you can still see the red flush still spreading down his neck. He swallows hard and grimaces.  
“Helped. Definitely helped. Still hurts, but better,” he says faintly and you see his cock is still rock hard. “It’s okay, it’s enough for now, I appreciate the - “
Rolling your eyes, you lean down and take him back in your mouth. Slipping a hand between his legs, your fingers carefully cup the heavy weight of his balls, squeezing gently. The rest of his sentence fades, melting into a rush of fervent praise.
A luscious ache settles in your belly, feeding off the hot desire you feel sparking through him, at the filthy words you hear him whispering above you. If you weren’t driving down a pitch black highway at a completely inappropriate speed, you’d consider reaching down to take care of yourself, but since you’re already flouting the most basic rules of automotive safety, you figure you should keep your hands on Bucky’s balls instead.
Of course, that doesn’t stop you from rubbing your thighs together to try and relieve some of the pressure. 
Bucky glances over at your movement, a deep growl rumbling in his chest at the sight. He didn’t think anything could make him harder at this point, but the image of you so turned on by giving him a blow job, does the trick. He grinds his teeth, dangerously close to just pulling over and saying fuck this ridiculous mission. Rubbing his hand between your flexing shoulder blades and slowly bobbing head, his rasping voice carves into you.
“Does this make you feel good? Doin’ this for me? Fuck me, wish I could help you out right now. You’re so damn good to me baby. Moment we stop this car, I’m gonna fuck you so good.”
With his dick buried deep in your throat, your enthusiastic hum of agreement vibrates deliciously and he struggles to keep his eyes on the road. Everything feels incredible. Your tongue curling around the head of his cock, sucking gently on the tip, before sliding back down. The way you swallow around him, the squeeze of your throat, so hot and slick and tight. It feels so god damn good and he’s close again, one more second - 
The transmitter sitting in the console squawks to life, an ear piercing siren shocking you both from the lust fueled haze. You jerk off Bucky’s dick in a panic and he nearly screeches at the loss. Scrabbling with the device, he smashes the green TALK button.
“What?! What the fuck do you need, I’m busy.”
“Calm down there, speed racer,” comes Steve’s breezy voice. “Just letting you know we pulled the guy over. Turn around and come back so we can - “
Steve’s voice is abruptly silenced when Bucky crushes the transmitter with an easy squeeze of vibranium fingers. He flings the shattered splinters of plastic into the back seat and slams both feet on the brakes. The car fishtailes across the road, before skidding to a stop in a spray of gravel. Throwing it into park, he flips the lever under his seat and slides back with a mechanical thunk. Scrambling to pull his pants down all the way, he spreads his legs wide and takes his dick in hand. His eyes are dark, blown black when he turns to you.
“We’re safe. Get your pants off and get over here. Now.” he barks. 
Grinning at him, you tug on your tac pants, shimmying easily from the stretchy black fabric and clambering into his lap. There is no pretense. Bucky lines himself up and yanks you down, filling your cunt in one rough thrust. You’re so wet, he slides in easy. 
“God, Bucky,” you hiss. “That feels so good.”
He tugs on your shirt, pulling everything off until your breasts are bared. His mouth finds a nipple, teeth gently scrapping and tugging, greedily sucking the sensitive peak between his lips. He moves your hips faster, lifting and dragging you down on his cock over and over, until he jerks you down one final time, slams his head against the seat and comes with a long, guttural moan. Deep inside, you feel him pulsing over and over, until you can feel it dripping down your thighs, hot and sticky. 
Head tipped back, he struggles to catch his breath and you can see his heartbeat jumping wildly at his throat. When he finally opens his eyes to meet your questioning stare, you can see.
His eyes are still dark. 
“Need more?” You smile gently, smoothing sweaty hair from his forehead.
He swallows hard and then nods slowly.  
Rocking your hips, you grind down on him and lean in for a deep kiss, sliding your tongue against his. Bucky gives a shuddering sigh, sinking back into the feel of your body rolling against his. Warm hands stroke lightly down your spine and you can feel the thick, heavy weight of him growing hard again between your legs. But waring with the pleasure, a nervous tension seems to grip him.
“Bucky. I’m not made of glass,” you admonish. Licking delicately along his earlobe, he mumbles a string of apologies and your lips trail down his neck, pressing a kiss against that fluttering heartbeat. “You won’t hurt me, I promise. Use me however you need. Make yourself feel good. Just make me come before you’re done. Deal?”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he says, shivering uncontrollably at the heady combination of your cool breath and fiery words. “I can do that. ‘Course I’ll do that.”
His hands slide up your back and hook over your shoulders, his fingers splayed over your collarbone. He holds your body firmly in place, thrusting up into you and simultaneously rocking your hips forward. The angle is perfect and you moan at the feel, dizzy with desire as his cock rubs that spot inside just right. 
The sounds filling the car are purely pornographic. Wet skin slapping, Bucky grunting with every hard snap of his hips. The feel of his calloused fingertips stroking up your belly, between your breasts, pressing divots into your skin. He stares up at you, his eyes heavy and hooded and utterly adoring, relishing the sight of you grinding your pussy against him. His hand slips between your legs, stroking over your clit, rubbing fast tight circles. He smugly drinks down the breathless gasps he coaxes from you.   
“Bucky, I think - I think I’m - ”
The words falter when your hand slams into the car roof and your head falls back, eyes drifting closed. Lust slaps him hard as he watches you come, writhing above him, your voice cracking when you moan out his name again and again.  
“That's it, there you go baby,” he whispers roughly. The vision is breathtaking. Stunning. He figures maybe he could get used to sex pollen and a perpetually aching dick if it means he gets to see you like this.
He was already close (again), but the pure pleasure in your face is enough to knock him over the edge. He buries his face between your breasts, pinching your nipple and licking over your skin and your fingers tangle in his damp hair. You hold him tight as he gasps out your name, emptying himself inside you one more time.
And this time, finally, you can feel some of the spring tight tension disappear. His skin is still hot, but the shivers begin to diminish. Rough hands still grip your hips, but it feels controlled. The manic lust begins to fade, leaving a smoldering fire in his chest.   
Bucky tips a weary head back and meets your amused expression. A smile tugs the corner of his lips and he shakes his head. 
“God damn,” he sighs.
Scratching your nails lazily along his scalp, he leans into your touch, humming like a contented, if slightly feral, kitten. 
“Feel better?”
“So much better,” he murmurs. “Sorry that went completely sideways. Wasn’t really expecting that. Obviously enjoyed it, but still. Unexpected adventure.”
Pressing a kiss to his forehead you laugh.
“Next time, maybe don’t open the can with the giant red skull on it. Deal?”
“Deal.”
A comfortable silence settles. Bucky trails his fingers down your arms and you eye him thoughtfully.
“So, do you think they’ll come looking for us?”
“Maybe. Eventually. What should we do while we wait?”
There is a moments pause. And then you begin to roll your hips against him again and Bucky feels the electricity flare to life once more.
“We keep going.”
*****
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Note
Is your master list no longer pinned or is my device glitching
Masterlist is still pinned but it got flagged with a Mature community label. 😒
You might not see it if you don’t have mature content visible. If you search bitsmasterlist hopefully it pops up!
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years
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Ink on his heart
Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink. 
Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”
Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader
Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.
A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself! 
Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!
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*****
Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.
In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.
It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.  
But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.
That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.
The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.
And then? Then there was after.
After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.
He despised those haircuts.
But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.
Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.
When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.
But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.
“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”
Such a simple thing, a haircut.
It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.      
Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”
He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.
*****
Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.
“Hey, man. Everything okay?”
Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.
“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”
Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.
“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”
Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.
“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”
Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.  
“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”
“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”  
“Hey, I stand by that statement!”
“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”
“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”
“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.
Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.
“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”
Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.
Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.
“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”
Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.
“So listen, I was thinking -”
*****
For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.
The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.
“So, I guess, uh - here.”
Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.
“Give it back asshole!”
“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”
“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”
Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.
Steve had cried when Bucky told him.
Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.
Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.    
There are no words.
His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.
“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.
“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”
Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.
*****
One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.
BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973
“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.
Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.
Wow.
Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.  
The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.  
Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.
“Are you James?”
The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.
“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”
Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.
Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.
“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”
Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.  
“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”
“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.
“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”
“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”
This is the tricky part.
“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”
With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.
“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.
“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.
Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.
“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”
Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.  
Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.
“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”
“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”
He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.
“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”
“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”  
“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”
“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”
Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”
She looks again, examining the intricate design.
“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”
Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.
“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”
Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.
“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”
There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.
“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”
“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”
She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.
The third picture appears.
And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.
But nothing happens.
She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.
“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”
He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.
*****
TATTOO 1: FOREARM
“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London
*****
Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.
The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.
“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.
“Evening,” he says shyly.  
“You ready to do this?”
“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.
Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.  
“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”
He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.
It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.
“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”
“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”
Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.
“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”
There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.
“Got it,” he whispers.
And with that, they begin.
Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.
The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.
When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -
And then - oh.
Huh.
Interesting.
Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.
It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.
But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.
Holy shit.
How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.
And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.
Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.    
“All okay?”
Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.
“Sorry?”
She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.
“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.
“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”
Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.
“So I guess we’ll keep going?”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”
Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.
Born from ash. Alive again.
Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.
“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”
At that comment, he fidgets.
“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”
“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”
Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.
“Okay, that works,” he says.
She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.
“You did great,” she tells him.
Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.
*****
When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.  
“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”
“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.
After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.
“Is it okay to talk while you work?”
“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”  
Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.
“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.
“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”
Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.
So he begins to talk.
He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.    
He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.
“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”
A favorite? No question.
“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”
At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.
“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”
Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.  
The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.
“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”
Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.
“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.
“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.
Bucky always was a sucker for fate.
“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.
*****
A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.
“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.
“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”
Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.
Like the scene in front of him.
Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.
“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.
“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”
At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.
“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”
He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.    
*****
“Well, I think that’s it.”
It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.
He feels his heart lurch.
It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.  
It leaves him breathless.
“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”
Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.
But this?
This.
This.
This is all his.
*****
TATTOO 2: BACK
“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath
*****
“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”
Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.
“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”
Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.  
“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”
“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.
He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.
“Are you able to - work with it?“    
“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.
This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.
It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.
Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.
When she speaks, it startles him.
“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”
He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.
“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”
“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.
“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”
Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself. 
“The whole process, it feels sort of  - intimate, doesn’t it?”
He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.
“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”
Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.
What a gift. He holds on tight.
*****
It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.
It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.
So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.
The one inside and out.
Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.
“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.
“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.
“Take all the time you need. No rush.”
Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.
“You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.
When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.
“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.
“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.  
“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.
He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.
She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.  
“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”
Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.
For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.
The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.    
Bucky sinks into her arms.
That morning, the sun begins to shine.
*****
Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.
“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”
She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.
“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”
When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.
“Sounds like a good man,” he says.
“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”
The story hits home like a kick in the face.
Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.  
“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”
Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.
“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”
A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.
“Thank you Bucky.”
*****
Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.
“All done.”
Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.
“There, have a look.”
Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.  
All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.
After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.
But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.
*****
TATTOO 3: SHOULDER
“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami
*****
“So our last session.”
“Our last session,” he murmurs.
Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.
“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”
Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.
“Will it hurt?”
“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers.
Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.
“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”
“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.
Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.  
“Does it still hurt?”
She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.
“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”
Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”
“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.
Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.
“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”
Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?
Hell yes he likes it.
Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?
“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.
“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”
This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.
As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.
Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.
And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.
His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”
When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.
But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.
And there it is.
Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.
For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”
*****
And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.
Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.
“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.
“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”
“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”
Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.
Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.
*****
When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.
Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.
-
“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.
But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.
Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.
So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?  
I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.  
Yours,
Bucky”
-
At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.
Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.
A new beginning.
She says yes.
*****
5K notes · View notes
bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
Text
Black lace and property damage
Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.  
Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.
A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!
Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!
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*****
The porch light above the front door is out.
Was he supposed to change that before he left?
--
“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”
“Spiders don’t have rabies.”
“No one’s ever proven that.”
--
Dammit. Yeah, he was.
Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.
Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.
“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”
Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.
An empty echo returns.
Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.
Figures.
Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.
One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.
Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.
He flips it open.
“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”
Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.
“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.
Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.
Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).
And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.
Is that asking too much?
“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”
Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.
No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.
Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.
Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.
Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.
Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.
Staying awake. Piece of cake.
Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.
*****
When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.
Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.
Asleep.
Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.
God. Dammit.
Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.
Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.
But lately? This is life.
With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.
Bucky’s officially starting to panic.
Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.
He grins.
It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.
--
“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”
“Spit it out babe.”
“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”
--
An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.
He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.
Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.
Sam always knocks now.
But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.
Sometimes he just needs you.
Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.
So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.
He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.
He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.
He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.
In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.
But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.
Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.
Love is weird.
Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.
And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.
It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).  
Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.
Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.
In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.
The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.
He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.
That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.
The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.
Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.
There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.  
So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.
The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.
“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”
His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.
Black high heels.
Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.
Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.
“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “
Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.
The words die on his lips.
Black high heels, yes.
And.
Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.
Gorgeous, devilish smile.
Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.
“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.
“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”
Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.
“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”
“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”
Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.
“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.
“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”
Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?
Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.
Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.
Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.
“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”
Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.
From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.
He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).
But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.
Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.
Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -  
No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.
Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.
So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -
He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -
“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.
Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.
The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.
“Ow,” he grunts.
“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”
Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”
“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.
“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”
“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”
Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.
“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”
“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.
“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”
Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.
“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”
“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”
Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.
“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”
Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -
“Cold!”
Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.
Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.
Bucky’s nose twitches.
In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.
In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?
Is porn a lie?
Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.
For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.
“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“
Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.  
“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”
“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”  
Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.   
A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.
The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?
This is definitely happening more often.  
He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“
Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.
“Like that?”
“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“
He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.
Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.
Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.  
“Feel good?” you murmur.
“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”
He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.
“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”
Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.
“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.
“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.
And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.  
“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”
“Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.
“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”
“Sorry…sir.”
Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.  
He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?
Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.
“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”
How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -
“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.
Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.
“Bucky, come on -”
And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.
With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.
Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.
“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”
A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.
“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“
Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.
“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.
Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.
“So I broke your car.”
He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.
“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”
“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.
Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.
“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”
Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.
“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”
Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.
“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”
He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.
“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”
“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”
“Yeah? You liked it?”
“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”
“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”
Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.
Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.
Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.
“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”
He boops your nose and you grin.
“Deal.”
“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”
“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”
He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.
“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”
*****
5K notes · View notes
bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
Text
The (not naked) pin-up calendar
Summary: When you ask for a favor, Bucky (very) grudgingly agrees. What can you do to thank him? Return the favor, of course.
Characters: Bucky x Reader; a plethora of Avengers Warnings: Hardcore fluff. Soldiers wrestling like immature children. Steve being weirded out by nut sacks. Harry Potter references. A hint of naughty times at the end.
A/N: This is silly and fun and what can I say, writing sassy Bucky makes me happy. This is for @beckzorz 1k Writing Challenge (go follow this incredibly talented, beautiful lady), and my prompt was ‘Pin-up calendar’. Thanks a million for hosting Becca, I love you 3000! ♥️
Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!
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*****
Overnight, the list gets tacked on the corkboard in the kitchen.
Bucky’s rummaging through the pantry, searching for his breakfast Doritos and a jar of salsa to dunk them in, when he glimpses his name from a distance. Snatching up a butter knife, he wanders over to the wall. When he sees the list header, he whirls around in a flurry of tangled hair and irrational grumpiness.
“What the hell is this?”
Bucky complaining first thing in the morning is par for the course, so both Sam and Steve, strolling in to search for breakfast, ignore him. Sam veers toward the sugary cereal cabinet, Steve heads for the oversize Ironman container housing granola, and Bucky stomps his foot like a toddler.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Steve says seconds later, through an overflowing mouthful of flaxseed and yogurt. “You already agreed. You’re not backing out.”
Bucky spins around and reads the flyer again.
---
“Avengers Calendar Shoot”
See below for your name and photo call timing.
Monday: Carol (10am), Wanda (2pm), Scott (6pm)
Tuesday: Rhodey (10am), Sam (2pm), Steve (6pm)
Wednesday: Tony (10am), Bruce (2pm), Natasha (6pm)
Thursday: Thor (10am), Clint (2pm), Bucky (6pm)
---
Stomping his foot again, Bucky stabs the flyer with the aforementioned butter knife.
“Someone better be yankin’ my dick right now,” he warns. “I definitely didn’t agree to bare my wrinkly nut sack for the whole fucking world to see.”
Sam dry heaves over his Lucky Charms.
Steve’s now filling his Black Widow coffee mug and rolling his eyes.
“What is it with you always trying to be naked? It’s not a naked thing, it’s a charity thing. Innocent children who don’t know what an asshole you are will see this, so you better be wearing clothes,” Steve gives his mug an annoying slurp. “Besides - you already agreed. No takebacks.”
“Steve,” Bucky crisply pivots, launching metaphorical murder darts from his eyes. “We’ve talked about this. Don’t tell me how to live my life.”
“Well it was your girl who convinced everyone to do it, so good luck telling her you’re a liar.” Instead of responding, Bucky holds up a Dorito in front of Steve and peers around the silhouette. Draws a few angles in his head. “What?” Steve asks brusquely.
“Nothing,” Bucky mutters. The chip cracks between his teeth with a puff of toxic orange. “Just makin’ an observation.”
“Just wear your scary leather bondage uniform with your scary mask and stand there all scary. You don’t even need to smile,” Sam says. Spooning cereal in with one hand, his other is attempting to worm its way into Bucky’s bag of chips. Cradling the Doritos under his arm, Bucky twists away, blocking the attack.
“Good way to lose a finger. Don’t touch my things.”
Sam swallows his cereal, ignores the lethal look in Bucky’s eyes, and tries again.
Steve joins in.
And so, when you roll into the kitchen a few minutes later, here’s what you find: three Avengers, three veteran soldiers, wrestling over a bag of Doritos. Bucky has Sam in a headlock, Sam is kicking Bucky’s shins and hitting him with a milky spoon, and for some reason, Steve is dancing around trying to tickle them both.
Clearing your throat, the trio freezes.
You smile.
“Gentlemen.”
Flailing arms and legs instantly break apart. Sam and Steve have the good grace to look chastened, both stammering embarrassed apologies. Bucky simply shoves a fistful of Doritos in his mouth and smiles triumphantly. Striding over to you, he wraps an arm around your shoulders.
“Babe, take my side here. You don’t want the whole world to see my nut sack, right?”
“Stop saying nut sack,” Steve hisses. “Nuts are gross.”
“Maybe your nuts are gross Steve,” Sam pipes up, rubbing his shirt with a wet rag, trying to clear away Bucky’s orange powder fingerprints, “but my nuts are awesome.” After a few harsh scrubs, he sees the futility and throws the rag in Bucky’s face. Stalking from the kitchen, he shouts something about laundry wheels and Oxyclean.
When you pluck the bag of Doritos from Bucky’s grubby hands, he releases them easily and grins at your exasperation. Sidling close, he rubs up against you like a needy kitten, so you hug him tight, dipping your fingers down to squeeze his butt.
“Please do it Bucky, I already told them you would. Wear anything you want, you don’t even have to smile,” you murmur in his ear, knowing precisely which buttons to push. “And besides, I bet I’m not the only one who wants to see those pretty blue eyes. Right?”
Bucky purses his lips. Wrinkles his nose. Grumbles under his breath.
And because you’re looking at him all wide-eyed and soft, he gives in.
Like he always does.
“Fine,” he huffs. “Fine. I’ll do it for you.”
“So much drama,” Steve mumbles through his granola. Bucky lunges for him, but Steve drops his bowl in the sink and skirts past, rushing for the door. Looking back, he throws Bucky a challenging smirk, before smacking into the doorframe. There’s a brief ricochet and then he’s scurrying down the hall, laughing as he goes.
“Idiot,” Bucky mutters.
Folding your fingers behind his neck, you turn his face back to you and kiss his stubbly cheek. “Thank you. Reason number one billion and two why I love you.”
At the brush of your lips, Bucky promptly grabs the back of your thighs and hoists you in the air. Spinning around, he shuffles over to the counter and drops you on top. Settling between your legs, hands flat on the counter boxing you in, his mouth finds the open space above your shirt collar and he proceeds to kiss every square inch.
“The things I do for you,” he breathes, sucking his favorite spot along your neck. It makes you shiver, that thing he does with his tongue. “You realize now I gotta go on a diet.”
“What? No, you don’t. You look perfect.”
Disappointingly, he stops that whole talented tongue thing and leans back. Grinding your heels into his butt, you kick him, urging him to stay put. Instead, he sighs in that tragic, pay attention to me way that only Bucky Barnes can do.
“Obviously I’m perfect, so are you by the way, but the camera adds five pounds. I have to preemptively lose it.” Crinkling up his now empty bag of Doritos, he throws it at the trash can and misses by a mile. He gives you a hangdog, pathetic sort of look. “This sucks.”
Bucky Barnes, ladies and gentlemen. The most dramatic human being on the planet.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t need to diet. You could weigh a thousand pounds and it wouldn’t matter, you don’t - “
“Maybe not, like, a thousand pounds,” Bucky interrupts. “That’d make sex super hard. And not good hard. Just awkward hard. You know? Like when Hagrid’s mom and dad had sex. Which I still don’t understand how that’s supposed to work and I’ve done a shitload of research on it, been on all kinds of forums and talked to some experts - there’s a guy at SHIELD who specializes in interplanetary species relationships, I don’t know if you knew that - but anyway it just makes no sense because she would have killed that little guy if he tried to bang her, and I’m sorry, that’s the tea and I’ll fucking fight anyone who disagrees.”
Pausing for breath, he looks so earnest you almost hate to stop him.
“Buck, maybe we try one day where you don’t reference Harry Potter? I know you’re a fan, but - “
“I drew some diagrams,” he continues. “Boning diagrams. But like, I still can’t get it to work.”
Staring into space, he lets his marvelous tactical brain run every scenario of sexual acrobatics required to establish the feasibility of human-giant sex.
This could go on forever. Once Bucky gets knee-deep in fan forum theories, hours will lapse before he swims up for air. Many a morning has found him still in his boxers, laptop on his knees while he smashes the keyboard, arguing with virtual enemies about the physical features of Hogwarts house founders or the complex nuances of international Wizarding trade law.
The truth is - Bucky Barnes is a god damn nerd.
Clapping your hands, you drag him back to real life.
“Focus please. You’re good to do this then? Without the diet?”
“I really really hate it,” he replies, matter of fact, “but I really really love you, so if you want me to, I guess I’m in. But I’m still losing five pounds.”
“You’re my favorite, you know that?” Slipping your hands up under his shirt, you massage the tight muscles alone his spine and he hums happily. Flashing a lazy grin, he boops your nose.
“You know what? I think you should do it too. Be so great to have a sexy poster of you for those long nights when I’m gone and can’t sleep,” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “If you know what I mean.”
“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you mean.”
“Whatever. Like you don’t have a folder full of dick pics with my name on it,” he laughs.
“I wish you’d stop sending me those,” you say sternly. “You know this is my work phone.”
“So? You always need fresh material for your diddle box. Keeps the romance alive,” he says. Reaching up behind you, he tugs open the snack cabinet and rummages for a new bag of Doritos. The airtight blurp of a new jar of salsa follows.
“I’m sure I’ll regret this, but - what exactly is a diddle box?”
Massive Winter Soldier eye roll.
“All the pictures and videos and sexy shit you use to masturbate. Clearly.”
“Why do I ask you questions,” you sigh.
“I’m starting my diet tomorrow,” he answers instead, before dunking a fresh Dorito in the salsa.
*****
The next two weeks are spent with Bucky mostly eating raw vegetables and baked chicken breast and loudly commenting on the sorrows of dieting to everyone he encounters.
“You’re being ridiculous Bucky. No one told you to lose weight.”
“No,” he says glumly, crunching a celery stick with a martyred expression. “I need to be hot. Beauty is pain.”
“You are a pain.”
He sighs dramatically. Stares wistfully into the distance. Snaps a carrot in half.
“The things I do for you.”
“Jesus.”
*****
AVENGERS CALENDAR SHOOT THIS WEEK!
Remember to be on time, or we will choose the worst picture of you and print that.
We’re assholes that way.
Thanks,
Management
*****
MONDAY
(SEPTEMBER: Danvers, Carol; Captain Marvel)
Carol throws her bomber jacket over her red, blue, and gold uniform, and adds a sleek pair of vintage Ray Bans. Climbing into the cockpit of her fighter jet, she turns herself all glowy and golden, the color bouncing merrily off the control panel. Tipping her face down to the camera, she flashes the Shaka sign and gives the photographer a huge smile.
(FEBRUARY: Maximoff, Wanda; Scarlett Witch)
Wanda goes all out on all things red. Clad in a long red dress and long coat, surrounded by hundreds of red flowers - tulips and roses and carnations - she curls her fingers and everything around her begins to glow with a warm red light. When she smiles at the camera, her head tilts shyly.
(OCTOBER: Lang, Scott; Antman)
Is Scott actually in the picture or did someone spill coffee? The photographer sees a white sheet and a black spec, and scratches his head in confusion. Antman is kinda weird.
*****
TUESDAY
(NOVEMBER: Rhodes, James; War Machine)
Rhodey shows up dressed head to toe in gunmetal colored armor. When he snaps the faceplate down, the photographer timidly asks if maybe he wants to show his face. Rhodey flips the faceplate back up, reminds the photographer how badass this armor is, and says nope. He’s all good, thanks.
(APRIL: Wilson, Sam; Falcon)
Sam has spent the last few nights practicing his Zoolander pout in the bathroom mirror. He decides to wear a tight black t-shirt and comfortable jeans, with his wings spread wide, Redwing hovering beside him. At the last minute, his sultry pout melts into an animated belly laugh and they decide to use that one instead.
(JULY: Rogers, Steven; Captain America)
Steve goes back to his roots. Wearing a too small shirt and holey old jeans, he gazes pensively at the easel in front of him, glossy blond hair combed in a perfect wave. Fingers dusty with charcoal, he points to the picture he’s drawing and insists they capture it in the photo as well. They later realize he was drawing a picture of his own ass. That month gets labeled “Steve Rogers and America’s Ass”.
*****
WEDNESDAY
(MAY: Stark, Tony; Ironman)
Tony wears the bottom half of his suit and his favorite Black Sabbath t-shirt. Posing in his lab, he floats a few feet off the ground, crossing his arms and giving that trademark smirk. Scattered around him are random bits of technology and a few arc reactors, with Dum-E and a steaming platter of cheeseburgers in the background.
(JUNE: Banner, Bruce; Incredible Hulk)
Bruce looks a bit rumpled. The publicity shy scientist in him detests these things, but he’s a good sport for a good cause. Surrounded by microscopes and beakers of dazzling green liquids, he allows the teeniest quirk of his lips. Hands tucked in his pockets, messy curls fall over his forehead, and Bruce just feels happy to be included.
(JANUARY: Romanoff, Natasha; Black Widow)
Natasha asks for her photo in black and white. Dressed in shadows and tulle, she is nothing more than a dark figure against a white backdrop. On her feet, are a pair of ballet slippers, their satin ribbons looped and laced around her ankles. When she arches slowly up on pointe, her arms curve gracefully over her head and there’s an ethereal stillness about the image. Natasha is amazing.
*****
THURSDAY
(DECEMBER: Odinson, Thor; Thor)
Thor wears an enthusiastic smile when he arrives - and not much else. Dressed in a cherry red speedo, black boots, and his swirling red cape, he stands with one fist on his hip and Mjolnir held lovingly in the other. When the photographer asks about his outfit, Thor proudly describes something called “fan art” he saw online of himself wearing this outfit, mentioning how many “re-blogs” it had. He thinks he might wear this outfit more often, if that’s what the Midgardians want.
(AUGUST: Barton, Clint; Hawkeye)
Clint has a cup of coffee in one hand, a pot of coffee in the other. He wears purple sweatpants and a grey tank top and he yawns every five seconds. When asked what pose he’d like to use, he pretends his hearing-aids are broken. He lays down for a nap and the photographer goes with that.
(MARCH: Barnes, James “Bucky”; Winter Soldier)
Bucky leaves his leather bondage gear, his excessive collection of knives and guns, and his murder scowl at home. Instead, he arrives in black jeans and boots, a dark blue t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, his tousled hair brushing the collar of his jean jacket. Perched casually on the seat of his restored Harley, he looks carefree and sweet, offering that signature smile that always sets hearts aflutter.
*****
When the final photo is taken, Bucky ambles over to where you stand with the photographer, reviewing proofs. Snuggling up beside you, he moves in for a kiss and stops in surprise.
“What’s with the lipstick?” he asks, bemused. “That’s new.”
You seem momentarily flustered by the question, stuttering something about losing your chapstick and trying new things. Bucky shrugs and dives in anyway. It makes no difference to him. Painted red or completely bare, your lips are always his favorite flavor.
*****
“They’re here!”
The box of calendars lands with a thump on the kitchen counter.
“Excellent. Are we hot?” Steve asks, his mouth full of cheesy pizza.
“I’m always hot,” Sam answers, ripping into the box. “Yesterday I saw a Buzzfeed post about how hot I am, and it said 11/10 recommend.” Yanking out the pile of calendars, he throws one to Steve. “That means more than 100% would recommend. I’m beloved.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a national treasure,” Steve argues. Reaching for a calendar, he flicks impatiently until he finds himself.
Leaving the team to laugh and bicker and poke fun of each other, you grab your bag (and another small package), heading off to search for your favorite assassin slash model.
His door is cracked when you reach it, low music in the background. Knocking lightly, you push it open.
“Hey Buck. Are you busy?”
Surrounded a chaos of metal, Bucky sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor. A tin of gun oil lays open beside him, a shredded old t-shirt in hand, while he cleans and reassembles his guns. This particular task has taken him literally all day, because Bucky Barnes has yet to meet a gun he doesn’t need.
(Seriously. He needs them. All of them. Stop questioning him, Steve.)
At your voice, an adorable smile scrunches up his face. Bouncing to his feet, he leaps gracefully from the middle of the mess and scoops you up, twirling in a circle and stealing your breath with a warm kiss.
“Hey sweetheart, what’re you doin’ here?”
“Something arrived. Thought you might like to see.”
Handing over the calendar, Bucky wipes his hands on his jeans. A nervous energy makes his fingers fumble when he riffles through the pages.
He stops abruptly at March.
“Huh,” he says, observing his portrait from every angle. Turns it sideways, upside down, pinches his lip. Squints a little. Finally, he nods. “Yeah. Okay, yeah. I look pretty great. I think? Right? I don’t know, what do you think?”
It’s funny.
Sometimes, you hold your breath when you watch at him. There are these little things. The bright excitement in his eyes maybe, or the way he scratches his jaw when he gets nervous, or the absentminded way he tucks his hair behind his ear.
It does things to your heart.
“Yeah,” you say, mesmerized by those little things, “you really do.”
Bucky looks up. Sees your face and breaks into a wide grin. He loves when you look at him like this, like he’s the only thing that matters. Like he’s your whole world. Like you love him.
It does things to his heart.
Snapping the calendar shut, he flings it on his bed. Blue eyes rake you up and down and he pokes his lip out in an exaggerated pout.
“Still think you should’ve done it too,” he says. “Bet you would’a looked so hot.”
At his comment, you reach into your bag and pull something free. Silently, you hand over a second square, this one wrapped in black paper, a silver bow taped along the edge.
“What’s this?” he asks curiously.
Shrugging, your expression stays neutral.
“Open it and see.”
Like a kid on Christmas morning, he rips the paper away.
He freezes.
Blinking rapidly, he looks up. Silver fingers delicately trace the shiny picture and he swallows hard.
“Honey, is this - did you do this for me?” he asks softly. Flipping gently through each page of this special, one-of-a-kind calendar, he shakes his head in slow disbelief.
Because there you are.
Posing in March, holding his favorite confetti cupcakes adorned with birthday candles in front of your naked breasts.
Posing in July, dressed in a vintage red, white, and blue USO uniform, white boots on your feet and crackling sparklers in your hands.
Posing again in October, wearing a slutty pumpkin dress with cut-outs revealing slivers of your sweet, sexy assets.
Each picture is incredible. Full of vivid colors and your sunny smile. No air-brushing, no fake poses, just you. Indescribable and undeniably beautiful, bursting with love.
All for him.
Bucky rubs his chest absently, feeling his heart thumping with every turn of the page. And then he reaches the last month, and there’s a strangled squeak. He stares intently at the page. Looks up at you. Back to the page. Back up at you. Closes his eyes briefly.
This is it, this is his favorite, his absolute fucking favorite thing of all time, the image instantly wiping all other thoughts from his proverbial spank bank.
There.
You.
Are.
Damn.
Tacked above you is a sprig of mistletoe, a concession to the holiday theme. But it’s the outfit that does it. Black combat boots, lacy red lingerie, deep red lipstick, and an empty thigh holster. You’re pointing one of his favorite guns at the camera and giving a sly wink.
Mind-blowingly, devastatingly, breathtakingly gorgeous.
Bucky awkwardly adjusts the rising situation in his pants, raising lust-blown eyes to yours. Licking your lips, you give him a hesitant smile.
“Do you - um, do you like them?”
It makes you panic when he says nothing. He simply stares. But then he sets the calendar carefully, reverently, aside. Slipping a hand behind your neck, he hustles you backward until you bump the door, slamming it shut. His warm mouth slants over yours, that talented tongue returning to sweep over your lips. The kiss is hot and frantic, tinged with an edge of wild excitement. When he finally breaks away, his voice is low, dark gravel in your ear.
“Listen. I’m gonna need you to get all those outfits and put on every,” he kisses your throat, “single,” he trails his lips up to your jawline, “one,” and now he’s panting in your ear, “and then I wanna take pictures of me taking everything off, before I fuck you so damn good. How’s that sound?”
Sliding a hand between his legs, your answer makes him tremble.
“Sounds like a deal.”
*****
5K notes · View notes
bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
Text
Right there
Summary: Love stories aren’t always grand, sweeping epics. Sometimes they come soft and slow, made up of a million different things, and you may not even recognize what you have until it’s right there in front of you. This is one of those stories.
Characters: Bucky x Reader
Warnings: Brief mission related trauma. Oreo thievery and dirty bubblegum. Mostly just buckets of fluff.
A/N: Hello Tumblr friends! I’ve been in a writing drought lately and it feels like forever since I posted anything, so here’s a short, fluffy fic while I try to Stella my groove back. My plan was to make this snappy and snarky, but it went full scale mush by the end. Guys, I just really love Bucky Barnes. ♥️
Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!
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*****
“Right there. Do you see?”
The murmur is low in your ear. Smoothing the folds of emerald green satin, you follow Bucky’s glance down and see the tips of your freshly painted toes, clad in sparkly sandals and peeping from beneath the evening gown. Nothing out of the ordinary, until you notice one thing.
“Gross. What the hell is that?” you whisper.
Stuck like glue to the front of your right shoe, curling over the edge and dangerously close to your bare skin, is a piece of neon blue bubblegum.
Keeping one eye trained on the crush of inebriated party goers, searching out the mission target for the evening, you try a few options.
Scrape the edge of the shoe on the marble floor. Pointless.
Give a couple stealthy stomps. Useless.
Try to wipe it on Bucky’s trouser leg. Bucky sighs heavily and sure, that’s entertaining.
But no matter what you try, this appears to be the superglue of all gum. Bucky stares straight ahead, eyes roaming the crowd, but you see him periodically glance over, gauging your progress.
There’s no real harm, you can fix it later, but every time you shift your weight, the tacky feel of it sticks to the floor and makes a small snick sound. Like a parasite, the dirty, chewed up wad creeps further up the shoe, so close to defiling your pristine toes, and the whole thing is driving you bananas.
“Pay attention to the mission,” Bucky whispers sternly, but as of immediately, there’s a new mission in town. So, when your revolutionary idea arrives in a wave of brilliance, you take immediate action.
Nestled snug against Bucky’s lower back, hidden beneath his tuxedo jacket, sits his favorite knife. Without a thought, you reach up and tug it from the sheath, turning to face the back wall, balancing on one leg and gripping his forearm for support.
And then, frozen in shock, Bucky proceeds to watch you use his favorite knife - the one he sleeps with under his pillow, the one he keeps beside his morning Cheerios, the one he painstakingly sharpens after each and every mission - to dig at the dirty blue bubblegum fused to the bottom of your shoe.
“Disgusting,” you mutter. With a twist and flourish, it pops free and you fling it away, sending it flying into one of those tacky potted ferns by the bathroom. Smothering a laugh, you shoot Bucky a challenging look - and then slide the sticky knife back in the sheath.
You slide it back in the sheath without cleaning it.
Bucky grinds his teeth so hard his jaw locks up.
There is no earthly reason you should still be alive after this sacrilegious approach to basic knife protocol, but when he subtly leans over to voice his intense displeasure, he has the sudden desire to laugh.
“Everything okay, Barnes?” you ask under your breath, resuming your scan of the crowd. An insanely devilish grin tugs at your lips, and he huffs at the playful nudge of your elbow.
“Just fuckin’ peachy,” he mumbles drily, and then he marvels at the thought that follows.
Because right there, Bucky Barnes decides that maybe that proper knife etiquette isn’t all that important.
As long as he can see you smile.
*****
“Right there. Do you see?”
Bucky stands stoic at the open kitchen cabinet, pointing at the top shelf, his furious glare driving daggers into Sam’s heart.
“Dude, I swear I didn’t touch them.”
“You’re a lying liar who lies, Wilson.”
“Dude, I fucking swear. Get over yourself, damn.”
Sam stands with his arms crossed, an equally exasperated sneer on his face. Sitting on the couch, buried under a mountain of blankets, you watch with interest. Back and forth they trade barbs, a verbal tennis match full of snarky comments, childish quips, and the occasional mention of each other’s mom. Finally, Sam throws his hands up and whirls away.
“You’re fucking impossible, asshole.”
Bucky bangs the cabinet door shut and stomps over to you, plopping into an armchair to sulk. Smiling in commiseration, you stay silent, furtively trying to swallow. You’re so close to success, but then it happens.
No matter how hard you try, the crinkle of an Oreo package is too obvious.
At the sound, Bucky’s head snaps up.
“What was that?” he asks, suspicious. Eyes wide, you shrug in silent innocence. Bucky scrutinizes your pile of blankets, realization dawning. “Was that - did you steal my Oreos?”
Another silent, vehement shake of the head. You’re close, so close, just one more swallow -
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Prove it. Whistle for me.”
Damn.
When you purse your lips and blow, nothing comes out. Well, nothing except flecks of black Oreo crumbs. Swallowing the rest of the cookie, you fish out the bottle of milk hiding under the blanket and wash it all down, smacking your lips.
“Oh, sorry. Were these your Oreos?” you ask sweetly.
Bucky bites the inside of his cheek and tries to be mad, he genuinely tries really hard, but it doesn’t work. Launching himself from the chair, he bounces onto the couch next to you, sending your milk sloshing and you squawking in faux anger.
“You dirty little thief,” he deadpans, snatching away the package. Shoving three cookies in his mouth, he steals your bottle of milk and chugs it down. When he finishes, a white milk mustache is painted above his lip. It turns this dark man, someone with decades of gunpowder on his fingers and bloodstains on his soul, back into a young boy. Carefree and innocent, brimming with happy laughter. Swallowing hard, you reach over and carefully wipe it away with a firm brush of your thumb.
And right there, Bucky Barnes discovers the simple beauty of cookies and milk and the feel of your cool fingers on his skin.
*****
“Right there. Do you see?”
No. You didn’t. And that’s the problem.
Every blow of your fists unleashes something inside.
Smack, smack, smack.
Harder and faster, the punching bag absorbs all the pent of anger and lingering fury of a failed mission.
Smack, smack, smack.
It was so close. It was right there. You should have seen it. Should have remembered the bad guys never play nice, and the price of hesitation is a life. Memories trigger memories, sparking through your brain like a circuit board of bad decisions, lighting up one after another. Bucky stands on the other side of the bag, silently watching you pummel those demons trying to burrow into your skin.
“Talk to me,” he says quietly, and you frantically shake your head.
Smack, smack, smack.
Tears spill over. They blur your vision, turning the punching bag and the tall soldier holding it, into shapeless blobs. Blinking them away, wiping your runny nose on tape covered hands, the salt of tears and sweat drips into the busted-up gashes across your knuckles. It stings, a vicious reminder of what was lost. The scent of blood fills your nostrils and there are those memories again, a tsunami of pain barreling through.
Smack, smack, smack.
“Go away, Bucky. Leave me alone,” you snarl, aching arms still swinging at the punching bag. He ignores the request, a stalwart statue. It infuriates you in an unexplainable way and you spit the words in his face. “God dammit, fuck you, I don’t want - I don’t need - I don’t - I mean it. I fucking mean it. Please, just” smack “fucking” smack “go.”
Smack.
Like a booming clap of thunder, your last punch is so hard, it explodes the fragile wall holding the tears at bay.
Knees buckle. Shoulders slump. Fists slam the floor. You go down hard, and the result is devastation.
Ugly, wrenching sobs claw up your throat, stuck behind your clenched teeth until you open your mouth and howl. It hurts to cry this way, to let everything loose and accept the consequences of your failure. You will never save them all, and that clarity is a special brand of destruction.
Bucky says nothing. No words can solve this pain. No one knows that better than him.
Instead, he lays down on the sweat drenched mats beside you. Without a word, he wraps you into a hug, tucking you against his chest. Even if you don’t deserve this comfort, you cling to it. Clutching his shirt, the only lifeline you have left, you cry until that bottomless well of pain and misery finally runs dry. It takes hours, but Bucky is patient, never ceasing the comforting strokes up and down your spine.
And when it’s done, when your exhaustion leaves you unable to open puffy eyes, he simply lifts you up and carries you to your room. Places you gently on your bed and pulls the blankets over you.
“Bucky. Don’t go. Please don’t leave,” you beg hoarsely, and the misery in your voice breaks him. The bed dips as he climbs in beside you, wrapping you in his arms once again and you feel his lips brush your forehead.
The night bleeds into a dreary grey dawn, and right there, Bucky Barnes sinks into the comfort of a dreamless sleep, with you cradled tight in the heat of his arms.
*****
“Right there. Do you see?”
Eyes closed against the shining sun, you offer a sleepy hum. There’s a rustle of movement, and something soft tickles your cheek. It runs across your nose, touches your eyelids, sweeps light as a feather over your lips.
Eyes struggle open, and there you find Bucky watching, a little purple flower held in his long fingers. The look on his face is unreadable. He does that sometimes, looks at you like he wants to say something more, but he always hesitates, the words stuck in confused silence.
The petals wave faintly in the breeze and you smile.
“Pretty,” you say.
“Just a weed,” he shrugs.
“Still pretty,” you say. “Hand it over.”
Bucky places it in your outstretched palm. Gives a wry shake of the head.
“You’re the only one I know, who thinks weeds are beautiful.”
The small blossom sits thoughtfully in your hand and you hold it up, squinting to the sun.
“Just because something has a bad name, doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful.”
There’s a peculiar hope in Bucky’s face as he considers the statement. He likes those words. He likes them a lot. Wants to believe they might even include him too. But nervous silver fingers pick at the threadbare edge of the picnic blanket, and you see a shadow of self-doubt flit over his handsome face.
“Sometimes a weed is still a weed. Even pretty words can’t change that fact.”
The reference is clear. You know exactly what he means, because the list of negative metaphors Bucky uses to describe himself has grown extensive and colorful over the years. Rising to your knees, you shuffle closer until you’re facing him.
“Hey,” you say gently. Careful hands cup his face, the scratchy feel of his beard on your palms softer than you expected. “You better not be calling yourself a weed, Barnes. I’d hate to kick your ass out here in public.”
The shimmer of unshed tears in those blue eyes makes you ache for him. But when Bucky sees the determination in your face, he blinks them away. And like the little weed in your hand, a tiny smile begins to bloom.
He clears his throat.
“Kick my ass, huh? I’d really love to see how that goes.”
“It’ll go my way,” you say confidently. Picking up his heavy hand, you turn it palm up and peel his fingers back. Laying the purple flower in his hand, the vivid color glows against the bright silver. “See? Beautiful. Just like you.”
He stares at the flower. Looks up.
It happens right there, in the sun-soaked summer fields of Central Park; Bucky Barnes feels his heart stop at the taste of your kiss.
*****
“Right there. Do you see?”
Lost in thought, Bucky startles at the question.
Following the line of your arm, he sees you pointing into the infinite ocean of blue-black. Stars are speckled through the heavens, patterns of constellations and figures that you always manage see, but he can never seem to find.
Stuck in the middle of nowhere, the two of you walk along, miles from civilization. The first hint of winter settles all around, hard frost covering the tips of the grass, coating the pebbles edging the abandoned road, turning your breath to thick white clouds. It should make him anxious. Bucky hates the frost, despises the frozen blue that weaves maliciously through his worst nightmares.
But on this cold, moonlit night, with you warm by his side, he finds he doesn’t mind so much.
“What am I looking for?” he asks.
“Shooting star,” you say breathlessly. Tilting your head back, you go still, a beacon of patience awaiting a cosmic miracle. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Bucky peers up at the sky, but as the minutes click by, he knows he’ll never find what he needs up there.
He turns to look at you instead. Watches you watch the sky, his chest burning with contentment at the sight of your profile in this moonlit night.
“Sure,” he says. “So beautiful.”
Gloved fingers find yours, and you turn your gaze from the infinity of space, to this man beside you, solid and real and here on Earth. There is nothing in the world but the two of you, nothing else matters as you move impossibly close.
“Such a sap,” you murmur, your mouth a mere breath from his. The tip of his nose is icy against your cheek, and you can feel him smiling as he returns the kiss with a shiver.
The world is funny. Because this - this is your love story.
Built on blue bubblegum and stolen Oreos, blood-stained bandages and purple flowers, shooting stars and an endless night sky, this love bursts with highs and lows and a million variations in-between. Wrapped up in the delicious comfort of your kiss, Bucky wonders what in the world he ever did to earn this.
This perfectly imperfect life. Here. With you.
There’s no real answer, of course. Love is like that sometimes.
So instead, he dusts off those three words from another life, ones he’s stored away for decades, and he hands them over, because they’re the one thing he can always see, no matter how dark his world becomes.
“I love you,” he whispers. “More than anything.”
The words are drenched in happiness, syllables shaped with a quiet joy that glows brighter and fiercer than every constellation hanging above. And in the space of a single second -
Your heart skips.
Your breath catches.
You swear you could fly.
Because this is it, this is the moment. This is the big one.
And that right there is when you return those three words, the ones Bucky Barnes has been missing his whole life and the ones you’ve held close, since the night you found that blue bubblegum tacked onto your shoe.
The words are perfect. You kiss him again.
“I love you too, Bucky.”
*****
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
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never let you go masterlist
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Summary: After losing the woman they love, Bucky and Steve make a desperate decision with unimaginable consequences. 
Part 1
Part 2
End
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
Text
A love that never leaves Masterlist
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Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3 (flashback)
Chapter 4
Chapter 5 (flashback)
Chapter 6
Chapter 7 (flashback)
Chapter 8
Chapter 9 (flashback)
Chapter 10
Chapter 11 (flashback)
Chapter 12
Epilogue
ALTNL Headcanon
Beautiful Moodboard (thank you Salina!)
Beautiful Moodboard (thank you Em!)
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
Text
Best. Proposal. Ever.
Summary: Every year, Bucky makes his new year’s resolutions. And every year, he fails. Maybe this time, with a little help from his favourite girl, things will turn out different. 
Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Some well deserved murder and discussions of Bucky’s sexy man parts.
A/N: After writing Best. Date. Ever. I needed a sequel to explore this crazy relationship a little more. Both stories are connected, but you can read them in either order. Thanks a million to my fabulous boo @interestedbystanderwrites who decided to host a challenge and give me the idea for the next part of their story. This is all about “New Year’s Resolutions” so here we go!
If you want on/ off the tag list, send me an ask!
MASTERLIST
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*****
JANUARY 1
The wall feels blessedly cool against your forehead. Resisting the urge to bang your head repeatedly, you try an angry whispered pep talk.
“Come on. Come on. Go. This is not a big deal, it’s not. Get in there. Now. Now. Now.”
The kitchen is so close the scent of fresh coffee makes your mouth water. You could be in there, sipping that delicious black gold, but no. Instead, you’re standing in the hallway, shuffling awkwardly and berating yourself.
See, here’s the problem.
Last night at midnight, there were fireworks and party horns screaming as the New Year arrived. Slightly tipsy on champagne and caught up in the crazy whirl, you melted into Bucky’s snuggly hug. When he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, the feel was pure electricity. Without thinking, you turned into him, pressing your lips to his. 
It was tradition. A kiss at midnight. Everyone does it.
Except you lingered.
Breaking the kiss, you didn’t step away. It was far too easy to let yourself drown in those cool blue eyes. He held your stare and you saw the excitement brewing in his face. Then he took a breath, and you knew if he spoke, your walls would crumble.
Because since day one, Bucky’s made it abundantly clear he wants more.
So, like always, you panicked. Stepped back. Made another excuse and rushed off before he could speak.
On the surface, it makes no sense. Bucky Barnes is it, the full package. Full of dry humor and sweet smiles, his no filter approach to life leaves you breathless at time. And of course, there’s the obvious.
He is delightfully, scandalously sexy.
But you know starting something with him won’t work. Relationships are always hard, but when you tack on the business of avenging? They’re damn near impossible. Keeping your distance is best. Bucky always looks disappointed, but he respects the decision. Although it doesn’t stop him from flirting outrageously every time you’re together. You know he’s holding out hope that you’ll change your mind.
Cut to this morning.
You know he’s sitting alone in the kitchen. A barrier of sinfully sexy man sits between you and the coffee and you’re feeling exceedingly stupid about last night’s reaction to an innocent kiss.
“Go. Just sack the fuck up and go.”
Shoving yourself into the kitchen, you find Bucky hunched over a piece of paper. Deep in concentration, his tongue pokes from the corner of his mouth while he writes and the sheer adorableness makes your brain go fuzzy. Wide swaths of skin are on full display, as he’s decided to visually massacre you today by wearing nothing but a ragged pair of sweatpants.
Fuck.
“Morning,” he says, his voice quiet with a handful of gravel.
“Morning,” you murmur and head straight for the coffee, where the first sip sends caffeine surging through your veins. Sighing blissfully, you glance up to find him watching you, a small smile on his lips. “What are you doing?”
“New year’s resolutions,” he says. “Make them every year, but never seem to finish them.” He gives you considered look. “Keep thinking maybe I just need the right…motivation.”
“Maybe I can help,” you offer. “Tell me your list and I’ll keep you on track.”
“You’d do that?”
“Sure, I can whip you into shape.”
Bucky makes a little humming sound. “That sounds like a good time.”
Embarrassment skitters down your spine at the innuendo. “Well, you – um, show me what you’ve got.”
With a flourish, he brandishes the list. Written in careful block letters, you find three items and a random assortment of doodles.
Dance more
Find my karaoke song
Stop holding grudges
Whatever you expected, it wasn’t this. You’d assume Bucky Barnes’ new year’s resolutions included things like increase number of fiery explosions per mission and learn three new ways to sever a femoral artery, but these are surprisingly normal.
“These are great, Bucky. Are you only doing three though? I thought you only made lists in multiples of four.”
He gives you a cheeky wink. “I like that you know that. But no. I’m living on the edge this year.”
“Ah. I like your drawings.”
“Right? Everyone thinks Steve’s the artist, but I hold my own,” he points to the line of knives and grenades and cats he’s drawn down the page. “Figure if I get tired of murder and revenge, this could be another career path.”
The decisiveness in his voice makes you bite back a smile.
“Well, I swear I’ll harass you whenever required,” you say and Bucky’s nose scrunches when he grins.
Gathering up your coffee, and thanking god you made it out without looking like an idiot, you turn to walk away when he suddenly barks out a request.
“Wait! We should shake on it. Make it official.”
Sometimes he gets weirdly formal about things, so you capitulate with a firm shake. Right before you pull away, you feel him curl his finger and teasingly tickle your palm.
A long shiver runs from your head to your toes. Tugging your hand nervously away, you fold it behind your back. He smiles, little crinkles lining his eyes.
It’s distracting.
“Um. Okay. Bye then.”
And you turn and hurry from the kitchen.
Bucky scratches his nose with the pen cap and watches you leave. He starts to fold up his list, when an idea pops in his head. One he’s been thinking about for ages. Since the very first day he met you.
Best day ever, actually.
Smoothing out the list, he adds one more thing. Then he folds it carefully and slips it into his pocket.
 *****
RESOLUTION #1: DANCE MORE
“Sometimes I can’t believe this is our job,” Bucky says with relish. He adjusts his duffel bag, dragging you through the crowded alley.
Tripping along behind him, you hold tight to his sleeve. “Remind me why you volunteered for this mission?”
“I said I wanted to dance more,” he answers nonchalantly. “New Year’s resolution and all. Seemed like a good opportunity.”
“But it’s a strip club. I thought you meant like, you wanted to tap dance or something. You know you’ll be dancing on a stage. In front of people. In tiny underwear. Like - very tiny underwear.”
“What?” Bucky gasps and stops so abruptly you slam into him. He spins around to face you. “Are you saying people will see my special naughty place?”
“You’re an asshole,” you grumble and he laughs.
“Don’t forget, you’re supposed to be encouraging my resolutions. You promised to support me.”
“Yeah, well…”
You did agree. You just didn’t know fulfilling the resolution would involve wiggling his man bits for all the world to see.
Not that it matters. Because it doesn’t. It doesn’t.
There’s a burly bouncer guarding the back entrance to the club and he lifts an eyebrow when you both arrive. Bucky turns it on, rubbing his neck and giving the man a shaky smile.
“Hello sir. Is it okay if she comes with me? It’s my first time on stage and I’m just feeling so nervous, you know? Like, ugh! Are people gonna like my dance and will I be able to swing around the pole right and what if my junk falls out of my underwear too soon? God, it’s like, so stressful!”
The man rolls his eyes, waves you through, and goes back to Tinder swiping.
“Nailed it,” Bucky whispers smugly. “Hashtag espionage.”
Backstage, the world smells like baby powder and perfume. The club specifically hires dancers who look like celebrities, and seeing a parade of scantily clad men and women you think you recognise is strange.
Bucky looks around with interest. You suddenly want to staple his eyes shut.
“Quit staring,” you mutter. “We’re supposed to be undercover.”
“I’m not staring, it’s reconnaissance. Why? Does it bother you?” He nudges you. “Don’t worry, you know I only prefer you. Gimmie that green light and I’ll prove it.”
Hefting the duffel bag on the make-up table labelled DANCER 3: WINTER SOLDIER, he empties the contents.
“Bucky, you know we – ”
“Aha!” Fishing his outfit for the night from the pile, he dangles it in front of you. “Sexy right? You gonna be okay with everyone seeing me in tiny underwear?”
That’s – okay. That’s a red g-string. He’s going to wear a red g-string and get all sweaty and oily and dance in front of everyone.
This is bullshit.
“I’m – that’s just. Yeah. Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
Why the hell did your voice scale up? He tilts his head and there’s that smartass little grin.
“No reason. Just hoping you might wanna keep my ass all to yourself.”
“Well, I’d hate to deprive the world from the glory that is your ass.”
“I do have a great ass,” Bucky agrees solemnly. “You know there’s even a Twitter account for it?”
“I know,” you say drily. “You started that Twitter account.”
“Well, someone needed to. Alright, I gotta change now.”
And he starts stripping.
He kicks off his boots and tugs his shirt over his head and your mouth goes dry. His fingers fiddle with the zipper of his jeans and he slides it down slowly, your eyes following with fascination. When he starts to pull the jeans open, you lick your lips.
Bucky clears his throat.
Wide eyes fly up to meet his and you find a ridiculously smug expression.
“Sorry,” you sputter and he shrugs.
“S’okay. I like when you look at me. You’re gonna oil me up for this too, right?”
He tosses you a bottle of baby oil and you immediately fumble it. It slips and slides and you drop it, step on it, and kick it under the make-up table.
Bucky looks at you in surprise.
Panicked, you make a beeline for the door, calling behind you.  
“I gotta go. You’re good. Have – fun. Or whatever. Bye.”
Thirty minutes later, you’ve finished a sweep of the place and settled into position. Waiting for Bucky’s show to begin, the internal debate rages fiercely.
It doesn’t matter, right? Bucky Barnes isn’t yours. There’s no friend’s with benefits thing and you don’t want a relationship. You don’t. You’ve made that perfectly clear.
So, here’s the million dollar question then: if you don’t care, why the hell does the idea of an oily, naked, dancing Bucky make you want to blind everyone else in this club?
You have a problem.
“Fucking focus,” you snap to yourself. Fixing your eyes on the evening’s targets, the four Hydra assholes in the booth opposite the stage, you shove aside the mental images of oily, naked, dancing Bucky and concentrate.
Sort of.
Until –
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new dancer. Here for his stage debut, put your hands together for our sexy Winter Soldier!”
The lights dim.
Smoke billows across the stage and a tall shadow appears in the door leading backstage. Broad shouldered, shoulder length hair, even the arrogant outline of his body exudes sex.
Full scale theatrics. Of course.
He steps forward and the spotlight embraces him. Music blares through the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.
Dressed all in black, from his leather jacket and leather pants, to the combat boots and mask hiding his face, he murder struts across the stage and grabs the pole. With his left hand, he lifts himself easily, curving his body gracefully as he swings a slow circle.
“Oh my god,” you grit out.
“Oh my god,” you hear two women beside you groan happily.
Bucky dances like he owns the stage, punctuating each heavy bass beat with a thrust of his hips. As he moves, he drags down the zipper of his leather jacket, teasing it from his shoulders until is slides off and he launches it into the crowd.
Under the low light, his bare chest shimmers with oil.
“Jesus that arm is realistic,” a guy behind you shouts.
Bending at the waist, he runs his hands slowly up his legs and then reaches behind and slaps his ass. Popping the button on his way too tight leather pants, he starts to shimmy them down his hips. How he manages to get out of them so easily is a question for the ages, but there they go, flying into the audience.
Cocking his hip, he poses. Dark hair frames the black mask and his thick thighs are accentuated by his black combat boots, and of course, there it is, in all its itty-bitty glory.
The red g-string.
What. The. Fuck.
“What the fuck,” you whine under your breath.
And then it gets worse.
He falls to his hands and knees and crawls across the stage. It feels like you swallowed sawdust so you start chugging a bottle of water. When he reaches the end, he sits up on his knees and drags his hands through his hair. His hips mimic the heavy bass beat, rolling in a slow, pulsing rhythm.
“This is fucking bullshit,” you hiss. Fingering the rough handle of the gun strapped beneath your coat, you glare at the beautiful woman by the stage who’s now enthusiastically shoving dollar bills in the waistband of Bucky’s underwear.
Later, you’ll thank god and Steve Rogers’ precise ops planning timeline, for saving you from accidentally shooting her in the foot on purpose.
Because here’s what happens next.
Like a record scratch, the music ends and that’s the cue. Lightning fast, Bucky flips backward, and you’re not sure how he does it without his dick flopping out of his tiny underwear, but mid-roll, he snakes two knives from his boots and lets them fly.
Wickedly sharp blades hit the necks of the two men on the edge of the booth. The other two men leap up, drawing their guns, but they’re so focused on Bucky, they never see you coming. Two well aimed bullets hit their mark and both drop.
There’s plenty of screaming in the club, although half the crowd appears entertained, thinking maybe it’s all part of the Winter Soldier show. But then the lights go up and here come Sam and Steve, bringing it to a close.
Handcuffs, several arrests, a little more baby oil, and a few mission reports later, the place is clearing out.
Bucky stands by the stage, still dressed in his tiny underwear and combat boots, a patient smile on his face. The same woman who was shoving money down his pants earlier is batting her eyelashes and trailing her finger down his arm.
It makes you see red, and no, that’s not a euphemism for the scrap of cloth covering his goods. In that moment, the clouds clear and you realise something.
Maybe it’s a good idea, maybe it’s not – but you’re done ignoring this feeling.
Stalking toward them, Bucky shoots you a look, begging to be extracted from the conversation. Stepping between them, you face the woman, removing her hand from his bicep and giving her a brittle smile.
“Hi. Time to back off, Karen.”
“My name’s not Karen,” she sneers.
“Whatever.” Pulling the money from Bucky’s underwear, you turn around and shove the fistful of bills in her face. “He’s good, thanks.”
She looks like she’s going to say something, but you make a waving motion with your hands. “Shoo. Go away.”
Turning back to face him, you find a dark little smirk.
“Jealous, honey cakes?” he asks saucily.
“Insanely,” you admit and shock lights up his face. Locking your fingers behind his neck, you pull his face toward you. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot. Can I change my mind? I want to try this you and me thing. If you’re still interested, I mean.”
“Holy shit, I’m so fucking interested,” he says eagerly.
“Also, I know you wanted to dance more this year, but how about no more dancing unless it’s just for me. Is that okay?”
Bucky answers with a deep kiss and you feel him grinning.
“Fuck yes it’s okay,” he sucks your lip when he pulls back. “See, I knew you loved my ass. You can run the Twitter account now, if you want.” 
RESOLUTION #1: DANCE MORE
*****
RESOLUTION #2: FIND MY KARAOKE SONG
Deep in thought, Bucky slouches in the cracked leather booth. Absently peeling the label from a bottle of beer, he flips through a fat notebook stuffed with song titles.
Once in a blue moon, the world decides to play nice and you find yourself mission free for a night. It seems like the perfect opportunity to work down his list, so with a little cajoling and a few well-placed kisses, here you are. 
“I don’t know about this,” he says doubtfully.
“I do. Come on, you’ll be great.”
“Well I know that,” he says, taking a swing of beer. “I’m always awesome. So are you, by the way. I’m just not sure any of these songs can really showcase my awesomeness.”
“The ongoing tragedy of your life,” you reply in amusement.
He snorts in agreement as he flips through the binder, page after page, shunning every song he finds, until he stops. Shuffles back a few pages and a sly smile emerges.
“Nevermind. I have it. Best idea ever,” he decides. Slamming the book shut, he picks up the stubby little pencil, scribbling the title on a piece of paper. When you try to get a peek, he shields it from view and tuts at you.
Bemused, you steel yourself for the inevitable occurrence that comes with taking Bucky Barnes anywhere.
That is to say: shit might get weird.
Folding the paper into a complex paper airplane, he aims it at the kid manning the karaoke machine. It zips through the air and lands right on top of the pile of song requests. The kid looks unfolds the paper and looks around, searching for the requester.
Bucky waves maniacally and points to himself. The kid gives him a strange look. Looks at the paper in confusion. Looks back up to Bucky, who nods again and gives him two enthusiastic thumbs up. The kid shrugs and punches the song into the machine.  
Now officially decision free, he snakes an arm over your shoulders and nuzzles his face against your neck. Tugging your legs toward him, he walks feather light fingers up your thigh, slipping under your skirt.
“Hey, listen,” he breathes against your skin and goosebumps bloom in the path of cool metal. “Think I’m gonna need some physical encouragement. My ego’s very fragile.”
“No, it’s not.”
“No, it’s not. But how’s about you lemme feel your panties anyway?”
“Bucky stop,” you whisper sternly, pushing his hand down, “saying panties. It’s creepy. Now get your head in the game.”
“Okay,” he whispers, choking back a laugh. He squeezes your knee instead. “But just tell me one thing though, and be honest – are they lace? I fucking love lace.”
“Yes, I know. You texted me seven times while I was shopping. Try not to suck ass up there and maybe later you’ll find out.”
He makes a growling noise and bites your ear.
“Fuck me, you’re so god damn sexy.”
Whiling away the time until his song, he spends the next fifteen minutes trying to persuade you to join him in the bathroom for ‘just one quick peek at your underpanties, I swear that’s all.’ His fingers are stroking the inside of your thigh and you’re this close to giving in, when a voice booms through the bar.
“James Barnes! You’re up.”
“Woo yeah, here we go,” Bucky sings out. Planting a huge kiss on your lips, he rolls from the booth and heads up front.
Foregoing the stairs, because he’s exceptionally dramatic, he leaps onto the stage and finger-guns the crowd as he strolls to the centre. Plucking the microphone from the stand, he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, bounces on his toes and shakes his arms, loosening up. His voice drops several octaves when he lifts the mic and speaks.
“This one,” he drawls, raising a finger and aiming at you, “is for that absolutely gorgeous creature right there.”
Then he blows you a kiss and looks over to the sound guy working the music.
“Hit it Jeeves,” he orders.
There’s a momentary pause and the down beat hits. And there, on the stage of a small divey karaoke bar on the outskirts of Manhattan, you see something you never expected.
Bucky Barnes, belting out Beyonce without a hint of self-consciousness.
 Such a funny thing for me to try to explain
How I’m feeling and my pride is the one to blame
‘Cause I know I don’t understand
Just how your love can do what no one else can
 The blue screen displaying the lyrics is wholly unnecessary. He clearly knows the song by heart, his rendition is flawless and his Beyonce imitation so perfectly on point, you wonder when the hell he had time to memorise it all.
Watching him in that moment, a flash of understanding fills your head, and you know. Beyond a shadow of doubt, you know.
You are in love with this man.
Crazy in love.
Wildly and completely, with every piece of your heart.
 If you ain’t there, ain’t nobody else to impress
It’s the way that you know what I thought I knew
It’s the beat my heart skips when I’m with you
But I still don’t understand
Just how your love can do what no one else can
 Basking in the fresh knowledge, you laugh when Bucky suddenly jumps from the stage. Without missing a beat, he remains effortlessly in tune. Eyes locked on you, he dances his way through the crowded tables, a slow progression toward you.
And when he arrives, you fall even further.
Hand on his heart, Bucky serenades you, big and sweaty and beautiful. When he motions you up, you climb easily from the booth and find yourself face to face in the unexpected spotlight.
 ‘Cause your love’s got the best of me,
And baby, you’re making a fool of me,
You got me sprung and I don’t care who sees
‘Cause, baby, you got me, you got me so crazy –
 “Nah, fuck it.”
He ends the song there, dropping the mic where it hits the floor with a screech. Curling a wide palm behind your neck, another around your waist, he dips you back over his arm and captures your lips in a searing kiss. Throwing every drop of passion into the kiss, you jump and he catches you, pulling your legs tight around his hips. His mouth slants across yours and he keeps kissing you, longer and harder, until you’re both gasping for air.
You feel lightheaded and tingly. And then Bucky bumps his nose against yours and whispers three new words in your ear.
“I love you, honey sugar. I really do, I’m so fucking crazy for you. Just in case that wasn’t clear.”
Raking your fingers through his messy mop of hair, you kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips. Every inch of skin you can find.
“I really love you too,” you say breathlessly. “This is our song now, right?”
“You’re damn straight it is.”
RESOLUTION #2: FIND MY KARAOKE SONG
 *****
RESOLUTION #3: STOP HOLDING GRUDGES
Perched on the roof, you press your eye to the scope on your rife. Through the cross-hairs, you see people milling below, dressed in cocktail attire. Bucky has his rifle propped up as well and he grunts when he spies one of your targets for the evening.
“Look at that fucking dickbag hitting on that waitress. She looks upset.” He looks over at you and offers his pleading puppy eyes. “I’m gonna shoot him, ‘kay?”
“Bucky, no.”
“Bucky, yes.”
His finger caresses the trigger longingly, until you reach over and push his rifle up. He lets out frustrated little squawk.
“You can’t kill him yet, you’ll blow our position.”
“I didn’t say kill him. I said shoot. Just a little maiming. He deserves it. Please?”
“Later,” you promise and he sighs. Laying his gun on the edge of the wall, he folds his arms and chews his thumbnail in silence.
Well, as silent as Bucky Barnes can ever be.
“I’m still mad about earlier,” he announces.
“I’m still shocked,” you reply.
Turning to you, he eyes you suspiciously.
“Are you mocking me?”
“I would never do that.”
“That sounds fake, but okay. Do you even know why I’m mad?”
Shrugging, you stay focused on the crowd. “Something Sam did, right?”
“It wasn’t just something,” Bucky hisses. “This is serious and I need you to pay attention. Do you remember that time I opened all my blueberry Pop Tarts so they could get stale before I ate them?”
“I do,” you say without looking over. “We had ants for a week.”
He waves his hand dismissively.
“Listen, I’m not looking for a history lesson.”
“Also, that was weird. Who eats stale Pop Tarts?”
“I’m also not interested in unwarranted criticism of my culinary skills. The point is, I thought we all agreed that any and all future stale Pop Tarts were to be consumed by me and me alone.”
“We did agree,” you say.
“Then why the hell were all five packages I opened gone? They were nearly perfect - almost chewy, just a little crunchy, and now I have to start over. My whole fucking week is ruined.”
Finally looking away from the scope, you fix him with an exasperated stare.
“I know baby, but maybe you should just get over it.”
Betrayal sparks from his eyes at your words. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“Maybe I should just get over it? How can you say that? Whose side are you on? I’m emotionally compromised here.”
“You’re also a drama queen,” you answer, going back to your scope and Bucky digs a metal finger into your ribs.
“That’s not the point. I’m never getting over this. Sam’s an asshole, he’s been eyeing my Pop Tarts for weeks.”
“Kinky,” you murmur under your breath.
He throws his hands up in frustration. “How can you still be joking? I’m righteously indignant and you’re ruining it.”
Through the cross-hairs, the asshole bothering the waitress and his fuckwit companion suddenly appear in a dark window. Bucky sees your posture tense and professional that he is, flips seamlessly from petulant Pop Tart lover back to lethal assassin. Lifting his rifle, he goes silent, waiting for your signal.
“Third floor, second window to the south,” you say quietly. “I’ll take right, you take left.”
Through a stroke of luck, the window into the room is open. Shoulder to shoulder with him, you fire simultaneous silent shots, and in the dark room, both men collapse.
Piece of cake.
Easing the rifles down, you lean together against the wall to disassemble the weapons. Snapping the magazine free, you look at Bucky with a soft smile.
“You know, this is a good opportunity to tick the box on your last New Year’s resolution. The one about not holding grudges. Maybe you should take it, cut Sam some slack.”
He glances over and a strange look comes into his eye. Before you can react, he plucks the gun from your hands and pushes you back, swinging a leg over to straddle you. Pinning your hands above your head, he leans down and leaves a wet kiss on your neck.
“Why are you always right? It’s annoying.”
“Well, I learned from the best,” you reach up and lick his face.
Huffing a laugh, he rubs his damp cheek on you and presses his forehead to yours.
“You’re too good for me. I’m not sure if you know this, but sometimes I get a little murdery.”
“That is absolutely new news,” you deadpan and he growls and digs his fingers into your sides, tickling you until you’re quietly begging him to stop before someone hears. He complies and that strange look is back, before it gives way to an affectionate smile.
“Honey darlin, you know what? You make me want to be a better person.”
You place a kiss on the tip of his nose and he beams.
RESOLUTION #3: STOP HOLDING GRUDGES
 *****
DECEMBER 31
Another year has come and gone, but this New Year’s Eve is different.
While the party rages down below, up on the roof the night is quiet. Wrapped in a sea of quilts, you and Bucky lay tangled together on a lounge chair, staring up at the stars.
“So, New Year’s Eve again,” you nudge him. “Looks like you made it through your list this year. Success like that deserves an extra special sexy reward.”
Bucky’s face is buried against your neck and you feel the vibration when he laughs.
“As much as I’d love to cash that in, I don’t deserve it. Not yet.” Keeping the quilt around you, he shuffles himself down your body, until he can rest his chin on your chest. “I didn’t finish the list.”
“Yes, you did,” you remind him, smoothing back his hair. “Dancing, karaoke, no more grudges. We crossed them all off.”
There’s a slow smile spreading over his face. The kind that makes you equal parts nervous and sort of sappy.
“Are you sure that’s all that was on my list?”
He reaches into the pocket of his suit pants and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it carefully, he hands it over. Written below the third resolution, is a fourth line of text, surrounded by cat doodles. There, in Bucky’s careful print, is one resolution you don’t remember.
Dance more
Find my karaoke song
Stop holding grudges
Sack the fuck up
The words make no sense and you look up in confusion. And for the first time in your life, you see a blush of red staining his cheeks.  
Bucky Barnes is nervous.
He clears his throat.
“Here’s the thing. Every resolution I did, you were with me. And every time, they meant something. Special. About us. But I still got this last resolution, and I knew it’d be the hardest one, but I gotta do it before midnight, because I’ve been thinking about it the whole damn year.”
“Okay, can I help you? Does it mean sack up and do something specific?”
“It does. Means something very specific and I do need your help. But before I tell you what, I need you to do me a few favours. Can you reach into my left coat pocket?”
Slightly bewildered, you dig into his coat where your fingers close around a scrap of silk. Pulling it free, you find his red g-string. Stitched on the front in black cursive letters, are your initials.
“That night I did my dance, when you almost kicked that lady’s ass and said you wanted to give us a shot? I’ve never been so fucking excited in my life. Told you then I’d only ever dance for you and now I got your initials on my goods, so everyone’ll know. I’m all yours.”
Your heart skips a beat.
It’s the sweetest, weirdest thing he’s ever done. You want to say thanks, but the words are stuck in your throat, blocked by a sudden batch of tears, so you simply nod.
The corner of his lips quirk up.
“Okay, now reach into my left pants pocket.”
He wiggles his hips suggestively and this time, you find a Polaroid picture. The image is a little blurry, but there’s Bucky dipping you backward, your arms around his neck while he kisses you. The memory surfaces easily, of karaoke and Beyonce and declarations of love. On the edge of the photo is a little black button and he squeezes it.
The sound of Bucky singing ‘Crazy in Love’ starts playing and the tears in your throat spill now from your eyes.
“Had a few people recording it that night. Got Stark to embed a little speaker in the photo. That night was the first time I said I loved you. Not sure if you knew that. I’d been sweating about it for weeks.”
Taking a shaky breath, you give him a watery smile. “I knew. It was the first time for me too.”
He nods and light as a feather, strokes his thumb down your cheek, wiping away the tears.
“Next. Try my right coat pocket.”
The strange feel of crinkly foil meets your fingers and you discover an open pack of Pop Tarts.
“They’re the frosted cherry ones, ‘cause I know you like those best. Sometimes, when I’m pissed off at the world, I remember what you told me that day on the roof. And I think to myself – if I can forgive someone for eating my Pop Tarts, a capital offence by the way, then I can forgive anything. You really do make me wanna be the best version of myself.”
There’s no conceivable reason why Pop Tarts should be a trigger, but the tears flow faster, punctuated with the occasional hiccup. Bucky chuckles, kissing them away and waiting.
“When I started this year, I had three resolutions in mind and because of you, I did them all. And I made them count. You’re the best god damn thing in my life honey. I hope you know that.” He kisses your palm and lays your hand against his cheek.
Bucky has never been shy about telling you these things. He says them frequently, with clarity and conviction. After everything he’s been through, you know it stems from a deep-rooted fear that the things he loves could disappear in the blink of an eye. It’s why he goes full throttle on everything he does – every mission he takes, every date he plans, every toe-curling kiss he gives.
“But after I wrote those resolutions, something was still missing. The one thing I wanted to do more than anything else. That’s why I added that last one.”
“Bucky – ”
“Not just yet,” he whispers. “Last one. Can you check my right pants pocket?”
Smooth satin lining brushes your trembling fingers, until they connect. It feels velvety soft and before you can think, you pull it free.
There it is.
Sitting in the palm of your hand, is a blue velvet jewellery box. Heart thumping wildly, you stare at the box and mutely look up at Bucky. He watches your reaction, his expression raw and vulnerable. Picking the box from your numb fingers, he cracks it open and you see the ring nestled inside. Looking back to him, you see his throat bobbing as he swallows twice, before he can speak.  
“I knew it back in January, that’s why this was my last resolution. Sack the fuck up – and ask her,” he takes a deep breath, his eyes burning into yours. “I love you, honey. I swear I’ll never, ever stop loving you. So, how about it? You wanna be my forever?”
If the only thing you get to see the rest of your life, is that beautiful smile on his face, it’s enough. The answer comes easy, so simple, because it’s Bucky.
“Yes. Good god, yes, of course! Yes, yes, yes, yes!”
Tipping his head back, he shouts his excitement to the heavens. Taking out the ring, he chucks the empty box over his shoulder and slips it on your finger.
Two kisses follow, one above the diamond, and one below.
He sags with relief, rubbing his neck ruefully. “Jesus I was nervous, no clue how to ask, nothing seemed good enough – ”
“Stop,” you interrupt him, covering his mouth. He narrows his eyes and licks your hand.
“You fucking weirdo,” you giggle and wipe your slobbery palm on his face. “This was perfect, Bucky. You are perfect. And this? Best. Proposal. Ever.”
Above you, midnight arrives with an explosion of colour, fireworks streaking in red and green and gold and blue, but you barely notice.
In the frosty air of a brand new year, the love of your life and the warmth of his kiss are the only things you need.
*****
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
Text
A love that never leaves (2)
Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.
Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Sad Bucky.
A/N: The plot thickens. Bucky recovers from a shit situation and learns more about the person who found him. Remembering is really hard and memories do not cooperate.
I’m planning to post a chapter a week, on either Saturday or Sunday. I tried to tag everyone who reached out, but if I missed you, it was unintentional, so please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!
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Previously...
The figure halts. A gloved hand reaches to pull back the hood of the white coat and a woman’s face appears. Even through the howling wind, Bucky hears her question clearly and he doesn’t understand why the two syllables feel like a knife ripping through skin and bone and thick sinew, straight to his heart.
“Soldier?”
She speaks hesitantly, her voice tinged with a peculiar hint of hope. Bucky wants to ruminate further, but his fingers are rubbing the slippery edges of his gunshot wounds and the snow around him is greedy, lusting for the hot blood he spills.
He wants to answer. He tries to answer, he really does.
Instead, he falls face first into the soft snow.
*****
MISSION REPORT
CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT.
WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR – 
For what? The words evaporate. Smoke in the wind. The pencil clatters to the floor and rolls away and his notebook follows. He goes to his knees in front of the brick wall and he slams his fist against it again and again, until his knuckles are shredded. 
He screams.
****
Bucky’s entire body is on fire.
Burning hot, scorching him from the inside out. This can’t be right, he’s done. He’s supposed to be done with this shit, what are they doing now? Bleary eyes open and he tries to speak. To tell them no, to leave him alone, to please just fucking stop. Heat races through his veins, suffocating him and he feels rivers of sweat coursing down his face, down his chest, down his arms. 
Above him, floats a blurry face, both intensely familiar and completely foreign. She wipes a cold cloth over his face and Bucky sighs in relief. 
Darkness comes again.
*****
We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…
The melody flows like water inside his head and Bucky follows it slowly, swimming languidly into consciousness. When he breaks the surface, his brain comes to life, but his eyes stay closed.
It’s a trait he perfected over the years, waking up without anyone realizing. Back then, he’d quickly discovered if you’re flat on your back and don’t know where you are, your safest bet is certainly not to show them you’re awake. Once they know, you lose your advantage.
That’s usually when the pain starts.
Instead, he starts his internal assessment. Ears straining for any hint of sound, he waits, listening for anything. The intake of breath, a quiet sniffle, the whisper of fabric, a footfall. Anything. The silence stretches and he’s finally forced to conclude – either his captor is just that good, or he’s alone. 
Cracking an eye, he draws a soundless breath, taking stock of his surroundings.
This is – interesting.  
The room he’s in is dim, suffused with swaths of muted daylight streaming in through the massive window in front of the bed. His eyes track the expanse of clear glass, stretching from the floor, extending up the vaulted ceiling and ending in a wide skylight. A small fireplace is tucked into the corner, a basket of logs piled next to the dark slate tiles, and the soothing pop and crackle of wood lulls him toward a sense of false security. 
Snow still falls outside, but it’s no longer the wailing blizzard; instead, fat, wet flakes drift quietly by, piling onto the tall evergreens hugging the window. 
Feeling the silky sheen of satin against his skin, he peeks under the sheets to find himself nearly naked, wearing nothing more than a crisp white bandage and skin-tight boxers. 
“What the sweet fuck is this shit?” he mutters, dropping the sheets and struggling to sit up. The bed is wide and covered in all shades of blue – a dusty blue duvet, sky blue sheets, a midnight blue quilt – and suddenly it all mixes into a watery blur when his vision goes sideways. Pain rips through him and he flops back, whining softly. Pressing gently against the bandage, the pain flares so fast, he digs his heels into the bed, spine arching unconsciously. He can feel it, actually feel it, the tugging sensation of his skin knitting itself back together. Sweat instantly pours down his face.
“Don’t scream,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “don’t scream you fuckin’ baby, don’t.”
Clamping his lips together, he swallows the sounds he’d desperately love to howl, focusing on counting the snowflakes drifting past the window. He loses count of the deep, calming breaths he takes and long minutes later, the worst appears to pass. For now. Bucky’s rigid muscles begin to relax.
He appreciates the whole healing fast thing, he really does, but the process is just fucking unpleasant.
Swinging his legs over the bed, toes curling into a plush rug, he wobbles to his feet. Looking around, he searches for his clothes, but he comes up empty handed. He doesn’t actually mind the lack of clothing, it’s more the lack of pockets for weapons that irritate him.
But a good solider can make a weapon from anything, so he snatches a log from the basket next to the fireplace, rotates his arm until the plates shift smoothly, and creeps from the bedroom.  
Tiptoeing down the steps to the first level, he stops short. 
The small town he’d infiltrated was derelict, gritty, downtrodden.
The home he finds himself inhabiting is the polar opposite.
Wooden steps lead down into a cosy stone and log cabin. The small kitchen has an island with a couple hand-hewn stools and an oak butcher block in the middle, burnished copper pots hanging from a rack above. The floor is a deep russet red, the wide-planked floorboards containing a myriad of knots and whorls. Above him, thick beams stretch the expanse of the room, with dark iron lighting fixtures casting a rosy glow through the room. In the centre wall of the living room, flanked with tall vertical windows, stands a fireplace, the uneven shapes of grey river rock fitting together seamlessly. From the tall windows, he has a clear view of a foggy mountain range. Another fire crackles and pops merrily in the calm silence. 
A cracked white pitcher filled with pine boughs gives off a sharp, clean scent and Bucky finds himself struggling to remain overly vigilant, because it’s beautiful. It’s a home. 
Beauty means nothing though. A lesson he learned the hard way through the years.
Slinking into the kitchen, he rummages through the silverware, turning up three finely sharpened knives. Two, he tucks into the elastic band of his boxers, feeling instant relief at the feel of the blades hugging his hip. The third, a large butcher knife, he flips around and holds outward, ready to swing.
Switching into stealth mode, he goes to work.
Rifling through kitchen cupboards and drawers. Lifting throw pillows and blankets from the sofa. Scanning rows of books arranged in alphabetical order. Searching a small linen closet. Ears perked for the sound of footsteps outside.
And yeah, he finds a few things.
A few weird things.
It starts in the small closet. Buried under a pile of quilts, he finds a heavy metal box. Pulling a bobby pin from the perpetual tangle of colorful hair-ties he keeps around his wrist, it takes a few tries before he has the lock picked. Lifting the lid reveals a perfectly folded pile of worn t-shirts. Shaking each out, he scans the logos – emblazoned across each one is a different city from Bon Jovi’s 1986 Slippery When Wet European tour. 
They’re just old t-shirts, the kinds you find people hawking at concert venues or in the bargain bin at a thrift store. Nothing special or expensive. Yet here they are, folded into neat squares and tucked into a box that could probably withstand an explosion. 
His confusion spirals, but Bucky fights a small smile. It seems odd, but hey, he really likes Bon Jovi too. Maybe he would do the same.
Re-folding the tissue thin cloth, he locks the box and stuffs it back in place.
Trying the bookcase next, he pulls books out, feeling behind them. Knuckles rap at random, tap, tap, tap, until he hears an unexpected thunk. The hollow sound gives it away and with a shove, he shifts the back panel and finds another small locked box. Holding it under his arm, he fiddles with the bobby pin again and the lid cracks. Two items appear.
A crushed red velvet jewelry bag.
A handful of cheap vintage postcards in a clear plastic bag.
Crouching to the floor, he shakes the contents of the jewelry bag free. A handful of silvery-blue pebbles clatter out and in the middle of the pile, a necklace. Bucky holds the worn chain up to the light. Spinning slowly on the end is a round disc, a little dingy and rubbed smooth, but he can see the outline. 
Bucky wasn’t exactly a good little Catholic growing up, and yeah, religion wasn’t the sort of personal expression Hydra encouraged for the Soldier. His knowledge of saints was spotty as a kid and is extensively worse now, but he recognizes the medal – he knows Steve had one, wore it during the war and was wearing it when his plane went down. He donated it to the Smithsonian when he returned. Most of the military seemed to have one back then and Bucky assumes he had one as well, although he has no clue.
On the little medal, is the image of Saint Michael. The patron saint of Soldiers.
Fingering the medal pensively, he tries to summon a memory, any memory. He figures he must have something in there that could build off this particular war-related trinket.
But no. Just like always.
Setting it gently aside, he opens the clear bag instead. Pulling out the postcards, he lines them carefully up in front of him, internally translating the languages.
Covered with palm trees, an exuberant statement in French: Welcome to sunny Nice!
A colorful boulevard linked with green trees in Spanish stating: The Beauty of Barcelona 
A laughing cartoon caricature of a man holding skis in Swiss German: Enjoy your Winter in Zurich
The solemn announcement in Italian, written over an image of the Coliseum: Hello from Rome: The Eternal City
Orange and red leaves, covering a giant beer stein in German: Oktoberfest in Munich!
And the dogged mantra of the stoic English, tall white letters against a soft pink backdrop: Keep Calm and Carry On
But the one that piques his interest the most, is last in the pile. A hand-painted postcard, the paint chipped and faded through time, of the Brooklyn Bridge at night. The title above in carefully printed letters reads: Brooklyn, New York – Thank God It’s Not Jersey. Bucky feels his heart stutter at the words, because he’s pretty god damn sure he and Steve used to throw out that same phrase. 
On the back of the Brooklyn postcard, he finds the inked shapes of two hearts tangled together.
Bucky stares hard at the image, so simple but vibrating with some unknown meaning. Flipping through all the other cards, he finds them blank, nothing more than a pretty collection. Bewildered and careening toward frustrated anger, he gathers them together and slips them into the bag. He bangs the box shut and hides it away again.
He finds three more locked boxes in his search, each containing innocuous items. One with a thin, moth-eaten baby blanket. One with a random assortment of old Life magazines.
After stowing away the final box, housing an envelope with three sepia toned photos of a tall man and a small girl, he spends another ten minutes searching for clues. Finally, he’s convinced the room has shared all its secrets - until he notices the crease in the rug below the coffee table.
Shoving the table aside, Bucky flips up the rug. In the middle of the floor, he finds a plank of wood slightly thinner than the others, with a small chink in the edge. Crouching down, he runs his thumb around it and nudges it up, finding a hidden space below.
There he finds one more box. His beleaguered bobby pin gives a final brave attempt and with a quiet snick, the lock pops open. 
Inside are three dusty books. Peeling gold letters line the spine of each, showing a single word, followed by three different numbers. 
Journal, 1967 Journal, 1968 Journal, 1969 
From the pages of 1969, a ticket stub flutters to the floor.
*****
Under the fall of lacy snowflakes, she walks. Circling the small cabin for hours, her toes are damn near frozen, but she finds herself unwilling to go back inside. He has to be waking soon and the thought of facing him makes her chest ache. Instead, she walks the narrow path along the bank of the rushing stream bordering her home and argues with herself.
Go inside. Ask him. Talk to him. See if he remembers. Tell him the truth! He deserves to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe he’ll just kill you and be done. Probably not though, you’re not that lucky.
Hysterical laughter bubbles up and she digs the puffy gloved heels of her palms into her eyes. She really needs to get out more. This constant talking to herself thing will get her institutionalized someday.
But she literally has no one else to talk to. And that right there, has always been the problem. 
Brushing the snow from a giant boulder, she gingerly sits. Bending forward, she drops her head to her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, trying desperately not to give in to the panic attack threatening to drive its anxious fingers into her brain. Memories begin to swirl and even after all this time, the sound of his voice rises so easily to the surface, a sweet, drawling Brooklyn twang that turns her stomach to knots.
“Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en France qui ne m'aiment pas?”
“Can I walk you home?”
“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise I will.”
“You’re what I want. You’re what I’m always gonna want.”
“You and me, this kind of love, it lasts forever, okay? It’s never gonna leave.”
“Dammit. Shit shit shit,” she chants to herself. Thick and heavy, the memories press down until she buckles under the burden of remembering. Tears begin to fall, hot trails down her face and she wipes them away, her hands shaking. 
She stays on the frozen rock, letting time pass while the cold seeps through her clothes. The air is so icy, it makes her lungs seize.
*****
The butcher knife lays beside him, within easy reach. Bucky sits cross-legged on the floor, flicking through the pages at random. He pauses now and then, digging deeper, losing himself in the faded ink of another’s life.
19 May, 1967
America is strange. I arrived in Los Angeles with no goal, just rented a car and drove. First to the coast and saw the ocean. It was different than the first time Papa took me – I’ve never seen anything so blue. I tried not to think about it, but it was in my head. It’s always there. Blue everywhere. The water, the sky, his eyes. I can never leave it behind.
The songs on the radio here, they’re different too. It feels like the heart of this country is screaming and I see why. Vietnam is different. This war, it’s unexplainable maybe, but there’s a frustrated weariness in the words. 
But then again, is it really that different? No matter the fight, Soldiers still give their lives and leave their sweethearts crying in the streets. They promise to come home, that ridiculously naive optimism of youth, and instead they die in a battle they never wanted to join. It’s the universal truth of every fight, since the beginning of time. The tears should be enough to stop this all from happening, but no. War keeps coming, one after another, and soldiers answer the call.
I still remember what he said that night. It’s stayed with me more than anything else. They’ll run out of soldiers eventually, he said, like he was nothing more than a cheap commodity. He was so tired by the end. I should have helped him.
11 April, 1968
Last week I was walking by the book stalls down at the Seine and saw a bargain bin of English language books. I found a book of poetry and I swear to god, that damn thing fell open on this:
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W.H. Auden
I don’t think I could find a better articulation of my mood. Either Fate has something against me, or I’m just that unlucky. I bought it. I couldn’t help myself.
21 July, 1969
Sometimes, I think miracles do still exist in this world.
Down at an old hotel, the entire town was crowded in the dining room. They had a TV balanced up on a shelf so everyone could see and they caught the BBC1 broadcast. The entire room was dead silent. It was overwhelming, I can still hardly imagine it. A man walking on the moon!
The whole time I kept thinking how much he would have loved this. How he would have laughed. How he probably would have tried to sign up to be a spaceman! The more I remembered, the more I thought about that night by the river, after we first met. All those stars in the sky. Decades later and I still wonder about it – how it’s possible to be so in love with someone – but then again, how could anyone fail to love him? He was so warm, so full of life and excitement and dreams. God. We had so many dreams, so many plans for the future. We were so naïve, thinking the world might owe us a little happiness. What a joke.
And now here I am. Alone with nothing but memories – just like always. That life we wanted, it’s as far away as the moon. Unreachable and impossible.
1 January, 1970 We never He was I thought A Soldier with a metal arm?
The journal ends there. 
Bucky looks at the ticket stub that fell from the delicate pages and the words bring forth a wavering reel of images, brand new and unfamiliar.
Moulin Rouge New Year’s Eve Ball Admittance: 1 Individual 31 December, 1969
The black lacquer of a piano. Silver sparkles reflecting from crystal chandeliers. The scent of fizzy champagne and the tang of blood and a dark apartment overlooking the twinkling lights of Paris.
Disoriented, Bucky sets the book down. What the hell is this? Who is she? She must be Hydra, she has to be. How else would she know the Soldier? Why did she take him, what does she want? Why does she have journals from so long ago, what do they mean?
It’s the eternal tragedy of his god damn life – always questions, never answers. He looks around the warm, peaceful little cabin and scrubs his hands down his face. He needs to plot his next move, but the bullet wounds throb with fresh, fiery pain and he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted.
So, he remains seated, surrounded by pages upon pages from someone else’s life.
Blinking back frustrated tears as he stares at the books, he knows without a doubt, that these three years of writing hold more memories than he could conjure in the lifetime he’s lived.
Distantly, he hears the slow crunch of boots on snow. Rousing himself from the miserable train of thought, he scrambles to his feet, turning to face the front door when footsteps hit the porch steps and begin to climb.
Bucky wipes the tears from his eyes. And he lifts his knife.
*****
Pacing back and forth across the small porch, she stops in front of the door and reaches for the handle.
And draws away again. Curses and keeps pacing. Tries again, pulls back.
“Open the door, you god damn coward,” she whispers harshly.
Squaring her shoulders, she turns the knob and pushes it open before she can lose her nerve. Stepping inside, the room is silent, just as she left it. Orange flames flicker in the fireplace, the smell of smoky wood and pine needles hangs in the air. She shuts the door quietly, shakes out her coat and hangs it on the rack. Taps the snow from her boots and unwinds her scarf. Rubbing her temples, she takes a deep breath and starts for the stairs, determined to face him.
She takes three steps, before the wind is knocked clean from her lungs.
The heavy body hits her from behind, one arm curling around her chest, the other pressing her butcher knife against her throat. The voice in her ear is so gut wrenchingly familiar, she nearly faints. 
“Leaving a strange man alone in your bed with access to knives – not your best move.”
When he was lying unconscious wrapped in her quilts, she thought he seemed smaller than she remembered. Now, the breadth of his body against her back makes her realize just how wrong that assessment was. 
“Yes. I should have hidden the knives,” she tries to speak. “Something to remember next time.”
“Tell me who the fuck you are.”
She should be terrified right now. The most prolific assassin of the 20th century has a razor-sharp blade sitting at her throat and a metal arm digging into her chest. With the slightest move, he could crush her lungs or slit her throat. He wouldn’t even have to try. 
She should be terrified, but she’s not. Because the years, the decades, have been nothing more than an empty echo without him, and now he’s here. Against all odds, he is here with her. Relaxing in his arms, she leans back and closes her eyes.
Bucky stiffens abruptly at the movement. 
Her hand floats up and reaches for the wrist flexing at her throat. She feels his grip tighten further, but for some reason, he allows her curious touch. Fingers trembling, they find the thin ridge, running down the long white scar curving from his right thumb across the back of his hand. 
It’s nothing more than a gentle caress, but – 
Like a hammer to his skull, his head splits head open. With a frightened snarl, he shoves her away and she stumbles forward, catching herself against the sofa. Slowly, she turns to face him fully. 
Dark hair frames his face in sweaty tangles and his blue eyes are wild. 
“What the fucking hell was that?” he hisses. The knife is held outward and he scratches at the scar, trying to scrub away her touch.
“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing her throat. “I wasn’t – I’m sorry.”
“How the hell did I get here?” Bucky barks. “Last thing I remember, I was gut shot and bleeding out in a god damn blizzard.”
“I found you. Brought you here.”
“Yeah, obviously. Except I’m fuckin’ heavy and no offense, but you don’t look much like a super soldier. So, I’ll ask again - how the hell did I get here? Who else is working with you?”
“No one, it’s just me. And I’m not working. You – I don’t know, you just followed me. When you collapsed in the snow, I rolled you over and shouted your name, and your eyes just – they opened and you got to your feet.”
Bucky glares at her. “Convenient, that you knew my name. And how to wake me up.”
Jaw clenching, she glares back now. “I didn’t know how to wake you up. You were bleeding everywhere, but you stood there like you were waiting for something.”
Biting the inside of his cheek, he grimaces. He thinks he knows what’s coming.
“Say I believe you. Then what?”
“You asked for instructions, so I told you to get in my truck and I brought you here. I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I wasn’t sure what to do. When we got here, you wouldn’t go upstairs. You just laid down on the dining table and – ”
She pauses, but he sighs resignedly. “Keep going.”
“Both bullets, they were still – inside. I had to dig them out. I got bandages and tried to stitch up the wound. You were awake, I thought you were awake, the entire time. You were telling me what to do. Kept asking if – you kept asking if I was new.”
Bucky feels his face heat in embarrassment. Shifting uncomfortably, he grudgingly explains. “That was a secondary protocol. Something happens to the Asset, it’s programmed – I mean I was programmed - to help fix the problem.” 
The cabin is quiet for a drawn-out moment. 
“Oh,” she finally says. Her voice sounds small. 
“So? You’re former Hydra then?”
She blanches at the comment. “What? No! I was never with them.”
“Really,” Bucky says sarcastically. “You just happened upon me and knew my name and brought me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere for no reason? That was all just luck?”
“Stop being a jerk. I said I don’t work for them,” she snaps, anger seeping into her voice. “I’d slit my own throat first.”
Bucky goes quiet, considering the statement. His loses some of the hostility when he replies, but his tone is still suspicious. “But we know each other. You know him. Or – me. The Soldier.”
“Yes. I know the – Soldier.”
“Well, I don’t remember you,” Bucky says harshly, and he watches her face fall. He feels a pang of remorse at her disappointment and almost points out that she’s not unique, he never remembers. But he holds his tongue.
Eyes dropped to the floor, her shoulders sag. “I didn’t expect you would.”
An awkward silence fills the room. Bucky feels that strange ache in his chest once again, a desire to smooth the unhappiness from her face, and an apology tumbles from his lips. 
“I’m sorry I don’t remember. Trust me, it’s definitely not you.”
“No. Please don’t apologize,” she says quickly, looking up. She shakes her head like she wants to say something more; instead, she swallows the words and offers an olive branch. “Do you want to know? I mean - do you want me to tell you?” 
Bucky considers the offer. Before him stands a lovely woman. One who knew the Soldier, who met the worst incarnation of himself, but without the security of Hydra to help her. He comes to a swift, depressing conclusion.
Chances are, he did something shitty to her.
Does he want to know then? Does he really need another gruesome memory clogging up his brain? 
Sure. Because Bucky never knows when to quit.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “Tell me. I want to hear it.” 
“Okay, I can do that,” she says softly. She motions him to sit on the couch, but Bucky hesitates.
“Can I, uh, have some pants first?” He asks stiffly. “This is sort of awkward.”
The surprise on her face makes Bucky think for one fleeting moment that she might laugh. But then she nods and disappears through a small room off the kitchen. When she returns, she’s holding a neatly folded stack of fresh laundry and he recognizes the contents of his backpack. 
“Here,” she sets it cautiously on the dining table. “I’m sorry I went through your bag, I didn’t have any men’s clothing, so…anyway, I washed it all.” 
Bucky snatches his ragged Captain America t-shirt and black sweats from the top of the pile, shimmying into them. Pulling a rainbow colored band off his wrist, he ties his hair back and drops to the couch. 
She takes the armchair across from him, as far away as she can get in the small living room, and tucks her hands under her legs. Bucky knows he’s unlikely to enjoy whatever she has to say, but he folds his fingers together and waits. She stares down at her feet, appearing to gather her courage before meeting his grim stare head on.
Her voice is steady, as she starts to speak.
“Paris was cold that December and it snowed early. It was New Year’s Eve in 1969.”
*****
Next Chapter
*****
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years
Text
Best. Date. Ever.
Summary: This wasn’t quite what you had in mind.
Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: Bad language. A smidgen of murder. A splash of fluff.
A/N: This was written for the lovely @abovethesmokestacks ‘s summer challenge, and I’m a slacker who’s a week late, so thank goodness Pia’s amazing! This story came about because I was seriously coveting these shoes and because Pia gave me a super cheeky dialogue prompt, which you’ll find bolded in the story. Enjoy!
A/N 2: Check out Best. Proposal. Ever. to read more of these two!
If you want on or off the tag list, send me an ask!
MASTERLIST 
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Dress up, he ordered. Something fancy and sexy. I got a plan.
It sounded promising. A night at the ballet perhaps, or tickets to the opera. Dinner and dancing, maybe. Something classy. Something elegant.
After eyeing them in the window, you decide to buy that pair of outrageously expensive Jimmy Choo’s for the evening, anticipating something spectacular.
Well.
It was something alright.
*****
Black satin clutch tucked tight beneath your arm.
Quiet steps on the balls on your feet.
Gun drawn, cocked and aimed, you tiptoe down the dim hallway, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the puddles of yellow light spilling from vintage sconces lining the wall. 
The target looms ahead, a heavy black door at the end of the corridor and a steady stream of quiet curses slips from clenched teeth as you move, damning his dumb ass to hell and back. 
Eyeing the narrow beam of light lining the bottom of the door, you pause when muffled laughter slips beneath the crack. Momentarily confused, you wonder if you have the wrong room.
Nope.
“Answer the fucking question,” a frustrated voice suddenly shouts, followed by the dull thunk of metal slapping skin. Bucky’s responding groan is long and low, a guttural sound ripped from deep in his chest.
It sounds desperate.
It sounds wounded.
It sounds – excessively theatrical.
Of course.
Is it possible to roll your eyes so hard you see your brain? 
Leaning into the door, you press an ear to the thick ebony wood. There’s a hum of unintelligible muttering and then plain as day, you hear Bucky’s cheerful response.
“Yeah, no. Feels like you’re hard of hearing there, big boy. You wanna hand me that knife? Let me clean out your ears real nice and careful like? Or maybe you were that stupid kid sitting too close to the TV growing up, watching cartoons while your Mommy was running around banging the mailma – ow! Fucking ouch god dammit, what the hell’s the matter with you?! Who the hell stabs someone? That fucking hurt!”
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh. 
Here’s the thing.
Now and then, the avenging gets slow. It happens occasionally, not often, but enough for you to discover an interesting personality twist. When the avenging gets slow, Bucky Barnes gets bored. And a bored Bucky Barnes is – concerning. Full of pent up energy, leaking sarcasm and sass, he has a small tendency to find trouble.
It’s not trouble, it’s called saving the world, he always argues.
It’s not saving the world, it’s called gratuitous chaos, you always respond. 
The voice comes back, full of fury. Electricity pops and sizzles and suddenly Bucky swears at the top of his lungs.
“Wait, wait, wait, stop! Damn, fine, fine. You got me, just stop, please, I’ll talk, I’ll talk, let’s talk…about the fact that your mom was totally fucking the mailman, I mean come on – “
The sound of electricity buzzes louder and he howls in pain.
“Say it again,” you hear the voice snarl, followed by Bucky’s breathless reply.
“No joke man, you touch me with that thing again, I’ll shove it so far up your ass you’ll shit sparks for a week.”
In addition to the whole trouble thing? He’s also a massive drama queen.  
“This is bullshit, Bucky” you hiss at the door, glancing at the absurdly expensive heels and reaching to brush dust from the toe. “I’m so fucking pissed at you.”
Seriously. 
Clutching the gun tight, you carefully turn the knob and with a deep breath, hip check it open. And yep. The reveal is exactly what you could have anticipated, because you know Bucky Barnes way, way too well.
Dangling by his hands from a wide steel beam, his wrists encased in what appears to be a reinforced cuff, Bucky swings gently, the toes of his black boots barely brushing the ground. His faded grey t-shirt is slashed down one side, soaked through with thick splotches of blood and clinging to his body like a second skin. Twitching his head to shake away sweaty strands of dark hair, you see the impressive array of purple bruises painting his face, extending down his neck.
He looks terrible. Awful. A beaten man in terrible pain. 
Except – 
The anguished grimace fades when he sees you, morphing into a shit-eating grin. Wiggling his fingers in a mocking little hello, he gives you a wink.
What an ass.
Hearing the swinging door, the man in front of Bucky spins, raising a gun in one hand and a taser snapping lime green sparks in the other. Frustration is etched in every line of his face, which is, to be fair, a common expression for anyone talking to Bucky. 
“Drop the gun,” he bellows, shaky hands holding both weapons in front and sounding for all the world like a two-bit security cop in a low-budget heist film. 
Throwing him an impressively impatient scowl, you shake your head.
“Listen, I’ve had a long day and these heels are killing me and I just wanted to spend one night without worrying how I’m getting blood out of my clothes in the morning. So since that fantasy’s shot to shit, can you please just not?”
“Don’t try to distract me!” he yells in response. “Drop your gun or I’ll shoot you both!”
Looking past him, you meet Bucky’s wide-eyed, innocent blue eyes.
Innocent blue eyes. Seriously. What a crock.
“I’m fucking pissed at you,” you warn Bucky, pointing the gun down at your shoes. “These were expensive.”
He pokes his lip out in an exaggerated pout and swings himself playfully in the restraints. “Don’t be mad honey baby, it’s all part of the plan.”
“Jesus. I shudder to think what else you have planned.”
The guy follows the exchange like a tennis match, head swiveling in confusion, until he focuses on you again and opens his mouth to shout another disappointingly dull threat, but you hold your hand up to silence him and he looks unbelievably put out by the gesture.
“Look, I’m really not in the mood, alright? I gave you a chance.”
Flicking your eyes to the bloody, sweaty man dangling behind him, you cross your arms and wait. 
Here it comes.
Vengeance fills his features, a blinding smile of murdery glee, and in the blink of an eye, Bucky curls his knees to his chest and hoists himself up with the metal arm. With a casual kick, he hooks his thighs around the man’s neck and squeezes tight.
Dropping both weapons, the man scrabbles at the dirty legs locked around his neck, panic flashing through his face.
“You sir,” Bucky states, as the man chokes, trying to wrench free, “are a real dick.”
With a graceful twist of his hips, he snaps the neck with a jarring crunch. The body collapses in a heap and Bucky glares contemptuously for a second and then proceeds to aim several childish kicks at the head, but his toes are just out of reach and he flails uselessly in the air.
He looks up in annoyance.
“Hi. Little fucking help here please?”
Stepping over the body, you rummage through the pile of electronic gadgets and random torture devices strewn across the table. Locating a small purple device attached to a SpongeBob keychain, you dangle it in front of him.
“Apology first.”
“No worries, I accept your apology,” Bucky says graciously. “Now get me down.”
“No asshole, I want an apology. You said dress up and now my Jimmy Choo’s have blood on them.”
“Okay fine, I’m sorry.” Skeptical of his quick submission, you punch the unlock button slowly and the cuff releases. Bucky drops to his feet, rubs the red chaffing around his wrist, and gives you a wide smile. “I’m sorry you’re a wet blanket who doesn’t appreciate fun, but anyway.” 
He anticipates the move and ducks when you snatch a knife from the table and fling it at him, letting it smack harmlessly against the concrete wall behind him.
“I swear to god, you’re lucky you’re hot Barnes. It sure as hell’s not your personality that keeps me around.”
“The hell do you mean? I’m charming as fuck,” he argues. Wetting his busted lips, he uses the collar of his shirt to wipe away the pool of blood caked in the corner of his mouth, while interested eyes trail down your outfit.
Strapless black silk dress falling to your knees. Diamonds dangling from your ears. Bright red lips. Black Jimmy Choo heels with a flirty little feather on the side. 
His smile turns a shade darker and ten shades filthier.
“You look smokin’ hot. Nice.”
“And it’s apparently a waste. When you said dress up, I sort of assumed we’d be doing an activity other than murder.” Tossing the keychain on the table, you come closer to scan his impressive mess of injuries. Probing the thick muscle below his ribcage, he sucks in a strangled breath as your fingers brush the source of blood still soaking his shirt.
“Buck – “ you start, but he cuts you off.
“Don’t baby me, I’m fine. Me and that bag of dicks just had a little disagreement over one of his brainless questions.”
“How did he go from asking questions to sticking a knife in your gut?” you ask, trying to tug up his shirt to confirm the damage.
“No, I will not have sex with you!” he says loudly, pushing your hands away. “God woman, keep it in your pants.”
“I’ll punch you in the knife wound Bucky. I really will.”
Sighing loudly, he stops struggling and lets you pull apart the remaining shreds of his shirt. Examining the blood under his fingernails while you examine the slow leak of blood down his side, he shrugs nonchalantly.
“If you must know, he just got a bit pissy because apparently suck my dick wasn’t the correct response to that question.”
Life with Bucky Barnes is akin to chasing an aggressively accident-prone toddler, so you’re actually prepared for this situation. 
Opening the silver clasp on your clutch, you search for the extra-absorbent bandages you threw in earlier. Folding his hands obediently, Bucky rests them on top of his head and watches with a serene expression while you wipe away the blood from around the wound, before ripping open the bandage and applying it carefully to his skin. 
“Has it ever occurred to you,” you ask, paper held between your teeth, “to try being a little less mouthy?”
Straightening the remains of his bloody t-shirt and wiping your grubby hands on his jeans, you look up to find him grinning.
“It did occur to me. But where’s the fun in that?” He holds his hand out expectantly. “On to part two. Did you bring my gun?”
The worst. Honestly. Sometimes he’s the worst. 
“Yes, I brought your gun, you ungrateful douche.”
Lifting the edge of your skirt reveals the narrow straps of a black thigh holster, with Bucky’s favorite Glock strapped in place. He bites his lip and gives you that filthy smile again, crowding in close. 
“Ugh. Dammit that’s so hot. Here, let me help,” his fingers snag the silky fabric, trying to pull up your skirt. 
Slapping his hand and giving him a warning knee in the balls, he grunts and backs away with his wounded puppy face. Unclipping the gun, you flip it around and hand it over.
“Keep it in your pants Barnes, we don’t have time. The show’s about to start.”
Standing up straight, he salutes you with the barrel of the gun and cocks it dramatically.
“You’re the boss. Lead the way, you sexy little minx.”
*****
Navigating the labyrinth of halls, you find the back staircase leading up to a maze of crevices and hidey holes helpfully built into the rafters of the enormous ballroom. Finding a slot near the edge, you crawl into position, the smooth silk of your dress picking up the thick film of dust, making the slide easy.
God. Dammit. Bucky’s spending tomorrow morning getting this dress dry-cleaned and you better not hear a breath of argument from him.
“Seriously, I’m so fucking pissed at you,” you whisper, knowing full well his annoying super hearing will pick it up and sure enough, he rewards you with a stifled laugh.
The space is dark, muted light from the ballroom’s sparkling chandeliers allowing you to stay hidden from prying eyes down below. Bucky follows close behind, wiggling in next to you. Getting comfortable, he sighs happily and turns to you, gaze drifting from your face down your bare shoulders, over the swell of your ass, and that filthy smile appears again. Reaching down, he massages the back of your knee and runs his hand up your thigh, trying to pull your dress up again.
“Lemme see your panties.”
“For god’s sake, do not say panties, you weird fuck.”
“Fine. Lemme see your underpanties. Are they lace? Tell me they’re lace. You know how much I like lace.” His hand wanders further up to find your black lace covered bottom and he gives a whispered yes of delight. 
Ignoring the wandering hand squeezing handfuls of your ass, you open the black clutch again, extracting four paper-thin pieces of metal. Clicking them together reveals a lightweight air-rifle with a narrow scope affixed to the top.
Bucky’s eyes light up.
“Gimmie,” he says breathlessly, releasing his death-grip on your ass and reaching grabby hands toward the weapon.
Still ignoring him, you prop the rifle on the ledge in front of you and peer through the scope, searching for the reason you’re stuck in the dirty ceiling of this exquisite ballroom, instead of somewhere fashionable with people making jealous remarks about your amazing shoes.
Bucky nudges you.
“Gimmie,” he says again.
“No, Bucky.”
“Yes, Bucky,” he insists, now trying to tug it from your grip. “Did you forget I’m the best shot the US army ever had? I even have a certificate that says so. You can’t argue with my certificate, it’s not patriotic. Captain America’ll arrest you.”
Still searching through the crosshairs, you peel his sticky fingers from the barrel with one hand.
“You drawing a picture of a gun, writing ‘Bucky rules’ on it, and taping it to the refrigerator does not mean you have a certificate.”
He gives an indignant little squawk. “Uh, I didn’t tape it to the ‘fridge, I superglued it to the ‘fridge. That fucker’s never coming down.”
“Can you please shut up? I need to focus.”
“Come on honeycakes, let me have the rifle,” he whines softly, resuming the light strokes down your thigh.
“No. I know you. You’ll shoot the guy in the eye just to prove you can, he’ll realize something’s up, and it’ll blow our cover.”
“Why would I do that?” His voice oozes shocked sweetness.
“Because you’re a showoff,” you mutter.
“I’m not a show-off,” Bucky argues and somehow in the narrow space he manages to crawl on top of you, straddle your hips and start licking your neck. “Sometimes I’m just vindictive, I can’t help that. Now come on and give me the rifle, hmm? Please? I got stabbed earlier, you should let me have my way. If I have internal bleeding and I die later, you’ll feel really bad about not giving me this one little thing. Come on, hand it over.”
He sucks your earlobe and tugs with his teeth. 
Long ago, this strategy might have worked.
He is charming.
He excels at sweet talk.
He is murderously adorable.
The only thing working against him now – is that you know he’s completely full of shit.
“Get off me, you weigh a ton,” you respond instead, wiggling your shoulders to shrug him away.
“Did you just call me fat?” he whispers. He bites your ear harder.
“Maybe,” you shiver at the petulant huff warming your neck.
“I am offended.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not, but someone with less self-confidence might be and would you like that on your conscience?”
“I’ll manage.”
In that moment, the crosshairs find him, a tall man dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, his blond hair slick and shining. Even though he’s dead set on being an annoying little shit, Bucky instantly recognizes your posture change and goes motionless above you. Taking a deep breath, focusing on the small mole on the back of the blond’s neck, you gently squeeze the trigger. With a twitch, the rifle silently expels the microscopic dart and you know it’s a direct hit when the man scratches absently at the patch of skin above his collar.
Bucky gives a hum of approval and plants a sloppy kiss on your neck. 
“Nailed it. High five,” he says and reaches between his legs to slap your ass. “But how come you’re always so mean to me? And why the hell does it turn me on so much?”
Breaking down the weapon, you pack it back in the purse and snap it shut.
“Because you’re a fucking masochist.”
“True. So – now what?”
“Now we wait.”
As the words leave your mouth, the chandeliers begin to dim, the hum of voices dropping as the crowd of people shuffle to their seats.
Folding your arms, you lay your head down to wait. Bucky finally stops fidgeting, settling on top of you, balancing his weight on his forearms and resting his chin on your shoulder. He smells like attic dust and irony blood, but his heavy presence is a warm and comfortable weight.
All fades to black. Absolute silence.
The single note trembles in the darkness, the vibrating twang of a cello. Low lights slowly illuminate the small platform at the front of the ballroom, revealing three musicians and the sudden haunting whine of a violin shatters the stillness.
The air overflows with music, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Bach, a symphony of classics bleeding together, never pausing. Bucky stays still above you, his only concession to movement when he occasionally presses his lips to the space behind your ear, breathing in the familiar lingering scent.
And sure, he drives you bonkers half the time and he may be utterly full of shit, but a simple fact remains.
Nothing in the world, beats the feel of his mouth on your skin.
Ninety minutes of magic fly by and applause fills the room as the lights come up for intermission, the audience leaping to their feet. No one notices the blond man seated halfway back, slumped in his seat, nor the shadowy figures of two people energetically arguing as they slip from a hidden exit in the back.
*****
From a distance, you spy the neon sign, the only beacon of colorful life along this desolate stretch of highway. Bucky perks up and bounces in his seat. 
“There it is! Pull over.”
“Bucky, no. I’m tired and you’re bleeding on my leather seats and I want to go home and shower.”
“But I’m hungry. I’m literally wasting away.”
“Figuratively. You are figuratively wasting away.”
“So, you agree then, I’m wasting away and we should stop.”
“Oh my god, fine.”
Swerving into the parking lot with a screech of tires, both of you clamber from the vehicle still debating his rampant disregard for basic language definitions and stomp into the brightly lit Taco Bell. At this lonely hour, it’s nearly empty, minus the energetic high school kid with headphones using his mop as an air guitar, the line cook playing Jenga with a towering stack of tomatoes, and the bored woman behind the counter, chomping her gum and watching your bickering approach with interest.
Glancing at Bucky, you flinch at the image. The harsh light throws his wounds into sharp relief, bruises already fading from dark purple to sickly greenish-yellow. The gray t-shirt is shredded and stiff with blood and sweat and what appear to be chocolate fingerprints, lifted from the half-melted M&Ms he found in your glove box. 
To be fair, you don’t look much better. The previously elegant heels dangle from loose fingers, speckled with blood and holding two wilted feathers. Covered head to toe in dust and cobwebs, your knees are scraped up and your polished toes curl bare against the floor.
What the hell possessed you to walk barefoot into a 24-hour Taco Bell you’ll never know, but alas. Here you are. 
Bucky saunters up to the register and slaps his grimy hands on the counter, giving the woman his most charming smile and what he believes to be a sexy wink. She simply raises an eyebrow and snaps her gum.
“Hello. I want the dollar menu,” Bucky says, squinting up at the sign.
“Which items?”
“All the items,” he replies promptly. “And a diet soda please, not a regular one. I’m cutting back on the calories, apparently I need to watch my weight. The lady here says I’ve been pudging out.”
Pinching the non-existent fat on his washboard of a stomach, he gives her a conspiratorial nod and points back to you.
“I most certainly did not say that,” you huff, glaring at him.
“Yes, you did, you called me fat earlier,” he reminds you. “Remember? When I was on top of you and tried to pull up your dress?”
The woman stares at him and blows a pink bubble. Her eyes slide to you and she gives you a slow nod, the kind that clearly says nice.
“No,” you say sternly, pointing a warning finger. “Christ no. Do not encourage him.”
Bucky laughs, the sound of his husky voice echoing through the restaurant and dammit, he looks like someone threw a brick at his face and used him to sharpen their knives, but he’s still the most attractive man you’ve ever met and how’s that for annoying? 
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back on the road, flying along as Bucky holds tight to his food and watches the highway intently, counting out road signs. Finally, he points to a small green number.
“This is it, last stop,” Bucky says, his voice brimming with excitement. “Slow down, the road’s there.”
Arguing is futile, so you follow his directions, turning off the highway and bumping down a narrow strip of unmarked road. The path winds further and further and you wonder at his end game, until the trees suddenly clear and you hit the brakes in surprise. 
The night sky extends in front of you, an infinite black road to the stars twinkling above the black ocean waves, a dazzling full moon low on the horizon. The secluded beach is empty, a quiet world existing for you and Bucky alone – and when you turn to him, you see him watching you with an adoring grin.
That damn smile. It gets you every time.
“I swear Barnes, you’re good. You’re really good,” you admit and Bucky tips his head back and starts to laugh.
Climbing from the car, you dig out a plaid blanket from your trunk, and with heels and soda in hand, the echo of crashing waves pulls you through the darkness. Finding a flat space, you fluff the blanket out and collapse, stretching out with a soft groan and closing your eyes.
Bucky drops his bag full of cheesy beef burritos and chicken quesadillas and caramel apple empanadas and kicks off his boots with a matching groan of pleasure. Falling to the blanket he rolls onto his stomach and tears into the food, making his way through each item in silence. Long minutes tick by as the damp breeze blows over your skin and you begin to doze.
“You know,” he finally says, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m calling it. Tonight? Best. Date. Ever. Gonna be hard to top this.”
Rolling to the side, you prop your chin in your hand. “Come again?”
“Yeah, I planned it perfectly! The whole night, it was all things you wanted to do.” He finishes chewing the last bite, tucks the wrappers into the bag and sits up on his knees, ticking off the evening’s events.
“So first, we did a fun couples activity.”
“Me saving you from an ass beating and you snapping a guy’s neck isn’t exactly a couple’s activity, but sure.”
“Second, I got us private box seats, so we could go to a – sold out I might add – classical music concert.”
“I mean, again with the murder and now a massive dry-cleaning bill, but okay.”
“And to cap off the perfect date, we’re having a romantic moonlit picnic on the beach.”
The sarcastic quip balances on the tip of your tongue and in all fairness, Bucky expects a sassy response. Sass is the bedrock of your relationship.
But the words don’t come.
Instead, you absorb the pure beauty of the glowing white sand and of Bucky’s handsome face, reflecting on everything about him that led you here tonight.
He’s incorrigible.
A pain in the ass. 
Ridiculous.
Passionate.
Hilarious.
Adorable. 
The love of your life.
Damn. You’re head over heels for this idiot.
Nodding slowly, your lips curve into the smile he loves so well, the one that melts his heart, the one he went to outrageous lengths to pull from you tonight.
“Yeah. You’re right Buck. You pretty much nailed it.”
Bucky grins at the compliment. He picks up your left hand, brushes specs of sand away, and places two kisses on your finger.
One above your wedding band, one below.
Contentment sings through his veins and he threads his fingers through yours.
“Happy anniversary honey.”
“Happy anniversary Bucky.”
“Do me a favor, yeah?” Bending closer, he rubs his mouth lightly against your forehead, your nose, your lips. He drinks up the word with a blissful sigh when he hears your reply.
“Anything.”
“Get those heels back on, I ain’t letting them go to waste.”
Laughing, you hand him the shoes and he pulls your legs apart and crawls between them, slipping the heels gently on your feet one at a time, leaving wet kisses on each ankle.
The filthy smile is back.
He tugs up your skirt.
And this time, you go with it.
*****
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TAGS: @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @stentorian-lore-n @interestedbystanderwrites @ihavemymomentsstill @badassbaker @psingh97 @justreadingfics @palaiasaurus64 @4theluvofall@mrshopkirk @lovelynemesis @st-eve-barnes @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @whiskeyandwashitape @loverbug1123 @thefridgeismybestie @isaxhorror @the-real-kellymonster @velociraptorscreee @brooklyn-to-battlefields@chameerah @earinafae @moonbeambucky @iamwarrenspeace @caramell0w @a-splash-of-stucky @charlotte-gcwd @mad-girl-without-a-box @vintagepigeon @waywardpumpkin @you-know-whodoesthat-crazypeople @pineapplebooboo @blacwings-and-bucky-barnes @wildefire @tbhollandd @coal000 @casdoesntunderstandthatrefrence @erisan @my-drowning-in-time @fireburninsideyoureyes @roselock20 @wingtaken @captainrxgersbxrnes @qoldmine @theginamariestaytion @avinaris @creideamhgradochas @just-another-fangirl777 @gallxntdean @marmarayi @brieannakeogh @lloeppky @velvetofyourheart @dontsassmecastiel @winchesterswantmypie @tony-needs-tchill @amoonagedaydreamer @captain-chimichanga @whyisbuckyso @sarcasmoverlordxo @prettyyoungtragedy @thatsmrsbuckybarnestoyou @stringgeek13 @awkward-walking-potato @electra-hxart @romanian-god @angieptt @trust-me-im-joly @depressionventi @instantnoodlese
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years
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Creator Meme
Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 favorite works you’ve created this past year (fics, art, edits, etc!) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world in 2017. Tag as many writers/artists/etc as you want (fan or original!) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works.
I was tagged by the incredibly talented @justreadingfics, @whiskeyandwashitape, and @a-splash-of-stucky. I’m going to tell you which of my fics I love, but before I do, I gotta tell you my favs from these brilliant ladies.
@justreadingfics: Chapter 9 of Bad Match - Bucky x Reader Yes this chapter of Bad Match is great, but PLEASE go read the entire thing, because this series is so bitchin. However...this chapter, I’m going back to my original reblog, because it sums it up perfectly: “That is my dream date, a picnic with wine and brownies AND I get there on a freaking motorcycle with Bucky Barnes who’s wearing a leather jacket?? This is my new thing, I’m not letting it go ever.” (and true story, I really haven’t let it go)  
@whiskeyandwashitape:  Big Bad* - Dad!Bucky x Reader (One Shot) Seriously. Seriously. This story is one of my all-time favourites, and I actually just reread it last week. A fairytale, packaged as a bedtime story, told by an adorably domestic Bucky, while there is super hot, mindblowingly amazing sex. Guys, the reason it has lots of notes, is because it is just that god-damn incredible. 
@a-splash-of-stucky:  Starshine - Steve x Reader [One-shot] I think this was the first thing of Elsa’s that I read, and it has stuck with me HARD. We all love her for the ridiculous buckets of angst she dumps on us, and yes this one has that too, but it’s so gently bittersweet and quietly heartbreaking, it will give you huge feels. And little Steve Rogers is life.
Okay and here’s me...
5. Cracker Jacks and kiss cams - Bucky x Reader (one-shot) I love writing Bucky flustered and nervous and smitten, and this was about the fluffiest thing I’ve ever done. The best part, I got to include three of my favourite things: Bucky Barnes, the Chicago Cubs, and Cracker Jacks, so the whole thing was a win.
4. Memories and music - Bucky x Reader (one-shot) Playing the piano is one of my favourite pastimes, and I have a personal head canon that Bucky is musically inclined. This story was a chance to build out his musical ability through a heartbreaking story, and of course some emotional sex. And the song he plays at the end, in that cold, dark room, it’s my favourite song of all time.
3. Another kinky wager - Bucky x Reader (one-shot) Personally, my ability to talk shit greatly outweighs my skill at most things. I thought it would be fun to write a story where the reader fell victim to the same issue. Dominant, foul-mouthed Bucky + sex on a pool table, well it’s pretty much my dream scenario. 
2. The one where Bucky and Steve get married - Steve x Bucky (one-shot) I’m completely serious when I say I could spend all day, every day reading Stucky fics. They are my OTP for life. This story was such a trip to write - full of flashbacks, featuring Bucky as an aggressive bridezilla, Steve as a smitten groom who just wants him to be happy, and finishing with their heartfelt wedding vows to each other, I was so happy with how it came together. 
1. Three shades of a man (chapter 2) - Bucky x Reader (three-part series) This was my first attempt at a ‘mini-series’ and the second chapter, where Bucky is intensely tactile and so emotionally drained, is my absolute favourite. I firmly believe this is how he would react after a difficult mission, desperately in need of human contact, and I’m so happy with the way this chapter turned out.
It feels kinda weird doing this, it is like choosing favourite children, so here’s my MASTERLIST if you want to read anything else. Thanks so much to EVERYONE who’s read my stuff the last few months, I’m new to writing fanfic, and I’ve fallen in love with it - and with all you lovely people! 
Tagging a few more peeps (feel free to ignore): @eve1978 @4theluvofall @mrshopkirk @papermoon2719
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years
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Safe with me Masterlist
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Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.     
Part 1
Part 2 Story inspired artwork
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5 Story inspired artwork
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8 Story inspired artwork Funny stuff
Part 9
Part 10 Smut free Chapter 10 recap
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13 Funny stuff
Part 14
Part 15 Story inspired artwork
Epilogue
Awesome moodboard
Safe with me on AO3
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
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never let you go (1)
Summary: After losing the woman they love, Bucky and Steve make a desperate decision with unimaginable consequences. 
Characters: Stucky x Reader Warnings: Heavy angst. Brief character death (with a return). Violence, blood, demons, and gore. SMUT (m/f/m, brief m/m, masturbation). An appearance by everyone’s favorite Hunters (SPN crossover).
Prompt: “Heartache is one thing, but this…this is worse.”
A/N: This is my submission for the fantastic @sherrybaby14​ for Sherry’s Fall Into You challenge, thanks babe for hosting. This is a dark story fam, different than my usual writing. Bucky and Steve really do make some bad decisions, so please heed the warnings. This is a short series, only 2-3 parts.
Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!
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*****
Looking back, it happened so fast.
Night was stealing over the horizon when the mission was officially called. Bad guys in handcuffs, team members safe, the world still turning. On the roof of a nearby office building, you stood between Bucky and Steve, smiling in relief.
Smiling, smiling, smiling.
You were smiling right before the bomb went off.
Later, Bucky remembers the shock on your face, the shape of Steve’s mouth screaming. He remembers that swoop in his belly, the weightless feel of wild loops on a rollercoaster. He remembers your piercing cry as the floor gave way beneath three pairs of boots, bodies knocking together in a choking sea of crumbling concrete and screeching steel.
And when the smoke cleared, when your broken fingers found his and Bucky saw your lips stained with sticky red, he knew instantly. He knew and he knew you knew. You’d seen enough injuries to recognize death when it beckons. Steve was shouting, clambering over a broken wall, fighting through piles of debris to where you lay pinned beneath the unforgiving stone. He collapsed beside you, trembling soot-smudged fingers cupping your face.
No more than a minute passed. Sixty short seconds of breaking and bleeding and screaming, now stretching into an unending lifetime of regret. One minute more, before your small sips of breath slow into nothing. They stay with you until the end, each with their hands on you, comforting and pleading to stay, please stay, we love you, please don’t leave.
But Death cares little for love.
When they emerged from the ruins, Steve carried your broken body, Bucky staggering numbly behind. The world shifts.
Three days later, comes the funeral. Black suits, black dresses, black casket. A rainbow of flowers for a life overflowing with love and laughter. The formalities of grief are observed, those unfailingly dependable motions polite society demands.
Steve, ever the stalwart public figure, does most of the work. Shaking hands and speaking quietly and nodding gravely at words of condolence. On the fringes of the crowd, away from the crush of sympathy Bucky stands pale and hidden. Despite concern and questions, not a single word has passed his lips since that day.
Finally it ends, the last well-wisher is whisked into the night, and they’re left alone. Two men shattered by tragedy, hearts burning with a soul consuming love for a woman they couldn’t save.
Before a crackling fire, Steve sits slumped in your favorite chair. Cocooned in silent misery, red-rimmed eyes wide and unseeing, he holds a heavy crystal tumbler loose in his hand.
When he sucks in a sharp, strangled breath, Bucky looks over.
The tumbler slips from Steve’s hand, bouncing soundlessly on the plush grey rug and he stands quickly, stumbling toward the fireplace. The flames are strangely welcoming, translucent beams of fractured light breaking through the room.
“Get it off,” he suddenly chokes out. Panic bleeds off him in waves, and he yanks at his tie. The knot tightens and Steve begins to sweat, voice rising higher. “Get it off, now, get it off, get it all off! Please! Please Bucky, please!”
Startled, Bucky leaps up. He pulls the jacket down Steve’s flailing arms and watches in confusion as Steve strips off the rest.
Tie, shirt, belt.
Trousers, boxers, socks.
Ripping the jacket dangling from Bucky’s fingers, Steve rolls everything into a ball and shoves it into the fireplace. Flames lick along his hands, instantly scalding his fingertips with angry red blisters, but he pays no attention. The fire is quick to take, wrapping everything in ringlets of blue and orange, greedily devouring the gift.
As he stands naked in the living room, Steve begins to shiver.
“I don’t know if I can - can do this. Heartache is one thing, but this…this is worse.” he gasps. He crouches on the floor, puts his head between his knees. “This is worse, this is - this is fu-fucking worse.”
Shadows dance through the room while the fire consumes the remnants of the funeral suit. Good riddance of course. There’s no way on earth he’d wear those clothes again.
The wet, broken rasp of Steve’s sobs are the only sound in the room. Bucky wants to help, but there’s nothing left inside him. No reassurances, no words of relief. The solace of love that filled their home has evaporated, leaving nothing more than a wisp of memory.
*****
Their world ends, but as always - the days go by.
*****
One morning Bucky wakes up, head still full of foggy dreams. Lost happiness. He comes awake slowly, bleary eyed and so painfully hard he’s ashamed of that fact.
He sets the shower to a burning rain and stands under the deluge. Closes his eyes and lets the heat sear his skin to a sheet of bright red, trying desperately to wash away those heartbreaking dreams of you, safe and perfect in his arms. He palms himself roughly at the thought, trying to ease the ache. There’s a feeling of disgust that accompanies the touch, humiliated frustration at such a base instinct.
He tells himself he can finish it quick, make it go away. Take the edge off.
With one wet hand on slippery tile, he wraps the other around himself and jerks. He hates himself for picturing you. Beautiful lips, beautiful skin, beautiful eyes. The sound of your voice hitching, sweet sighs of pleasure when he touches your body.
He tells himself the water sluicing down his face is the shower. He tells himself he’s fine. This is stress relief. Something to relax. But when he comes all over his hand, his knees buckle and Bucky collapses, crumpling to a ball on the floor of the cavernous shower. Staring up at the ceiling, the water pelts his face until the burning heat turns icy cold.
The dampness on his face, is the shower. They are not tears. He is fine.
That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
*****
One evening, Steve takes a drive.
Out of Manhattan, past the safe lights of suburbia, further north until he hits the solitude of wilderness. He drives until he finds the path he knows, bumping over gnarled roots, wheels grinding pathetically in the silent night. When it ends, he gets out and continues on foot. Pushing through a dense copse of trees, swiping away the sharp branches reaching for him. He walks and walks, until he reaches what he needs.
Moonlight bathes the small clearing in a white glow, and he walks forward until he’s in the middle of the tranquil space. Cold dew soaks into his jeans when he kneels in the stubby grass, but he doesn’t notice. Tipping his head back, he looks up at the stars.
He screams. On and on and on, the sounds echoing back at him, reverberating off the wall of trees, sending sleeping birds into screeching flight. He screams and he screams, rage and grief and the raw devastation of heartbreak so potent he nearly faints. He screams when he remembers the tears in your eyes silently begging for help, and he screams at the impotence of knowing he could do nothing but watch your life bleed away. He screams for himself, for Bucky, for you. Steve screams until his voice is gone, until the soft tissue inside his throat is swollen and shredded and he spits up blood.
And then he staggers to his feet, pushing back through the trees, until he reaches his car. He climbs inside and turns for home.
He comes back the next night. And the one after that.
Again, and again, and again. Step and repeat.
*****
…and the lonely days melt into weeks…
*****
Neither man is deemed fit for combat, both stripped of duties and relegated to wait. Recover, the therapists say. Rest and recover. Work will always be there. Wait it out, until you feel normal.
Bucky punches a hole through their front door at the condescending support. As if he could wait it out. As if that’s a real thing. As if this grief will ever do anything but grind his heart to mush.
Instead of avenging, they pass the time with mundane things. Searching for purpose, finding none.
In the middle of a stormy night, with the world asleep in their beds, they find themselves in an empty gym. Sweat slick fists and knees jabbing, punching, kicking, sparing with vicious intensity. The pace is blindingly fast, sharply efficient. Back and forth they move, a deadly dance that temporarily takes their minds away from the present, from that gaping loss that will never heal.
On and on they move, until Bucky sweeps his leg and Steve misses the jump. He tumbles to the ground, and Bucky pins him neatly against the mat. Breathing hard, Steve stares up, anguish turning him inside out. He opens his mouth and Bucky already knows what’s coming.
“Steve,” he warns.
“I miss her,” Steve whispers. Misery coats the words, sticky with despair.
“Stop,” Bucky snaps. He scrambles to his feet, turns toward the door. “Don’t you fucking do this, I told you we ain’t talking about it.”
Steve climbs sluggishly to his feet. He rubs his eyes, feels the burn of pooling tears. It’s so natural these days, that prickling heat. Looking up, he sees the tense muscles in Bucky’s hunched shoulders, and he can’t stop from asking.
“Do you - do you remember when it was just the two of us? When we were enough?” he asks hoarsely, and Bucky whips around. Rushing Steve, he catches him around the waist and slams him against the padded blue wall. There’s a faint whir of shifting plates and a metal fist pounds the mat, an inch from Steve’s tear-streaked cheek. He doesn’t even flinch, staring bleakly at the rage in Bucky’s face.
Without missing a beat, Bucky grabs a handful of sweaty shirt and hauls him forward, a furious snarl preceding a bruising kiss. Steve goes easily, their lips moving in a violent rhythm against each other.
When Bucky breaks away, he spins Steve around, shoves him face first against the wall. Without a word, he yanks down Steve’s shorts and kicks his feet apart. This is the first time they’ve touched each other since that day, and the intimacy that blooms is brutal.
Rough thrusts. Quiet grunts. Sex is a race to the finish, both betting on themselves and doing everything in their power to win. Bucky fucks into him, hips snapping recklessly, and Steve wraps a hand around himself, jerking quickly. No more than a minute later and it’s over, tempers cooling like the shimmering film of sweat on their skin.
Panting harshly against Steve’s neck, Bucky answers the question, his voice hollow.
“Yeah I remember. Doesn’t matter. We won’t be again.”
*****
…on and on it goes, until weeks blur into months.
*****
Time passes, but there is no movement for them. Every step forward comes with five steps back, regressing into a despair with no end in sight. How can you hope to move on, when the best part of yourself is lost, gone, rotting away in a white marble mausoleum in a Brooklyn cemetery?
How the fuck can you survive, when the light you’ve been living for goes out?
Lying in bed one cold October night, these are the thoughts traipsing through Steve’s head. Beside him, Bucky is wrapped in an old blanket, unwashed hair fanning in dark tangles across his pillow, and for a long time, Steve watches him. He knows when the nightmares arrive. Bucky begins to shake, soft sounds slipping through clenched teeth, whimpers of a cornered dog with no way out. Steve reaches for him.
At the pressure on his arm, Bucky wakes with a strangled moan. Kicking away the blanket, he sits up, twisting to look at Steve. Sweat pours down his face, until Steve looks closer and understands.
Tears.
Chest heaving, Bucky glares at him.
“No, god dammit, fucking - fuck you,” he spits out, choked by tears. “I told you not to wake me up, never wake me up. She was there, I almost had her, she was - she was there, I could’ve - “
Shaking furiously, he scrambles out of bed, dragging the blanket behind him. Moments later, Steve flinches when the bathroom door slams so hard, the walls of their apartment shake.
The thought comes again. When every shred of hope is abandoned, when the devils of despair are hungering for your sanity, what can you possibly do? How can you go on?
There in that room, rising from the depths of hell, an idea comes.
Shadowy images fill his head, blurry mission reports and hazy pictures. A thick binder with a peculiar collection of information, full of monsters and demons and evil that goes bump in the night. Scary stories he and Bucky read as kids, huddled together under his bedspread.
Steve thinks of SHIELD letterhead and a list of names with an unfamiliar title.
Hunters, he thinks. The word ‘Hunters’ was typed at the top of that list.
He gets an idea. Steve gets a terrible, horrible, beautiful idea.
*****
North of Chicago, in a greasy diner rank with the sour scent of body odor, four men are squeezed into a red booth. The cracked vinyl is peeling away in places, sharp edges revealing yellowed stuffing and frayed threads, and when Bucky lays his arm across the back, it pinches his skin. Beside him, Steve sits stiffly, hands folded next to a chipped ceramic mug of lukewarm coffee.
Hunched across from them, shoveling syrup-soaked pancakes in his mouth, Dean Winchester thumbs over his shoulder at the chalkboard sign above the counter.
“Pig ’N a Poke. Always good.”
No one responds. An awkward silence blankets the uncomfortably full booth, until Bucky clears his throat.
“So you two -“ he motions between the two men, “you’re, what? Together?”
Swearing under his breath, Dean rolls his eyes and keeps eating. “Why the hell does everyone ask that? No. We’re brothers. God damn.”
Crammed beside Dean, Sam Winchester observes the two super soldiers. Toying with the edge of his coffee cup, he fixes them with a thoughtful stare.
“Sorry we dodged your calls, we uh, we try to stay away from SHIELD,” he says wryly. “Not much good ever comes from it.”
“Yeah, last time we got involved, you dicks got my car impounded,” Dean pipes up, spraying bits of pancake across the table. Fixing him with a dark glare, Bucky slowly wipes it off his cheek. Dean grins.
Ignoring the exchange, Steve leans forward, gripping the coffee cup to steady his nervous hands. He takes a deep breath.
“We won’t say anything. SHIELD can’t know we’re here. I read a report about - about something that happened. About something you did. It said - “ He pauses, debating his next words. They tumble out in a rush of breath. “It said you know how to make deals. With certain kinds of - people. The kind of deals that need to stay off the radar.”
Everyone in the cramped booth freezes. The pancake laden fork briefly hovers in midair, before clattering to the table.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Steve gathers himself and tips his chin up.
“Not even a little.”
Dean leans back. Eyes flitting between the two men, perhaps gauging their sanity. It takes a full minute before he speaks.
“Man, you fucking superheroes are something else, you know that? I don’t know what you read in that report you found Captain, but you think there’s something you need that’s worth an eternity literally burning in hell? Is that what I’m hearing?”
Neither answers immediately. Bucky looks aside, out the dust smeared window, to the black Impala parked in front. He wonders briefly where the Winchesters found it. He always wanted one.
“We lost someone.”
At Steve’s quiet admission, Bucky turns back with a ferociously defiant expression and Sam’s eyes soften.
“Yeah. We heard about that. I’m sorry.”
Steve acknowledges the condolence with a stiff nod, while Bucky schools his face into a blank mask. Looking between the two men, Dean takes a deep breath.
“Listen, I’m sorry about what happened, I really am. But I’m not gonna sugar coat this for you. My suggestion? Get some god damn therapy and figure out how to move on. Me and Sammy, we’ve both been down there and this isn’t some bullshit scare tactic, or some ghost story you heard in Sunday school. This is fucking real. And it doesn’t end. Ever. This is forever. Hell is forever. Do you get that?”
“I know a thing or two about hell,” Bucky says drily, taking a sip of coffee. He feels a funny lurch in his belly when Dean levels him with a pitying stare.
“No. You don’t.”
Arms crossed on the flaking linoleum table, Bucky sits forward. “Listen kid, I’m under no illusions about my future. All the shit I’ve done, every crime, every murder, you think I don’t know where I’m ending up? No amount of heavenly forgiveness is gonna take that away. This ends bloody for me no matter what path I choose. So, enlighten me here. Why the hell shouldn’t I make it count?”
Silence hangs over the table. Beside him, Bucky feels Steve’s hand on his thigh, a comforting squeeze. He understands. For all Steve’s comments about the past not being Bucky’s fault, of course he considered this outcome.
Across the table, Sam quietly clears his throat, murmuring low.
“Dean -”
“No, this is horseshit and you know it. You can’t - “ he stops when he seems the firm resolve on both faces. And honestly? Dean Winchester has been a lost cause often enough to recognize a case when he sees one. “Fine. If you boys do this, that’s it. There’s no going back. You understand that? You are on your own. We can’t save you.”
“Yes,” Steve grits out. “We understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do. You make a deal like this and that’s it. There’s no get out of jail. Hell comes calling and that bitch’ll rip you limb from limb, before she drags you to rot down below.”
The words have no effect. Steve peers sideways at Bucky and finds him perfectly relaxed.
“We appreciate the concern. But we’re good.”
Mumbling all manner of obscenities under his breath, Dean digs inside his jacket until he finds a small yellow notepad and a dull pencil. Slapping it on the table, he writes. List, instructions, locations. He rips the paper out and flings it at Steve.
“This is on your heads.”
Nodding his thanks, Steve folds the paper and tucks it carefully in his pocket. The broken leather of the booth creaks and squeaks as he exits, Bucky sliding out behind him.
Side by side, they look down at the Winchester brothers. All four men have been perpetually hounded by some form of death their entire lives; it seems inevitable they would meet before the end.
Offering a faint smile, Bucky shrugs.
“Haven’t you ever loved someone so much, you’d move heaven and earth to bring them back?”
*****
Under the full moon, Steve cracks the small tin box for one final look.
A polaroid of him and Bucky. A clear glass vial of graveyard dirt from a small plot in Brooklyn. The leg bone from a black cat, a stray they saw skulking in an alley; Steve had caught it and did the dirty work there. Bucky always was a bleeding heart when it came to animals.
Crouched in the dead center of the crossroad, Bucky carves out a small hole with smooth metal fingers. When Steve hands him the box, he places it carefully, angling it just right.
Piling the dirt back over, Bucky pats it down and stands, legs suddenly shaky, heart hammering in fear. Dusting off his hands, he edges closer to Steve.
“Now what?”
Steve says nothing. He stares at the stalks of yellow flowers lining the road, waving gently in the night air, and the innocuous sight sends a shiver rippling down his spine.
“Well, well, well. Two super soldiers? This is one hell of a surprise.”
The voice is soft, gentle. Musical in a way, like windchimes on a sunny day or the faint hum of birds warbling in the morning.
It turns their blood to ice.
Both men whirl simultaneously, discovering a woman standing behind them. Dressed in a wispy white dress, dark hair falls in thick waves down her back, bottle green eyes framed by long lashes. When she smiles, a dimple appears.
Beautiful. Ethereal. The kind of woman who could lure a man into anything.
She blinks. Shining in the moonlight, the green disappears and another color slides in place. Sickeningly bright, hot as fire.
Red.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve hisses, stumbling back a step back and she laughs.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Beside him, Bucky feels Steve trembling, and he reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers together. The gesture fills them both with a renewed courage, and Steve clears his throat.
“We want to - we need - we need to make a deal. There’s someone. We need to bring someone back. To life.”
She whistles, long and low. “Hmm. That’s a tall order boys. I’ll need something good to make this worth my while.”
“The deal is 10 years, right?” Steve motions between him and Bucky. “We each get 10 years, and then - then -“ he trips over the words, unable to finish the grisly statement. Amused, she lets him flounder. “Then we’re - then we’ll go.”
“Normally yes. Those are the standard terms, but for you two? I don’t know. Feels like I could get myself in trouble for taking from such - virile specimens.”
“But we want to deal,” Steve argues.
The white dress flows like water as she strolls forward. Stopping before them, she trails a finger down Bucky’s silver arm, and he shudders.
“Maybe we could come to a different arrangement. If you’re interested.”
“Like what?”
“Well boys, I think you might be worth far more above ground than below. So how about this.” Green eyes gleaming, Bucky has the gruesome sense of a spider moving silently along her web, stalking two struggling flies. “I know who you want, and I’ll bring her back, safe and sound. Deliver her right to your door, and both of you stay up here. Souls intact. For one tiny price.”
Too good to be true. Far too good. Bucky waits for the pin to drop.
“What tiny price?” he breathes.
She smiles. 
And then she answers.
Still clasping hands, Bucky feels cold sweat slicking Steve’s palm. Is this right? Can they really do this? The offer is tantalizing, another level of evil they have yet to fully comprehend. But Bucky knows his mind, what he’s willing to give, and he knows Steve feels the same.
There is no question.
“Deal.”
“Takes a kiss to seal it,” she whispers. Moving close, she curls a hand behind Steve’s neck and pulls his face down. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth drawn in a tight line, he waits it out, a full body shiver rattling his tall frame. Her fingers run through his sweaty blond hair, and he feels sick to his stomach at the way her fingernails scratch so invitingly along his scalp. When she’s had enough, she breaks away in a huff of feigned disappointment.
“Less than inspiring Captain.” Turning to Bucky, she offers a sly smile. “How about you, Soldier? Got anything better?”
Bucky steels himself, as she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to his. He keeps his eyes open, staring forward, and lets her have the kiss, feels her run her tongue along the seam of his lips, a brazen request for more. Parting his lips, he tastes the cloyingly sweet scent of her breath, feels her rub against him, the cool damp of her tongue licking along his teeth.
Forcing himself to disconnect from the moment, he wonders how a kiss can feel so utterly wrong. He wants to turn heel and run, but he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly terrified she might rescind the deal. That she might snatch this burgeoning hope from their begging hands and return to her corner of hell.
So, he lets her have the kiss. Right now, the hideous truth is that he’d give her anything she asked, if it meant he gets you back.
Finally she pulls away, running her fingers down his chest.
“Much better. Now - kiss each other.” Confused, they look at each other and back to her. The seriousness of the request fades and she laughs. “Kidding. Two pretty boys like you, how can I help myself?”
Stepping back, her eerily musical laughter still dancing on the wind, she vanishes.
The night is silent.
Bucky staggers to the yellow flowers and vomits all over them.
*****
Driving along the lonely stretch of highway, they sit in silence. Each wrestling with newfound demons, now more than metaphorical.
“Do you think it worked?” Steve asks, voice hushed and rough.
Bucky stares straight ahead, watching the night zip by, illuminated asphalt between twin beams of light. He says nothing.
*****
Their front door still has a patch on the outside, where Bucky slammed his fist through the wood. It swings quietly when Steve pushes it open, clicking on the hall light. They drop their bags in the entry, walking through the dark apartment.
“But when would we know, that’s what I don’t -“
Steve stops so abruptly, Bucky trips into him from behind.
“Dammit Steve, what - “
In the armchair by the window, sits a familiar silhouette. Barefoot, wearing a long-sleeved blue t-shirt and jeans, someone turns to face them.
Shocked silence billows out, thick and bottomless. There’s a strangled gasp and Steve flings out an arm, blocking Bucky from running at you.
“Wait,” he hisses, “Buck, just - just wait.”
Bewildered, you watch their cautious movements, small shuffles inching closer. When they’re two feet away, Steve stops them again.
“Hold out your hand,” he whispers raggedly, and you stare in confusion. He shakes his head, still holding Bucky back with one arm and motions for your hand. Extending it slowly, you offer it palm up. Steve fishes out a small bottle from his pocket, trembling fingers flipping the lid, and with a deep breath, he splashes holy water all over your hand.
He cringes, waiting.
Nothing.
Staring curiously at the innocent water droplets, you look up.
“Steve, what is this? What’s happening?”
At the sound of your exhausted voice, a broken howl rips from Bucky’s throat and he barrels past Steve. Falling at your feet, he wraps his arms tight around your waist and buries his face against your belly, his shoulders shaking with the hurricane force of his wrenching sobs. Gentle fingers comb through his tangled hair, while you calm him with meaningless words, the soothing syllables priceless simply because they’re yours.
Over the sound of Bucky’s tears, Steve comes closer. He traces the curves of your face, over your forehead, down your nose, brushing your lips. It worked, he thinks, and fierce relief sweeps through him. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, he presses his mouth to your temple, inhaling the clean scent of your skin.
“Welcome home, sweetheart.”
*****
For the next three days, you do nothing but sleep. Small breaks between sleep and awake to eat the chicken noodle soup Bucky brings, the pastrami sandwich Steve cuts into small squares, a chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven.
At first, they worry. Did they fuck up the deal? Was something else wrong? Were you sick? Eventually, they understand coming back to life is not as simple as waking up and picking up where you left off.
So, they let you sleep, drawing the bedroom curtains into darkness, fluffing up the pillows whenever you stumble to the bathroom, keeping the glass on the nightstand filled with cool water. They linger outside the bedroom door, propped against the wall and watching each other, impatiently patient.
In the middle of the night on the fourth day, Bucky jolts awake. Sleepy and befuddled, his heart sinks. Was it another dream? His mind playing tricks? Listening, he waits and waits and waits, and suddenly, he hears it again.
No, this is not a dream. This is real.
He hears you calling.
“Bucky? Steve?”
Scrambling to his feet, he kicks Steve awake and drags him up. Together, they crack open the bedroom door, a dim sliver of hall light illuminating the sight. There you are, curled in a ball along the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” you whisper hoarsely, pulling the blanket tighter. They creep closer, kneeling together beside the bed to look in your eyes.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says softly. “Did you need something?”
The question comes with such tenderness, your heart swells. What you needed, was to ask them what happened. What did they do? How did it happen? What did it cost? You know the grim reality of whatever magic they used to bring you back will have consequences. Selfish magic always does.
These are the things you should ask, the things you need to know. But in this moment, with these two extraordinary men watching you with such breathless reverence, the intensity of a different emotion strikes like lightning. It surges through your veins, a liquid fire craving to feel them, inside and out.
Nothing else matters. The truth can wait.
“Can you do something for me?” you whisper instead.
“Anything,” he breathes instantly, Steve nodding helpfully.
“Can you kiss me?” you whisper and Bucky blinks, surprised. Glancing at Steve, he hesitates briefly, before leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss on your lips. He tastes soft, a faint hint of minty toothpaste on his breath.
When he breaks away, you slip a hand behind his neck. He swallows hard at feel of your fingers digging into his skin and leans helplessly into the touch.
“Honey - “ he starts, but you cut him off.
“Kiss me again. Mean it this time.”
At your demand, dark lust fills his face. Eyes flicking back and forth, he appears to gauge the request, making absolutely sure you’re sure, and then -
He devours you.
Shoving you back into the mess of pillows, he climbs onto the bed, mouth slanting hungrily over yours. Teeth bumping, tongue sliding along yours, he holds your face between his palms, damp skin and cool metal. He kisses so long and deep, so thorough and full of passion, it leaves you gasping for air.
“Better?” he murmurs, and for the first time since the day you died, since that moment your soul flew beyond his reach, the faint flicker of a smile tugs his lips.
The kiss does nothing to calm the tide. It makes your skin sizzle, lust sweeping through your body.
“I need you. Both of you. Please,” you breathe, tugging frantically at your shirt, a feverish desperation for the blazing heat of their skin against yours.
“Are you sure?” Steve asks hoarsely, blunt tipped fingers gripping your hip so tight you feel a bruise already forming. There is no pain though, only the comforting pressure of intimate familiarity. “We don’t have to do anything, not yet, not - not ever.”
“Please,” you plead again. “Please. It’s been so long, I missed you, don’t - don’t let me leave you, please Steve, please don’t let me go again.”
At your tearful words, Steve genuinely believes he feels his heart break. All he knows, all he will ever know again, is a burning need to fix this. To keep you and Bucky safe from everything, no matter the cost.
“Never. Never again,” he vows, and beside him, Bucky echoes the promise.
“Never, sweetheart. We’ll never let you go.”
The simplicity of a remembered intimacy comes naturally. Steve settles against the headboard and pulls you between his legs, tossing away your shirt and peppering kisses across your back, over your shoulders, up your neck. Wide hands stroke up along your ribcage, cupping your breasts. It makes you twitch when he gently pinches your nipples, teeth nipping at your ear.
Bucky slides your panties off and settles between your legs, easing them open. Warm breath brushes over your clit and then he licks a firm strip between your folds. At your low moan, he slowly pushes two fingers inside you, twisting and rubbing until sparks crackle along your skin.
“Keep going, oh god, keep going.”
Bracketed between Steve’s thighs, one hand tangled in Bucky’s dark hair, your hips push up to meet every stroke of his tongue, writhing as he holds you down. Steve’s hands are ceaseless, rubbing your breasts, circling your nipples, tugging lightly as he leaves small bites along your neck.
“There you go baby, that’s it,” he whispers. “Keep watching him, don’t look away.”
Eyes on the ceiling, you force yourself to look down, at the man nestled snug between your legs. His dark hair falls over his forehead, blue eyes burning you to ash.
“Bucky,” you rasp, powerless against the onslaught of pleasure, “Steve. Please.”
The sound of his name falling from your lips, something he never expected to hear again, sends Bucky into a frenzy. Tongue flicking faster, he pumps his fingers harder, the vibration from his moan pulsing against your clit and everything shatters.
Arching up, the orgasm crests and breaks, white noise blanking your mind. Incoherent cries fill your ears, over and over, until you recognize the sound of your own voice, a repetitious prayer crafted from the only three words that will ever matter.
Bucky.
Steve.
Please.
They answer, of course. In perfect fashion, with perfect rhythm.
Steve pulls your boneless, shuddering body higher, and Bucky opens your legs wider, letting Steve ease into your pussy from behind. He groans at the feel, the silky wet heat gripping him, and clutches your back tight to his chest. Rocking his hips up, he moves your body easily, thrusting deep. The delicious sound of his soft grunts fill your ear and it reignites the throbbing ache between your legs.
Bucky crawls up until he straddles you both, his tongue curling around your nipple, licking, sucking, tugging delicately with his teeth. He frees your hand, the one digging into Steve’s thigh, and wordlessly coaxes it between his legs. Wrapping sweaty fingers tight around his cock, you stroke him, following the rhythm Steve sets.
It feels so easy, the three of you moving in tandem, both men thrusting faster, harder, rougher, until you come once more, and just like always, they follow to a stuttering end right behind.
Bucky.
Steve.
Please.
Yes, these three words are the only ones you think you’ll ever need.
****
Sated, the three of you lay together. Bucky in his favorite place, forehead tucked against your breasts, his arm curved around your waist. Steve warm and solid, molded head to toe along your back, his arm slung around you both, fingers lazily twirling Bucky’s hair.
Beyond the curtains, darkness remains. Now, with your body exhausted and comforted by their presence, if becomes easier to whisper the question.
“How did you do it?”
“Hmm?” Steve murmurs, drifting toward the balm of sleep. Bucky says nothing, simply snuggles closer, his steady breaths puffing warm on your skin.
“I remember what happened.” Softly the confession falls. “Please don’t lie to me. Tell me how you did it. How you brought me back.”
Both men stiffen. Bucky stops breathing. Steve stops stroking his hair. Dread fills you, cold as ice. You know then, whatever price they’ve paid? It will tear the world apart.
Breath tickling the back of your neck, Steve murmurs so quietly, you strain to hear.
“We made a deal.”
*****
Part 2
*****
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
Text
never let you go (2)
Summary: After losing the woman they love, Bucky and Steve make a desperate decision with unimaginable consequences. 
Characters: Stucky x Reader
Warnings: Violence, blood, mentions of demons and gore. Brief hints of SMUT. Swearing. Bucky and Steve are not exactly nice. A very brief appearance by my favorite Hunter (SPN crossover).
Prompt: “Heartache is one thing, but this…this is worse.”
A/N: This is my submission for the fantastic @sherrybaby14 for Sherry’s Fall Into You challenge, thanks babe for hosting. This is a dark story fam, different than my usual writing. Bucky and Steve really do make some bad decisions, so please heed the warnings. This is a short series, only 3 parts.
Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!
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Previously...
“How did you do it?”
“Hmm?” Steve murmurs, drifting toward the balm of sleep. Bucky says nothing, simply snuggles closer, his steady breaths puffing warm on your skin.
“I remember what happened.” Softly the confession falls. “Please don’t lie to me. Tell me how you did it. How you brought me back.”
Both men stiffen. Bucky stops breathing. Steve stops stroking his hair. Dread fills you, cold as ice. You know then, whatever price they’ve paid? It will tear the world apart.
Breath tickling the back of your neck, Steve murmurs so quietly, you strain to hear.
“We made a deal.”
*****
“The greatness of humanity is not in being human, but in being humane.” Mahatma Gandhi
*****
Along the glass smooth lake, the tufts of grass are wrapped in furry white frost. Fog rises in slow curls from the mirror of dark blue, warm water battling cold air, while white ice crackles along the edges in paper thin sheets. Each morning you walk out to the lake, the ice creeps further, a bitter omen of what will come.
It all feels surreal. Impossible and improbable. An endless winter waiting in the wings. 
From the outside, life is the same. The world turns, the sun rises in the east. Bucky still giggles madly at cat videos on YouTube and Steve still argues that cough syrup tastes delicious. For the three of you, nothing has changed.
But for the world, it has.
Part of you wants to hate them. It was the most selfish, self-sacrificing act either has ever committed in their long lives, but no matter how monumentally fucked up the situation, it changes nothing. Regardless of the road ahead, there are no limits to the love you feel for them both, and one truth burns with a steadfast certainty - you will always follow in their footsteps.
Perhaps that fact will be your downfall.
Staring bleakly across the clear lake, you think back to that night, when they explained everything. With the proverbial cards on the table, the most complicated question of your entire life now looms.
What will you do to save them?
*****
Eyes downcast, they sit beside each other on the edge of the bed, overgrown children awaiting punishment. Fingers linked atop your head, you pace a short path in front of them, back and forth, breathing fast, words locked in your throat. When they finally burst free, both men flinch.
“Explain what you mean. I don’t understand, Steve. What does a deal with a demon mean? What is that?”
Refusing to look up, Steve remains silent, nervously pinching the callouses on his palm. Bucky stares mutely at his toes, wiggling them into the ropey blue rug beneath the bed. He cracks his knuckles and you can tell he’s mustering his courage. Wetting his lips, he finally meets your gaze.
“It means exactly what Steve said. I know it sounds insane, but it was a real demon. Like the kind you find in - in fairy tales or something. We met a couple guys and they told us how to find her. Said you can make a deal, whatever you want, the demon’ll give it to you...” Bucky trails off, losing steam; another deep breath and he plows on. “...she gives it to you in exchange for 10 years. Those are the contract terms, the regular deal. At the end of the 10 years, that’s it. She comes back to collect, and you’re sent - down. To hell.”
Disbelief clenches like an iron fist, heavy and suffocating. It makes no sense - demons don’t exist. Something else must have happened, some unknown magic, a wormhole, an alternate reality, a time loop maybe. Each ludicrous option seems more likely than their calm explanation, they must be wrong. If demons existed, SHIELD would know. There would be a documentation, strategies, fighting methods.
There would be safe guards to stop idiots in love from making disastrous decisions.
“Bucky, what you’re saying makes no sense. Demons aren’t real,” you say carefully, and goosebumps flare across your skin when Steve lifts guarded eyes to yours. “Steve? They’re not real. It was something else…right?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Every fiber of your being screams this must be a nightmare, any moment you’ll wake up. Maybe you weren’t on the roof that day, maybe this is all a sick lucid dream. Maybe you’re alive and asleep in bed, and when you wake up Bucky will have stolen all the pillows and Steve will be in the kitchen making oatmeal.
Wake up, you chant to yourself. Wake up, wake up, wake up.
Nothing happens. Chest heaving, you spin away, hot tears burning your throat.
“So that’s what you did? You sold your souls to a demon? And in 10 years she comes back and - drags you to hell?”
“Wait,” Bucky says earnestly. “You didn’t let me finish, it wasn’t that. We didn’t sell our souls. That was the regular deal, but not for us. There’s no 10-year limit, we’re staying with you. All three of us, we get to stay together.”
He pushes off the bed and comes toward you, arms reaching for a hug. Surprise blooms over his face when you place both palms flat on his chest and shove. Stumbling back, he hits the mattress with a shocked bounce.
“No,” you grit out, “Tell me you’re not that naive. It had to cost something, so what was it. What did you give her?” Stubbornly, Bucky’s mouth tightens. Fine then. Turning to Steve, you cup his chin, tilting his face until you glimpse the swirl of shame glowing in his blue eyes. “Steve. Tell me what you gave her.”
It takes all of five seconds for him to give in; Steve never could keep a secret. Not from Bucky. Not from you.
“It wasn’t our souls,” he mumbles. Misery seeps from his skin and he stares intently, begging a forgiveness you never realized you had to give. “She asked for - humanity. That was what she wanted. We gave her our humanity.”
At his admission, a fresh urgency, a new panic, fills the hollowness in your heart.
“Your humanity? What does that mean? What happens now?”
Shrugging helplessly, Steve looks back to his feet. “I guess since we gave her that, then maybe we’ll - change. Maybe we’ll become - different.”
It clicks, then.
Different.
Two battle hardened soldiers, potent super strength flowing through their veins. If you take away their good hearts, strip out the kindness and patience and compassion, extinguish the beautiful tenderness that illuminates them from the inside, what remains?
Brutal violence powered by deadly strength. Something cold and destructive. It seems obvious now, why the demon offered this choice.
Stay above and be in love, happy and content for 10 years before death comes calling.
Or stay above and be in love, happy and content for as long as life allows, with one chilling caveat - abandon who you are.
Without a conscience to keep them in check, the scale of violence two super soldiers could wreak across the globe is breathtaking. And if they leave their humanity in the dust and use the serum thrumming in their veins for something dark and terrible? The outcome remains the same.
Someday in the future, death will still come for them. And with a list of innocent deaths attached to their names, it all means the same thing.
No matter what, they’ve damned themselves to hell. It’s only a matter of time.
“But she promised nothing changes between the three of us,” Bucky interrupts the morbid train of thought, gesturing at you, at Steve, at himself. “Other things might change, but she said the three of us, we’ll stay the same. We won’t change, not when it comes to you. We can make this work, I swear.”
His words make you want to scream. How could they be so stupid? How could they not realize?
“God dammit Bucky! You’re telling me that eventually every bit of goodness that makes you human, that will disappear? What then? The world has two psychopaths with fucking super powers? Is that what you’re saying?!”
“But we can fight it,” Bucky argues, rising again. He takes one step and you shove him harder, knocking him back. Frustrated, he slaps the bed. “We can. I know we can. This was a way around it.”
Before you, they both melt into blurry shadows as the tears spill over, rivers of sticky heat dripping down your neck, soaking the ragged collar of your shirt. Hopelessness shatters your voice.
“No you won’t, Bucky. You can’t. So now what? Huh? How am I supposed to save you?”
Deflated, Bucky hesitates before standing again. Cautiously, he steps forward, ignoring the hand you push against his chest, ignoring the bite of your nails scratching his skin. He murmurs your name, an imploring plea, and the sound breaks you. Trembling fingers curl into a fist and you slam your knuckles against the steel of his sternum, anger fading into fear. He says nothing, lets you expend your rage all over him, wild fists punching him over and over, until you collapse. Then he catches you easily, sitting on the bed, cuddling you in his lap.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding tight to your halfhearted struggles, before you finally give up. Burying your face against his neck, he rocks you gently, terrified tears drenching his skin like a spring rain. “But she gave you back. That was enough for us to say yes. You were worth the price.”
“I’m not, nothing is worth this,” you sob hysterically. Guilt pours out, overwhelming and soul-shattering. “This will kill you both, it’ll ruin you. I ruined you.”
“No.” Steve says fiercely. Gripping your arm, he gives a harsh shake. “You did not do this. This was our decision. We knew exactly what we were doing, sweetheart. This wasn’t a mistake.”
Steve moves closer, wrapping his arms around you both, one palm on the warm heat of Bucky’s shoulder blade, the other cupping your face. Pressing his lips to your forehead, the solidity of his presence a quiet reassurance. Tangling your hand in his hair, you tug hard, aching to bring him closer.
Maybe, you think, if you hold tight enough you can keep them intact. Humanity. Souls. Hearts. Whatever they’re made up of inside, maybe if you love them hard enough, you can save them.
“He’s right,” Bucky murmurs, trembling lips at your temple, “This was all on us. But if we had to choose between losing you and doing this again, we’d still do this. We’d choose you. We’ll always choose you.”
*****
There are five people who know the truth.
Nick Fury and Maria Hill. Steve tells them but keeps the specifics of the deal vague. Deep down, he knows Nick would lock them up if he knew everything. They were furious, but in different ways. Fury screamed at them for 30 straight minutes, before storming out in a swirl of black leather. Following close behind, Maria gave them a tight-lipped nod and somehow, that silent disappointment was worse.
And then there were the other three.
Natasha, Tony, Sam. All three received perplexing text messages asking them to meet at Bucky and Steve’s apartment; when they arrive, Sam knocks on cautiously and Bucky meets them with a blank face, wordlessly handing each a fresh bottle of whiskey.
“You’ll need it,” is all he says.
With each Avenger clutching their liquor, Bucky and Steve proceed to explain everything. Their sorrow, their grief. The inability to find any future without you. Their anger at everything, at the world, at each other. Calmly, they each offer their perspective and they see Tony looking confused, Sam looking uneasy, and Natasha looking - strangely resigned.
When they finally finish, there’s a long silence, until Natasha snaps the cap on her bottle of whiskey and takes a long swig. She wipes her mouth and asks.
“What did you do?”
Steve looks at Bucky, who stares determinedly at his feet. Nodding to himself, he rises slowly, walking into the bedroom. Beyond the doors, they hear the hum of low voices and then it creaks open. Bucky hesitates for a breath. 
Then he leads you forward.
At the unexpected sight, Tony tumbles off the armchair with a garbled shout and Sam leaps to his feet.
Natasha still sits calmly.
“So. You met the Winchester boys,” she states. Defiance in his eyes, Bucky shoots her a cool glare.
“Yes,” he says shortly, and she simply nods. Carefully setting her bottle of whiskey on the floor, she rises gracefully and tiptoes toward you. Instantly, Steve and Bucky lean into a protective stance, mirrored snarls on their lips, but Natasha brushes them aside. With no hesitation, she wraps you in a fierce hug.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispers in your ear. Burying your face in her hair, the sweet scents of lavender and leather swirl, so unequivocally Natasha.
They explain everything then. The deal, the magic, the price. All down to the last, gruesome detail. At the end of their story, the room is silent. Tony is the first to respond, ashen faced, shaking with unspeakable anger. He heaves his full bottle of whiskey into the fireplace and it explodes with a crash of flames, before he barrels through the front door with a resounding boom.
Sam sways where he stands, his vision folding along the edges. He wants to understand, he does. More than anyone, he saw the depths of grief into which they sunk, but this? He never considered this. But instead of screaming, he says nothing, just hugs you gently, thinking bizarrely of delicately spun glass. Shoulders sagging under the burden of knowing, he silently follows Tony, his footsteps as heavy as his heart.
And Natasha? Well. Standing in the doorway, she smiles sadly.
“I spoke to them too, you know. Found a crossroad in Colorado. Nine years ago,” she confesses. “One year to go.”
The door clicks shut, leaving them to ponder a new horror.
*****
The official SHIELD report stamps your return with CONFIDENTIAL block letters, and the file is buried deep in the vaults. It leaks to the press as a simple solution, a fake out, a way to throw the bad guys off the trail. Here you are, alive and well, on leave for an indeterminate period.
New York becomes too much. Hostile and loud, too many questions, too many opportunities to let the truth slip free. In the middle of the night, the three of you tangled in a mess of sleepy limbs, Steve offers a solution.
At sunrise you leave.
Refuge comes at a secluded cabin in upstate New York, a mossy pile of logs Steve fell in love with years ago and purchased on a whim. Hidden deep in the trees, it overlooks a crystalline lake and when you step inside, it smells of dust and mothballs. With a mop, a few dust rags, and a bit of elbow grease, it quickly becomes a home.
There, life finally moves forward.
Mornings with bitter coffee, mornings with breathless runs, mornings lazing in a massive claw foot bathtub, big enough for three.
Evenings by the crackling fire, evenings full of books and music, evenings filled with Bucky’s sweat slicked hair tangled in your fingers, with Steve’s quiet groans between your legs, with your shaking cries echoing off the walls.
Sheer perfection. Every waking moment. 
After a few weeks, Bucky and Steve tentatively return to combat, agreeing to short missions that never tear them from your side for more than a few days. Stepping up together, they take on the world once more, protecting the innocent, righting the wrongs. Each time they return, they come refreshed and relaxed, full of sweet words and excited laughter, familiar bits of your former life spilling into the comfortable home the three of you have made together.
They seem so happy. So bright and wild and bursting with love.
It makes you wonder. Maybe, just maybe, Bucky was right. Maybe they found a way around the inevitable. Maybe the demon changed her mind. Maybe they’re safe.
Maybe it worked.
*****
Until slowly and certainly, things begin to change.
*****
Bullets are pinging around them, sparks flying through the air. Steve moves confidently, smoothly dodging every bullet slung their way with a flick of his shield. Behind him, Bucky slinks along, his gun at the ready. When they cut around the corner, three men put up a cursory fight, before all three are taken down with a flick of the shield and two well-placed bullets.
“Like taking candy from a baby,” Steve mutters. Sifting through a pile of paper, he gathers up the files, stuffs them in a secure pocket at his hip and motions for Bucky to leave.
They hear a faint moan.
Propped against the wall, sits a hostage. Mouth taped shut, feet tied together. Blood streams thick and heavy down his face, congealing in a warm pool along his collarbone. Death is imminent, even across the room they can smell it coming. As they come closer, the man registers footsteps and opens his eyes, blinking blearily at the two men looking down. Recognition when he sees the familiar red, white, and blue, a glimmer of hope cutting through the pain.
Staring down, Steve twitches his fingers, an unconscious motion to help, before something inside denies the move.
How peculiar.
Turning away, he issues a rough order at Bucky.
“He won’t make it. Put him out of his misery.”
Bucky gazes at the dying man at his feet.
Shrugging, he raises his pistol and pulls the trigger.
*****
Sunlight streams through the tall windows of the living room, as you laze on the couch. Down the hall, you hear the shower running, the sound of Steve’s off-key baritone singing as he soaps the red stains of death from his skin.
When he shuffles into the living room wearing sweatpants and a soft green shirt, his tired eyes find you. The lingering stress falls away and he bounds forward, flopping on the couch with a careless oompf. Dropping a kiss on your forehead, he carefully arranges a pillow in your lap, and plunks his head down. Post shower, his blond hair is wet dark and squeaky clean, the spicy scent of body wash still lingering.
“Scratch my head?” he asks, adding a sweet pout that never fails to make you give in. Dragging your fingers through the damp strands, you rub his scalp and he sighs happily. When he stretches his feet over the edge of the couch with a wide yawn, his muscles shift and twist, reminding you of a lion you saw once at the zoo. Big and lazy, soaking up the warm golden sunshine.
“Nothing but a big lazy cat,” you murmur, one hand in his hair, the other rubbing slow circles over his heart. Closing his eyes, he grins at the comparison. Catching the hand at his chest, he brings your palm to his lips and presses kisses along each finger, before linking his hand to yours. Moments pass, and his body goes lax, a low stream of steady breaths as he drifts to sleep.
In the shifting afternoon sun, you stay there, watching the light play off his pale eyelashes. You think about Steve. Warm skin and golden hair. Sharp claws retracted; teeth hidden. Deadly to everyone, except those he loves.
*****
“I gave you the intel, I gave it to you!”
Bucky stabs the knife into the muscled meat of the man’s thigh, and the responding scream reverberates off the walls. Like flame hot metal through butter, the pale skin is splayed open, revealing marbled streaks of yellow fat, white bone gleaming beneath. Blubbering incoherently, bloody spit foams in the corners of his mouth, wild eyes rolling back in his head.
“I gave it to you, I did, I did, I did, please!”
There is a pause and for a blessed moment, the man believes he has a reprieve. Swollen eyes fly open, meeting bright blue and Bucky smiles.
And then he punches the knife handle straight through the man’s thigh bone. It cracks and splinters apart and the man screams and screams and screams and Bucky laughs and laughs and laughs.
“Did you think I fucking cared?”
*****
The sticky scent of maple syrup wakes you.
Crawling from the empty bed, you wrap the feather down comforter around your shoulders and shuffle from the bedroom, eager for the source.
The sight catches you off guard. Unimaginably soft.
There in the kitchen, Bucky stands in nothing but skintight black boxers.
Hair twisted in a messy knot, he shimmies through the small space, dancing absently to the music tinkling from the small speaker propped on the windowsill. On the stove, he has a flat skillet coated in butter and filled with bubbling silver-dollar pancakes. Along the edge of the counter, he taps out a rhythm with his spatula, tap tap tap-a-tap-a-tap, and your heart swells at the gentle domesticity.
When he whirls around, he discovers you watching from the doorway, sleepy and rumpled. He lights up, a honeyed smile on his lips, and stretches out a hand, a wordless request. Tripping into his arms, he tucks you safe against his chest.
“Morning baby,” he murmurs, warm breath tickling your ear. “God you look beautiful. How’d I get so lucky?”
The words are simple, lovely phrases he’s shared a million times before, but still your belly flips. Rubbing your cheek against his hot skin, you relax. Let yourself believe everything is perfect, while Bucky dances you slowly around the cozy kitchen until the charcoal crisp of pancake flavors the air.
“Buck, I think your pancakes are burning,” you breathe against the sandpaper stubble along his neck.
He merely hums.
“Let ‘em burn. I’m dancin’ with my girl.”
Mellow notes of smoky jazz drift through the air and you burrow closer, until Bucky pulls you down to the smooth kitchen tiles. The feather comforter pillows beneath you, the searing heat of his mouth tracing down your neck.   
*****
“We’re out of time, set the bombs off. Now.”
In all the time he’s known known Steve Rogers, Sam has never heard his voice like this. Brittle. Cold. Devoid of emotion. On the ground below, amid soaring walls of steel and glass, screaming voices echo off the tower buildings. From his perch high above the melee, Sam stares watches people streaming from the front doors. He hesitates.
“There are still people inside,” he responds.
On the other end of the line is a bone crunching thunk, a truncated scream. Steve’s voice returns.
“Did I fucking stutter? Set it off. Now.”
Again, Sam hesitates, the trigger clenched in his sweaty hand. He shakes his head.
“Negative, Cap. There are still - “
“Jesus Christ, Wilson, you fucking pussy,” Bucky snarls. He rips the black box from Sam’s numb fingers and shoves him aside. Without pause, he flips the switch.
Across the street, the building rumbles and sways and in the space of a breath, the world is rent apart: glass shatters, steel beams screech, concrete explodes. All those still inside, fighting their way to freedom, go down in a crush of rubble, screams and shouts silenced by the thundering rush of crumbling stone.
Stalking around the corner, Steve is sliding the shield onto his back. Without a glance at the crowd below, he rushes at Sam.
“When I tell you to do something, don’t you ever fucking hesitate. You understand?”
Beside him, Bucky snorts and flings the device to the ground. He grinds it under his heel and strolls away, resuming his stance above the disaster. Blanching at the rage in those blue eyes, Sam takes a wordless step back.
“Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”
*****
The last time Steve came to the familiar meadow, was because he needed space to let the rage in his heart spill into the world. In the desolation of those black nights, he screamed his fury into the heavens, broken beyond repair.
This time is different.
Velvety night drips through the sparse tree branches as you walk through the dense forest, Steve leading the way, Bucky close behind. Slivers of moonlight streak through the dark trees, illuminating the huffs of frosty white breath.
When you reach the clearing, Steve slips his warm hand through your gloved fingers, Bucky curves a protective arm around your shoulders. Together, they lead you toward the middle of the field, until they come to an abrupt halt.
Bemused, you stare at them. Under the shy glow of white moonlight, they look carved from marble.
Fallen angels, maybe.
“Is everything okay?” you whisper, eyes roving uncertainly between them.
From the depths of his pocket, Bucky pulls free a black satin box. It sits in the palm of his hand and he looks nervously at you, over to Steve, back to you. He clears his throat.
“We’ve been talking about this forever.” A crooked smile lifts his lips. “Since the first night you spent with us. This here, what we have with you, it’s the only thing we want. We don’t need anything official, but we thought you should know. We’ll love you forever, sweetheart. If you’ll let us.”
Gently, he opens the case, revealing a dark ring set against white silk. Eyes wide, you watch as Bucky lifts the simple band, two strings of delicate black vibranium twisted into an infinity circle. As he holds it aloft, Steve nudges him, and they both fall, kneeling to worship at your feet.
“What do you think?” Steve murmurs. Tentative, hesitant. As though the answer could ever be anything other the words rolling from your tongue.
No matter the circumstance, the love you have for Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers is the one shining light in a world of darkness.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course. I love you both so much, nothing will ever change that. Forever.”
Under the raw, naked gleam of the bright night, you kneel before them, face to face with their delighted smiles. Together they reach for you, pulling you into the safe haven of their arms.
*****
“God dammit Rogers! You’re out of line with this shit!”
Leaning over his desk, Nick Fury wipes irritably at the fat beads of sweat dripping down his temple.
Across from him, Steve and Bucky sit in matching leather chairs, both still wearing their combat uniforms. They look like heathens, covered in dust and blood, the pervading reek of death defiling the pristine shine of the SHIELD office. Bucky sits with his legs sprawled open, Steve with one ankle balanced on the opposite knee.
Both are smirking.
“Are we though?” Steve shrugs, eyes wide. “If you’re not gonna do your job, someone has to pick up the slack. Like always.”
Nick grinds his teeth so hard they nearly crack. He sees red.
“That’s it, you cocky sonofabitch. We’re done with this. Effective immediately, you’re relieved of your duties. Both of you.”
Steve tips his head back and laughs, an inhuman sound. Nick feels his gut twist.
“Really? Buck did you hear that? We’re ‘relieved’ of our duties. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like a fucking relief,” Bucky drawls. He picks at his fingernail, scraping dried blood from beneath and flicking it away. Tilting his head, he looks up at Fury with a poisonous smile. “But I dunno, the thing is Director, we’re pretty happy with our jobs. Pays the bills and gives us something to do, so I don’t think we’ll accept your offer. Another day, maybe. That sound good Stevie?”
“Sounds great, Buck.”
At a loss for words, Nick stares. Over the decades, he’s encountered some genuinely fucked up people, a common currency in this line of business, but this? This right here? This is a whole other level. Every hint of remorse, every bit of humanity, every last fragment of goodness is gone. Disappeared. Nothing more than ashes in the wind.
It is a bleak world, when superheroes become the monsters they hunt.
Steeling himself, Nick presses his fists into the desk to hide the shaking tremor of nerves.
“One last warning Rogers. Turn in your weapons and go home. Stand down, or I will make you.”
“Oh please,” Steve sneers, delight in his voice, “give it your best shot. I can’t wait to see how that goes.”
Smoothly simultaneous, they stand. The sound of raucous laughter follows them through the door and into the hallway, before abruptly ending as the heavy wood slams shut. Wide-eyed, Nick sinks slowly into his creaking leather chair.
The skin along the back of his neck tingles.
“Motherfucker,” he whispers.
*****
Standing at the edge of the dark lake, gentle ripples slide along the edges of cracked ice. It grows so fast now, stretching frozen fingers to claim the sheet of blue. Like a parasite, hardening the shoreline, freezing the world to stone.
The wicked irony of the metaphor is not lost.
Staring at the mobile phone clenched tight in your icy fingers, you turn it on for the first time in weeks and the screen lights up with a sea of notifications, red blips and blinking green lights, texts, emails, voicemails. Indicators of an increasingly desperate world beyond the confines of your comfortable bubble. Scrolling through, the names are an endless loop and your heart plummets.
Natasha, Sam, Tony. Nick Fury.
While Steve and Bucky have said nothing, the question itched at your brain. Upon each return, you begged them to tell you: what happened, how were they feeling, what did they see, was anything changing? And over and over, they answered with bashful shrugs and dashing smiles, fervent kisses pressed to your lips as they murmured the same response.
Nothing changed. Everything is good, we feel fine.
Nausea rises, thick and sour. Why did you ever let yourself believe them?
Before, they agonized over morality, what was right, the cost of their decisions. But now? The evidence of their lies glare up in black and white. Thumbing through, you see the increasing alarm in every message, descriptions of all they’ve done. Bombs, gunshots, torture. Blatant disregard for lives, for their team, for anything and anyone other than themselves.
Any semblance of humanity whittled away to nothing. Shattered by a desperate wish and a bargaining dance with a red-eyed demon.
Fuck.
Finger hovering over the latest message from Natasha, you brace yourself and click it open. The words jumble together, swimming black letters.
Nat: Dean Winchester. 785-555-0128. Call him. Please.
Eyes shut, you tip your face up to the sky, sucking in a lungful of sharp air.
For all the darkness circling their souls, the truth is, it remains pure and clear when it comes to their love for you. Bright smiles in the morning, rich laughter teasing through the day, sweet caresses in the night. The unconventionally beautiful relationship among the three of you created remains flawless.
Just as the demon promised.
Selfishly, you want that to be enough - if only it could be - but no. Some wrongs need to be righted, and this tragedy now rests squarely in your hands. Maybe you can save them. Maybe.
And if you can’t?
Heart hammering wildly in your chest, you punch the number, lift the phone to your ear and wait. It rings for so long, you nearly give up, until a gruff voice finally answers.
“Hello?”
*****
End
*****
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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years
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Safe with me (10)
Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.    
Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. SMUT, 18+ please.
PLEASE READ A/N: I’m pretty gutted Tumblr decided to delete this chapter for absolutely no reason, because admittedly when I’m having a bad day, I’ll read some of the comments I’ve had from you lovely people. I hate that those have been lost, but I’m posting again so the story is complete for any new (or returning) readers. Enjoy! 
SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER
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Previously...
Bucky looks down to where you lean against him. Wrapped in your patchwork quilt, your arm is wrapped tightly around his, your face buried against his shoulder. He feels your slow, even breaths heat his skin, feels his fingers still tangled in yours, and it takes every last drop of willpower to let go of that comfort.
Rousing you gently, his stomach lurches when you blink slowly, contentment in your eyes when you recognize him.
“I need you to wake up, quickly. We’re leaving,” his voice is low and urgent, but perfectly calm.
Still half asleep, you struggle to follow. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
*****
The night is still a deep velvet black, when you slip like shadows from the apartment.
Bucky's bike seems quieter than before, and you huddle against his back, locking your fingers around his broad chest when he takes off. He heads north first, tilting and turning through the tree-lined streets of the Upper West side, turning east to cross through Harlem, where a flickering neon orange bar sign spelling out LUKE'S briefly catches your eye.
When he hits the FDR, he slams on the gas, flying south. The Bridge looms ahead, white lights illuminating the smooth curve of cables. There's a heady rush of safety at the landmark, knowing what will follow.
Steps heavy, you walk slowly into Bucky's apartment, unclipping your backpack, dropping it with a soft thump.
Nothing has changed since the last time you were here.
His copy of the The Book Thief sits in the leather chair where you left it, your page marked with a battered Metro card. Bucky's half-finished crossword lays on the coffee table, waiting for him to puzzle out the remaining clues. Two half full glasses of water sit on the bar counter.
Everything has changed since the last time you were here.
Lightly touching the bandage on your forehead, you sigh. Even with your overactive imagination, you never expected this, and it makes you sick to your stomach.
"You're welcome to everything," Bucky says quietly. "I don't exactly get visitors, so if you need anything, just ask."
The world feels blurry, and you sway. Right now, the only thought in your head, is that you can feel your heartbeat through the cut on your forehead. It feels so fucking weird.
Opening your mouth to speak, nothing comes. Shrugging in confusion, you look to Bucky helplessly.
"Come here," he says, gently steering you toward an oak door at the far end of the apartment. Cracking it open, he stands aside to let you pass and you wander in slowly.
The room is small, but his bed is massive, dominating most of the space. The bed-frame looks handmade, boards slotted neatly together with reddish tints of cherry, dark streaks of walnut, and purplish swirls of rosewood. Cool grey sheets are topped with a puffy dark grey comforter, and there are no less than ten plush pillows piled at the headboard, shades of sky blue and stormy grey and inky cobalt.
It looks so comfortable you could fall asleep just staring at it. Cocking an eyebrow at the pillow mountain, you give him a small grin.
He laughs wryly. "I might have a thing for pillows."
"You really are a marshmallow, Barnes."
Bucky chuckles, but it fades when he sees the light leave your eyes. Since the first day he met you, he's been intrigued by the constant snarking, the quick jabs, the ever-present sass saturating every conversation.
But now, that unique bit of energy always simmering under your skin seems sapped, drained away by the night's events. It makes him feel strangely hollow.
"You should go back to sleep, it's still early. The bedroom's all yours."
Rubbing the soft edge of the comforter, you feel a flicker of panic at the thought of being dumped and left alone for days. The question comes quietly.
"Will you stay here too?"
He doesn't respond, and after a moment's awkward silence, you glance up to find him watching you closely.
"Yes, I'll take the couch, as long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable. I need to go back to the city this morning, but I'll come back later."
Relieved at his response, you nod. "Sure, that works."
Bucky glances down at his dirty tux with a grimace, the feel of dust still heavy in his dark hair.
"I'm gonna take a quick shower, then we can talk if you want?"
"Okay," you agree with a yawn. Plopping down on the edge of the bed, you feel the weight of fatigue settling in, the sparse hour of sleep not nearly enough.
Across the small apartment, you hear the shower turning on, the fall of water lulling you into a daze. Scooting into the mountain of pillows, you grab one at random, burying your face in the soft cotton, closing your eyes.
The smell is comfortingly familiar, like sandalwood and soap.
With the lingering scent of Bucky in your nose, you drift back to sleep.
*****
In five minutes flat, Bucky's showered and dressed, pulling on dark jeans, and a black t-shirt, damp hair gathered in a knot at the back of his neck.
Rifling in the kitchen, he pours a glass of water and snags a packet of Tylenol from one of the many first-aid kits he keeps stashed around the apartment. Padding back to the bedroom, he pulls up short at the sight.
Curled in the middle of his bed, you're sound asleep, hugging one of his pillows tight.
Stepping silently in the room, he leaves the water and pain medicine on the nightstand, before picking up a fuzzy blue blanket and draping it over you.
He should leave, get back to the city, figure out what's going on, maybe break someone's ass, but instead he stands frozen, allowing this single moment of weakness; his quiet bedroom at daybreak, filled with the soft sounds of your breath and the whisper of fabric when you roll over, and his brain works overtime to commit the image to memory.
Something nice to hold onto, he thinks, because those things are rare in his world. Closing the bedroom door quietly, he tugs on his boots and picks up his bike helmet, the one he grudgingly purchased at your insistence.
Hand resting on his front door, he speaks softly.
"FRIDAY?"
"Good morning, Sergeant Barnes," the AI's voice is strangely subdued.
"Keep her safe."
"Yes sir."
Bucky closes the apartment door with a gentle click.
*****
Outside the Tower, the crime scene is marked with yellow police tape, the plastic giving a crinkly rattle in the breeze. People walk by, some pausing to assess the damage, some taking photos. Several to leave flowers. There's unfortunate acceptance of disasters like these, an obligatory numbness that allows people to continue with life.
Bucky wants to stride right past without looking, but he can't.
Carved in the sidewalk is a six-foot wide crater, where the bomb tore apart the concrete. Water pipes lay exposed in the pit, a jumbled heap of cracked iron, and Bucky sees speckles and smears, dark brown and rusty red marring the concrete slabs. He briefly tries to orient himself, to determine if any of those stains belong to you.
It doesn't matter, he thinks sharply. She's fine.
Avoiding the reporters milling out front, Bucky makes his way through heavily reinforced security teams, and ducks into an open elevator. When the doors close, he's compelled to ask.
"FRIDAY?"
"She's still asleep, Sergeant Barnes."
"Thanks," he replies faintly.
When Bucky walks into the lab, he finds an oddly sombre energy.
Steve sits with his head bowed, tapping his toes while he scrolls through a tablet. Bruce is drumming his fingers against the table, his eye attached to his microscope. Tony stands at his desk, elbow deep in a messy tangle of wires.
"Well?" Bucky asks brusquely, and all three look up.
"DNA's a dead end," Bruce answers immediately. "The drugs are too sticky, I can't peel it apart, and even if I could, it's likely changed him down to a molecular level. We won't get a match."
"So, we're stuck with fucking pictures. How retro," Tony grumbles, dropping the wires, and snatching his phone. Flicking his wrist, an entire gallery of images projects into the air, digital portraits of people from the night before.
"Here's everyone who passed the Tower last night, with even a slight match to your description. Start looking."
Bucky walks into the middle of the projection, heart sinking when he sees hundreds of photos. Reaching for images that catch his eye, he discards one after another, making his way through the wall of holograms. An hour passes, then two, his pile decreasing, his frustration increasing, with every passing minute.
"Fuck, I couldn't have forgotten it already, what the hell?" he growls under his breath. More images pop up, and he tosses them aside, his blood beginning to boil.
When he grabs one at random, he gives a cursory glance, and moves to fling it away.
His eyes snap back.
Brown hair. Hazel eyes.
"Fuck me, yes. This," he breathes. "This is it, this is him."
The image is not perfect, but suddenly the face bursts into vivid colour, the forgettable cracks filled with a memory mortar, cementing the detail into Bucky's brain. In that instant, it all rushes back, the feel of saliva in his mouth, the pulsing silence before the detonation, the echoes of screams like smoke on the wind.
Tony and Steve are flanking him, and all three men stare in silence at the picture. Bucky watches his hand raise, fingers brushing the hologram, an unconscious squeeze of the man's throat.
"FRIDAY, start running against every open database. If we can't access, we hack." Tony orders.
Bucky keeps his eyes on the image, drinking in the details. He wants it embedded in his brain, because the next time he sees this fucker, he doesn't plan to leave his face intact.
He feels a curious sense of relief though, because this man is far too young to be the voice, Bucky knows that for certain. It almost puts a spring back in his step, the weight lifting off his shoulders.
Once he has the image locked, he turns crisply, heading for the door.
"Call me soon as there's something."
*****
Steve trots after him, easily keeping up with his long stride. It irritates Bucky just a little that when he wants to run away from Steve, it's officially impossible, because the punk's legs are longer than his.
"How is she?" Steve asks sincerely, and now Bucky feels a little bad about trying to run away.
"She's okay. Sleeping when I left."
"Good, good," Steve says. "So, she's staying there? For now?"
"Yes. Is that a problem?"
"Of course not, I'm just asking. So, she's staying there, and you're staying – where?"
"On the street Steve. Thought I'd rough it up a bit, have some fun, go back to those glorious days when I was homeless and on the run. Good times."
"I see, so we're doing that thing where you're an asshole when I ask questions. Awesome."
"Well Jesus, what do you want me to say? Yeah, I'm staying there too, I can't leave her alone."
"Can't? Or won't?"
Bucky stops abruptly. "Seriously?"
"What are you doing, Buck?" Steve asks quietly. "Come on. You clearly feel something for her. I know you know. Stop acting oblivious and answer the question."
Bucky tries to blow past him, but Steve grabs his arm, and they wrestle for a minute, before Bucky gets him in a headlock. Gritting his teeth, he tries to explain himself, while Steve jams an elbow repeatedly into his ribs.
"Listen to me, you little shit. Something Hydra burned out pretty fucking fast, was any idea that emotions and a successful mission can co-exist. You know – don't fucking bite me Steve – you know what happens when emotions get involved? You get really fucking dead. And if you're not dead you're distracted, and where the fucking hell do you think that leads?"
Letting go, he shoves Steve away. When he speaks again, it's a whispered statement.
"This is work. She is my job."
Steve's face softens when he hears the words, and he shakes his head slowly, disagreement clear in his face. Bucky knows that look, realises a Steve Rogers 'special talk' is coming, where he pulls out his Captain America voice and dispenses with some worn out bullshit wisdom. Normally Bucky plays along, but his heart's in his throat and he just can't. Not today, not about this.
Not about you.
"Don't." He puts up his hand the moment Steve opens his mouth, and he takes a deep breath. "Just – I'm only gonna say this once. I'm not oblivious, alright? Yes, I do feel something for her because she makes it hard not to. No, I will not do anything about it. Look what happened last night. He was right in front of me, and I was so caught up in her, I didn't even notice. If I'm distracted, she's not safe. Full stop."
Bucky punches the elevator call button, disappointment sitting solid in his gut, but it's the right thing. He knows it's the right thing. Steve has to understand.
But, of course, Steve is Steve, and when has he ever listened to Bucky?
"Whatever. I'm talking now. You've always been great at compartmentalizing. The minute life gets messy, you start putting things in your little boxes, so you can keep it all orderly and controlled. You did it when we were kids and I'd get sick, you did it in the war every time a mission went south, and you did it through seventy years of shit with Hydra. It made sense then, but it can't be the answer to everything because you need to understand something."
Here it comes, Bucky thinks tiredly.
"Your stupid fucking heart doesn't fit in a box Bucky. Do not let a chance to be happy fall apart, because you think you can't have both. Your head and your heart are always better together."
Bucky wishes it were that easy, he really does.
But it's not, and it never will be. Emotions are distractions, distractions make you lose control.
Bucky Barnes does not lose control.
The elevator arrives in that moment and Bucky steps inside. He turns to face Steve, and right as the doors close, he lobs his parting shot.
"No. They're not."
*****
When Bucky reaches his front door that night, he hesitates. He spent the entire drive home arguing with himself, but after an internal screaming match, he came to a conclusion. He owes you the truth, every last bit of it. It's unfair and unsafe to keep things hidden.
But fuck, the thought of your disappointment makes him want to vomit.
The alarm gives a cheerful chirp when he comes in, dropping his keys and helmet on the worn oak console in the entryway. Walking slowly into the living room, he finds you wrapped in his fuzziest blue blanket, curled in his chair, reading one of his books, giving him a relaxed smile. You fit so naturally into this world, in his home, he nearly loses his nerve.
"Hey stranger," you say with a grin, and he relishes the spark that's back in your eyes.
Christ, he doesn't want to do this.
"Hey. We need to talk," he says quietly.
The smile slides slowly off your face, at his serious tone.
"Sounds ominous," you say drily. "Are we breaking up?"
"What? No, no, I'm not – that's not – we aren't – "
"I was joking," you interrupt, giving him a small smile. "Sorry. What do we need to talk about?"
Bucky pulls out his phone, looking at the screen for a long minute. Tapping the screen, there's a white flash, and suddenly an image is projected in front of you, a slightly grainy holographic photo of a man in a blue hoodie.
Staring at the picture for a minute, you wait for him to speak, but he remains silent.
"Um, I need more information. What is this?" you ask in confusion.
"This is the guy behind your letters. Do you recognize him?"
Oh.
You look again, taking in the mop of brown hair, the crooked bend of his nose, the way his lips are pulled tight, his nervous expression. A shiver ripples up your spine.
You've never seen this man in your life.
"No, I don't. Should I?"
"You're sure? Completely positive?"
Trying again, you search the man's features, but no spark of recognition comes.
"I'm positive."
He sighs, not sure if he's disappointed or relieved at your response. "Fuck. Okay. We're still looking for him, but we haven't found anything yet."
"Is this the guy you saw last night? The one you told Steve about when we were in the car?"
Bucky flinches at the reminder and you catch the reaction instantly.
"What's going on? You've been acting weird for a couple days."
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he flips a switch on the phone and the image disappears before he sinks to the sofa.
The silence in the room is thick and absolute, until suddenly his voice comes in a low rush.
"I need to tell you something else."
"Okay," you say encouragingly. "I'm listening."
Breathing hard through his nose, he rolls the words on his tongue, shaking his head slightly, before he blurts it out.
"He was there. At the department store. He was there and he saw you, and I didn't know, and he took a picture of you, and Jesus Christ, I fucked up so bad, I didn't even know he was there."
"Wait, what?" You raise your hands to slow him down. "He took pictures? How do you know?"
There's miserable devastation written all over his face.
"He sent me two photos, left them in our fanmail box. Told me you looked pretty. Said I should pay more attention. I'm so god damn sorry."
"But how could he even get past – "
"There's more."
Everything feels off-kilter, too much information at once, and your heart lurches.
Hunching forward, Bucky drops his gaze again, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. With a deep, steadying breath, he begins to speak, laying everything on the table.
The moment in Bruce's lab, when he realized what was happening, the smell of lemons still bitter in his lungs. His memories of the drugs and how they work. The experiments they did on him. What the drug withdrawal felt like. What he had to do, the people he killed after he took it. His fear of the voice, and his horrified idea this could somehow be connected. How he smelled the man last night, before he even saw him. Steve's theory that the stalker is jealous, and Bucky's fear that his involvement could make things worse.
He talks for an hour straight, his eyes glued to the floor. He pauses at certain points, groping for the right words, closing his eyes in hot shame. He talks and talks, until his voice is hoarse, but he can't stop, because he knows when he does, you'll tear into him for keeping this from you, and he's not ready.
But he's well aware that's not how life works.
When he has nothing left to explain, he falls silent, waiting for the condemnation. You haven't said a word, and Bucky refuses to lift his eyes. He's never in his life been a coward, but this – he doesn't want to face the disappointment he knows he'll find, so he waits, and when you rise, his head hangs lower.
Stepping carefully over to him, you pause and he steels himself.
But then you're dropping to the sofa next to him, wrapping your arms tight around him, pulling him into a fierce hug.
He's so blindsided by the action, his response is automatic, winding his arms tight around you. There are familiar words coming from your lips, something Bucky remembers saying the night you told him about your father. Your forgiveness cuts him to the bone.
"Bucky, it's okay, I get it. And I'm sorry," you say softly. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."
He has no clue what to say, so he doesn't. Instead, he hugs you close, feeling the cool evening air as blows in from the river, dancing through the room.
*****
The next afternoon finds you sitting on the floor in front of Bucky's coffee table, staring at a bright laptop screen, a blinking cursor, and no will to write.
After two hours working on the same sentence, you find yourself taking everything out of Bucky's kitchen cabinets, searching for some form of chocolate to jumpstart the creativity.
"Yes," you hiss happily when you find a sack full of candy hidden behind the rows of canned vegetables. Pulling out two bags of M&Ms, you dump the contents in a bowl and wander back to your laptop.
Slipping on headphones, you crank up the music, and wonder of wonders, the chocolate does the trick. The words begin to flow, one sentence turns into two paragraphs, and the story takes shape.
"Fuck yes," you mumble, tossing back another handful of M&Ms and cracking your knuckles, bobbing your head to the music. All is well, until the unexpected pressure of a hand taps your shoulder.
Sucking in a deep breath, you let out a bloodcurdling scream. Unable to turn, stuck between the sofa and coffee table, you grab the bowl of candy and throw it wildly behind you, sending colorful bits of chocolate skittering over the floor.
There's no sound, no glass breaking, and suddenly Bucky moves in front of you, holding the empty candy bowl in one hand and a bag of food in the other. He looks bewildered by the reaction, until he sees the headphones tucked in your ears, and suddenly he's laughing.
"Sorry, I'm sorry, I thought you heard me!" He's still laughing at your annoyed face, when he holds up the Chinese takeout in offering.
"You hungry?"
*****
Cartons of half-eaten food are spread across the coffee table, while both of you sit cross-legged around the edge.
"So, there's still nothing?" Spooning more rice on your plate, you fiddle with your chopsticks, adjusting the grip.
Bucky huffs. "Nothing, it's like the guy doesn't even exist. Tony's taken it as a personal insult that his technology hasn't solved this, so you know. That should end well."
The comment makes you laugh, and Bucky grins in response, spinning the chopsticks through his fingers, before he picks up a piece of soy drenched broccoli.
"Jack emailed earlier today, asking if I could still come in tomorrow and meet with the new Pennsylvania Senator, the one who replaced Stern."
Bucky stops chewing. Still chasing a piece of chicken, you don't see his eyes narrow.
"You told him no, right?"
"Well, no – I've had that interview lined up for months, I can't cancel it."
He sets the chopsticks down carefully.
"I'm sorry, but you need to. You're not leaving."
You glance up in surprise. "Seriously? Bucky, come on. It's been two days, nothing else has happened. You know exactly what this guy looks – and smells – like. I really need to take this meeting, please. I promise it'll be quick."
He looks down, shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, the answer's no."
The atmosphere in the apartment chills. His words instantly grate on your nerves.
"Bucky, I'm here by my own volition, you understand that, right? I really appreciate everything you do for me, but if I wanted to walk out this door right now, I could."
"And I'd really appreciate if you didn't try, because I'm not opposed to locking you in the bedroom."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You heard me. I'm in charge of keeping you safe, and you're not leaving. End of discussion."
Baffled at how quickly this escalated, the next words fall before you think twice.
"I'm not a fucking prisoner, Barnes. As someone who knows what it feels like to have other people pulling all the god damn strings in your life, I assumed you might have some sympathy here."
Christ, that’s a low blow and you know it. You want to take the words back, but spiteful frustration blocks the apology.
Bucky's face goes blank. He shrugs coolly.
"I do know. You're still not going."
Without another word, you scramble up from the coffee table. Ignoring the slump of his shoulders, you walk straight to his bedroom, the door slamming behind you.
*****
Even with the river separating you from Manhattan, the city lights beam bright through the slit in the bedroom curtains, throwing patterns on the ceiling. If you were tired, this might be a problem, but no matter.
Sleep is not coming tonight.
Creeping into the living room, you find the couch empty. There's a moment of brief alarm, before the gentle clink of glass alerts you to his presence, a bulky shadow perched on the kitchen counter. A tumbler of whiskey dangles loose in his hand, filled to the brim.
"I thought you didn't drink."
"Never said that."
"Fine then. I thought you couldn't get drunk."
"I can't," he says stonily, tipping the glass for another long swallow. "Doesn't mean I don't like it."
Looks like he’s going to make it hard, then. Keeping your voice calm, you speak.
"Can we talk about earlier?"
"No," he says flatly.
"Is that how this'll be then? You just sitting here, being a dick and refusing to have a conversation?"
"That's the plan," he says, taking another sip.
"Can you please be a fucking adult and discuss this with me?"
He grunts at the comment and slides off the counter, the whiskey still cupped in his hand. Anger floods his voice as he spits the words at you.
"Fine, you want to talk about it? Let's talk. Let's start with the day we met, because I seem to remember there being a discussion about safety and me asking you to follow three rules. Any chance at all you remember what the fuck those were?"
"I remember a lot of things about that day, namely what a condescending asshole you were. Was that one of the three?"
"Three rules. Three fucking rules. There are only three and Jesus Christ, you've broken all of them! Every single one! I tell you I don't do personal errands, yet somehow end up in a department store helping you dress shop. I tell you I need to know where you are at all times, and you spend an entire morning ignoring my phone calls. I tell you when I order you to do something, you will do it without question, and yet here we are, with you questioning this one simple request. I can't keep you safe if you don't help me out, I swear to fucking god!"
"Are you done with the temper tantrum?" you ask coolly.
He throws back the last swallow and slams the glass on the counter. Cracks immediately spider from the bottom as the crystal breaks.
"No, I'm not. Can you explain something for me because I'm confused as fuck right now – why the hell do you always insist on making this job so god damn hard?"
There's a lump in your throat at his words. He has every right to be pissed, you know that, but this comment hurts and you respond before you can stop yourself.
"So, is that it then? This whole thing, it's just work? I'm just a fucking job to you?"
Bucky freezes.
He stares at you standing before him, disheveled and fired up, wearing your anger like a coat of armor. This feeling, it's too much. You are too much. Wild emotion slams into him like a tidal wave and suddenly he snaps.
Stepping around the bar, he comes at you fast, pushing until you backpedal into the living room wall. Laying his hands flat on the brick, one on each side of your face, he traps you in his space so you can't look away.
The silence is so loaded your skin tingles in anticipation.
And then his voice cracks as he whispers the words that change everything.
"No you're not, and that's the god damn problem," and his mouth crashes down on yours.
Shaking hands leave the wall to frame your face in his wide palms, keeping you steady while his lips move against yours, pouring every ounce of desperation into the kiss, ripping your breath from your chest. Fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, you yank him closer and he groans into your mouth when he feels your body pressed against him.
His kiss is both oddly familiar and like nothing you've ever experienced, soul consuming on every single level, and you feel the heat building before he breaks it with a gasp. Keeping his forehead pressed to yours, his breath comes fast, harsh and broken.
"This isn't – fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm sorry – " but his words are silenced when you kiss him again, wrapping your hands around his waist to keep him close. He gives in instantly, his mouth slanting back over yours, as he presses you harder against the wall, until you feel every burning inch of his body.
Like the crystal of his glass, the deep resonance of the moment shatters you. Breaking away from him, the words come before you can stop them.
And my god, you don't want to stop them.
"I want you Bucky," you whisper hoarsely, your lips still brushing his, and he swallows the confession with a shaky sigh. "I want you and I want this. I'm in, if you are."
Bucky leans back, and you see the longing in his eyes, know it mirrors what he sees in yours. He doesn't respond immediately, and you're suddenly terrified of the possibility of rejection from this man, someone who's burrowed so deep in your heart, you can't remember when he didn't exist as a fundamental part of you.
The conflict rages behind his eyes, you can see it clearly, but then - the switch flips. And like your dance the other night, he simply lets go.
His mouth lands back on yours with breathtaking ferocity, sending sparks of electricity snapping up your spine. Reaching behind your thighs, he lifts you easily and you wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him close.
Arms locked around you, he turns and begins a slow walk toward the bedroom. Breaking the kiss, you reach shaking hands to the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and throwing it behind him, before bringing his mouth back to yours. The taste of him is an addiction you had no idea you needed, warmth and whiskey, the barest hint of honey on his tongue when you breathe him in.
Bucky hugs you close, his hands trailing languidly up your bare back, hot and cold in turn, leaving goosebumps in their path. His light touch makes you shake, a bone-deep shudder, as you curl further into him, your breasts rubbing against the worn cotton of his black shirt.
When his mouth drops to the base of your neck, he sucks at the delicate skin over your pulse, before licking a long stripe up until his lips reach the smooth skin behind your ear. Nuzzling against your skin, he leaves a light kiss, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear, before tugging gently with his teeth. Dimly, you realize he's standing above the bed now, and with your arms and legs still tight around him, he lifts a knee and eases you both onto the soft blankets.
Rising to his knees, he fists his hands in the collar of his t-shirt and yanks it over his head, and for the second time in as many days, he crouches above you. Holding your breath, you reach up to lay your palm flat against his chest, feeling his skin like fire beneath your fingers, feeling the thundering hammer of his heart.
He leans down and his voice is low and rough in your ear, full of dark promise.
"I want to taste every single inch of you. From here," and he presses a firm kiss to your lips...
"to here," a feather light kiss at your collarbone...
"and here," he drags his beard lightly over your nipple and you hiss at the feel...
"then here," a swipe of his tongue above your bellybutton, and his fingers are hooking in your sleep shorts, slowly pulling them down...
"here," brushing his lips at your hipbone, dragging his tongue lower, and he sits back on his knees, pulling off your shorts...
"maybe here," he wraps a hand behind each of your knees, lifting them and pressing kisses on the inside of both, before pushing them down to the bed, holding you open. He stays on his knees, staring down at you splayed beneath him, and then he's shifting his body further down the bed, and his words make your stomach clench...
"but mostly here," and his thumbs stroke the soft skin inside your thighs before he ducks his head down and licks a long, slow stripe up your folds, letting the tip of his tongue rub against your clit. Tangling your hands in his hair, your nails scratch his scalp.
He hums at the feel, leans into your touch. His tongue moves lazily against you, and fuck, the sight of his dark head buried between your legs is the most erotic thing you've seen in your life.
When he stretches cool metal fingers up, dragging over your rib cage, reaching your breast, the unforgiving metal gives your nipple a small pinch. Sucking in a sharp breath as he twists and tugs gently on the sensitive skin, you grasp his wrist with both hands, and pull his hand to your mouth, sucking in two of his fingers, the feel of the cold plates warming quickly on your tongue.
He watches from his lower vantage point, groaning quietly at the sight, giving your clit a harsh flick in response. You feel his other hand leave your leg, and when you curl your tongue around his fingers and suck hard, he sinks two fingers deep into you.
Arching at the feel, you keep a tight grip on his metal hand, needing something to keep you grounded in the moment, while he pumps his fingers slowly, licking and sucking, his tongue still moving against you.
It's entirely overwhelming, and his hand moves faster, fingers curling up on each stroke, and it feels so good, so impossibly good, the heat pools in your belly, muscles tightening as your legs begin to shake.
"Bucky," you pant, pulling his fingers from your mouth. "Bucky, look up, look at me," and he raises his eyes, blue nearly swallowed by lust filled black. He gives a tiny growl and sucks your clit again, moves his fingers faster. The look on his face is a clear challenge to let go, and it pitches you over the edge, the cry breaking from your throat as you arch against him, keeping his hand clasped to your chest as you come.
He doesn't stop, carries you through it, until your body stops shaking, the tension leaving through the ends of your fingers and the tips of your toes. He laughs softly at the sound of your blissful sigh, pressing a kiss to your thigh. Making good on his promise, he licks a slow, lazy path as he crawls back up your body.
Pausing to suck the skin below your ribcage, his thumbs rub slow circles around your nipples before his tongue curls around one. Combing your fingers through his hair, you hold him steady, while his teeth catch and pull, his beard scraping your skin. Over and over, he seems in no hurry to move.
He grins up at you, giving your nipple one more gentle bite, before continuing up the column of your throat, sliding his tongue between your lips.
Nipping his lip, he gives a small grunt and pulls back.
"My turn," you murmur, hooking your leg over his hip and pushing against him, trying to turn him onto his back. He's a wall of stone, but goes pliable beneath you, and you find yourself straddling him. Bending forward, you kiss his lips again, before trailing them across his cheek, loving the rough feel of his scruff, sandpaper against your lips. When you drag you mouth down his neck, he turns his head with a contented sigh at the feel, warm and wet on his skin.
At the base of his neck, he sucks in a tense breath and holds it, when you press light kisses down the thick scars at his shoulder. The raised ropes of tissue feel strangely hot against your lips, the temperature difference shocking between the textures when your lips drift from his skin to brush the cool metal. The movement spurs a soft clicking sound, and you see the plates in his arm shifting.
"Sorry," he murmurs, flexing his fingers to stop the movement.
"Don't apologize," you whisper sternly, before your lips go back to the seam of his arm, licking and kissing the red skin, until you feel him finally relax beneath you.
Scratching your nails across his chest, you slide further down, until you're kneeling between his legs, tugging at his shorts. He quickly lifts his hips to help you, and when you get them off, you swallow a moan at the image.
Every single thing about him is rugged, thick, hard. From the heavy muscles lining his shoulders, to the faint scars sprinkled across his chest, down to the thick thighs bracketing you, and there's only one word you can conjure to describe him.
Delicious.
Running your hands up his legs, gently massaging his skin, you lean forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flat planes of his stomach, before brushing your lips down. His breath catches, and he gives a strangled groan when you grip the base of his cock and take him in your mouth, so far down he feels the walls of your throat.
"Fucking motherfucker," he squeezes his eyes shut, aware that if he watches, he's going to embarrass himself way too fast, but when he hears you suck hard, feels you hollow your cheeks around him, he thinks it's too good to miss, and his eyes fly open. Enamored by the sight, he  lets himself absorb the view, before he feels you pressing your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, and suddenly it's too much.
"Stop," he grits out, tugging at your arm and you raise your eyes in surprise. "You keep going, and this'll be over real fast."
Grinning up at him, you press another kiss to the tip of his cock before he's hauling you up his body with a low curse. Hovering above him, you reach between your legs, gripping his cock loosely, giving him several slow strokes, before sinking slowly down him with a shuddering sigh.
"Jesus Christ, fuck, fuck," you hear him whisper. Taking several deep breaths, you adjust your hips, before slowly beginning to move, keeping your hands on his chest for balance. Bucky stares up in fascination, mesmerized by the way you circle your hips trying to pull him deeper, the way your fingernails carve half-moon indents in his skin.
Rolling your hips faster, you grind into him, feeling the spark of pleasure each time your clit drags against his cock. He sees what you're doing, and his fingers move between your legs to help, his thumb rubbing quickly and the heat begins again.
When you're close for the second time, so god damn close you can almost touch it, he pulls his hand away and grips your hips tight, holding you still.
With a smooth shift, he pulls away and flips you onto your stomach. Nudging your legs further apart, he sinks back into you and waits, loving the silky hot feel tight around him. Peppering light kisses up your spine, he licks away the light sheen of sweat prickling across your skin, until he reaches your neck. Balancing on his left hand, his mouth lingers at your ear, and slips his other hand beneath you, his fingers finding your clit again, stroking quickly while he breathes in your ear.
He moves faster, hips driving into you, and his fingers never slow. His mouth is at your ear, and you shiver at the sound of his harsh panting, at the feel of his teeth biting your ear.
Curving your arm behind you, you grip the back of his neck, fingers sliding on his sweat-slicked skin, holding on dear life as his body rolls behind you, until you're so close to the edge you can barely breathe.
"One more for me, come on," his voice is husky in your ear and he fucks you faster, until suddenly you're shuddering again, sobbing with relief when the orgasm hits. Fingers jerking at his hair, he growls in response.
"Turn over, let me see your face," he murmurs, his hips slowing their rough snap. There's a broken note in his voice, something you've never heard from him before, and for some reason, it makes your heart ache.
When he eases out and rolls you over, there's a long moment where nothing happens, you simply stare at each other, each memorizing the moment in your own way.
Bucky's hair is messy, swinging forward to tickle his cheeks, and you reach up to tuck it behind his ears, before pulling his face down for a soft kiss. His heart jumps at the gesture, at the sweetness behind it, and the moment your lips touch his again, he buries himself back into you with a hard thrust.
This is another kind of dance, an encore to the one you began that night under the chandeliers, and this time it will end a different way.
Resting his forehead against yours, he rocks his hips up, smooth and steady. His lips brush the cut on your forehead, pass gently over the bump beneath your eye, where the swelling has turned into a tender bruise, and leaves a light kiss on the tip of your nose, before tucking his face in your neck.
Your hands stroke mindlessly over the muscles bunched in his back, feel them playing and shifting beneath your fingers. Everything is tense, you can feel his entire body tightening as he snaps his hips harder, presses his face deeper into your skin.
"You can let go Bucky," your lips tremble against his ear at the sound of his quick breaths. "I've got you."
With your words, he has everything he needs, and his control breaks. You feel the tingling vibration of his moan against your skin when he rocks into you one final time, and you close your eyes when you feel him come.
*****
The night is still a deep velvet black, the lights of Manhattan clear in the distance.
The apartment is silent. You lay in a pile of soft blankets, behind the closed door to the bedroom, a smile on your face as you sleep.
Bucky stands on his balcony, staring wide-eyed at the skyline. Shaking hands grip the railing, his knuckles standing white against the black iron.
"What did I just do?"
His terrified whisper is lost in the wind, as the briny scent of the East River swirls around him.
*****
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