#bucky barnes undercover

[bigtreefest]

Oh Bucky, you guard dog!!! With how quickly he just easily told her how he felt, I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner! The lingerie must’ve really set him off.

acquainted

bucky barnes x reader (undercover stripper reader x undercover bodyguard bucky)

warnings/tags: SMUT, oral (male and female receiving), vaginal penetration, language, strip club setting, creepy dude being a piece of shit, violence and a brief mention of blood, protective/possessive bucky, reader is afab, no use of y/n, touch her and die trope, Bucky might have a slight lingerie kink...

word count: 3.3k

author's note: wow okay this kind of got away from me. this is probably the filthiest thing i've ever written. felt my heartbeat in my pussy while writing this. hope you enjoy!

The pulsating fuschia and lime green strobe lights illuminating the club had been making your eyes throb for the last three hours. EDM plays so loudly that you're surprised blood doesn't trickle down from your ears. Not to mention the suffocating combination of cheap perfume, body odor, cigars, and booze that permeates the air makes your empty stomach churn.

If you never step foot into another nightclub when this is all over, you'll consider yourself lucky. Not just any nightclub - one of New Orleans’ scummiest strip clubs.

Five goddamn nights of this operation and not a lick of progress.

Your objective was simple - obtain proof that the owner was operating a sex trafficking ring out of the club, and then call for the back-up squad parked a block away. So far, you had not been able to acquire any kind of definitive proof. No hints of anything shady going on behind the scenes, and you had yet to even see the owner make an appearance at any point since the mission began.

Everything seems as above board as a strip club can be.

One last night, you compromised with Fury. One last night and if it went as the last few have, you were done, and he owes you a few days of paid leave for putting you through this.

“If you don't stop picking at your garter belt, it's not going to have any sequins left.” Bucky's low voice murmurs through the communication device placed discreetly in your left ear.

“If you don't stop watching my every movement, you’re not going to have any unbroken toes left,” you threaten lightly, taking a sip of your drink - just a Shirley Temple, to keep up appearances. “Shoes like this could do a lot of damage.” You glance down at the pointy heels of the black velvet stilettos.

“Is that not my job?” he counters. You don't have to look over at where he's standing in the corner of the room to know he's smirking. “To not take my eyes off of you?”

“Then do your job. Watch me. You don't have to make comments on my sequins to do that.”

“Alright, alright,” he concedes. “I'll be over here, admiring your sequins from afar. You won't even know I'm here.” The com line clicks off before you can retort.

Except you absolutely would know that he's here. Just as you have the previous four nights of this mission - painfully aware that he's here, tracking your every movement in the skimpiest outfits you've worn in your life, doing the most provocative dances imaginable, and flirting with men that you wouldn't touch with ten foot long poles in real life, all while he keeps to the sidelines in case something were to go wrong.

Keeps to the sidelines and just watches you. Even when one of the dancers approached him to ask if he'd be interested in a private dance once he's off the clock on the first night on the job.

Even when there's gorgeous, topless women crawling on the stage and all but humping the pole in his direct line of sight.

He isn't here to look out for them, of course. He is here solely to keep you safe if things were to go sideways. But you had assumed you would have caught him sneaking glances at the dozen other women at least once by now.

It's almost your turn to go up on stage. You've performed a solo set every night so far, and you still feel every bit as nervous as you did the first time.

You enjoy dancing, actually. In the comfort of your own room, when listening to music alone. When you go out with friends, occasionally. When you took ballet lessons as a child. This, however, was leagues out of your comfort zone.

“The creep from a couple nights ago is back,” Bucky's voice is a strained whisper in your ear.

“Gonna have to narrow it down a bit for me, Barnes. You could be referring to at least half of the men in here right now.”

“Sitting in front of the stage, to the left,” he mumbles back. “He's wearing a red wife-beater–”

“See him,” you interrupt, your eyes zeroing in on the short, stout, beady-eyed fuck who had been thrown out of the club night before last. One of the other security guards on duty chucked him out when he repeatedly got too handsy with one of the girls who had been giving him a lap dance.

“Fantastic,” you huff under your breath, as you finish touching up your lipgloss and reapplying the iridescent baby pink body glitter across your chest. “Just in time for my dance.”

You get up from your seat at the bar and adjust your lace bustier and thong as the announcer calls your stage name.

“He won't lay a finger on you,” Bucky assures you as you're walking up the steps of the platform.

There's a weak round of applause and a few whistles as you take your place on the center of the small stage. You give a vague nod in the direction of the DJ’s booth to indicate you're ready for your song to begin.

An upbeat but sensuous synth-pop song pours out of the speakers throughout the room and you begin to sway your hips.

You're hyper-aware of the fact that you can see Bucky making his way closer to you, away from his position in the back of the room. He settles when he's just a few tables behind the man in the red wife-beater.

There's an eruption of butterflies in the pit of your belly at how close he is. Each night prior to this, he has kept to lingering around the exits and the far wall towards the back of the club. Now, he's close enough that you can actually see his eyes following every languid movement that your body makes around the pole.

“Take your fucking top off!” a grating voice bellows from the audience. “We want to see your tits.”

You don't have to look to know who the voice belongs to. You decide to ignore him, hoping he would stop if you didn't give him any attention. You go to wrap your thighs around the pole again, preparing to spin–

“Did you not fucking hear me?” he shouts even louder this time, audible to everyone over the roaring music. “I said take your fucking–”

A flash of movement in your peripheral vision causes you to freeze around the pole. You turn your full attention to the ruckus, just in time to see Bucky fisting the man's greasy, shoulder length hair and pulling his head back. The music comes to an abrupt pause.

“You don't fucking talk to her like that,” Bucky snarls. “In fact, you don't talk to her at all, you don't look at her, you don't even breathe the same fucking air as her.”

The man is thrashing around, trying and failing miserably to get out of Bucky's grasp.

“Let me go you fucking–”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Bucky snaps the man's head forward, sending his face crashing into the granite tabletop.

The instantaneous pool of blood that contrasts so starkly against the white stone snaps you out of your fear-stricken trance.

Bucky pulls his head back up, forcing the man to look up at him.

“It's not my fault she refuses to show off those perfect–”

You all but jump off the stage - miraculously not breaking an ankle in the six inch heels - and rush over to where Bucky still has the man's hair yanked into his fist.

Just as Bucky is beginning to shove the man's head downwards again, you place both of your hands on his chest, gently but effectively shoving him backwards. He immediately releases his grip on the man as the other few security guards on duty arrive to detain the pervert.

“Hey, hey,” you place your hands on his biceps, trying to turn his attention to you and away from the man who he's still glaring after, as he's hauled off by security. “I'm fine, yeah? Everything is fine,” you try to assure him, though you're not sure your shaky voice sounds very convincing. “He's just a creepy, entitled asshole.”

Noticing that Bucky is shaking beneath your touch, you rub your hands up and down his arms in hopes of calming him down.

He finally meets your gaze. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just stares at you as he takes a few deep breaths.

“Go get dressed,” he orders you calmly after a moment. “I’m getting you the fuck out of here.” You want to leave too badly to even think about objecting.

You make a beeline for the changing room, where you throw on a sweater and force your pants over your heels, not even bothering to change out of the lingerie and stilettos.

Bucky's waiting for you right outside the door as you sling your duffel bag across your shoulder.

“How mad do you think Fury will be that we are abandoning our positions?” you ask in a hushed tone as Bucky ushers you through the club, his metal arm wrapped around your waist.

“Not as mad as I am that he's had you doing this bullshit for no reason for almost a week now.”

You and Bucky exit the club as quickly as possible, ignoring the curious and confused stares of the other dancers and security guards. He guides you down the block, then through an alleyway where his motorcycle is parked in a heavy silence - other than the obnoxious clanking of your heels against the pavement.

Bucky straddles one leg over the seat of the bike, taking his place in the driver's position and then hands you the helmet.

“Wait,” you pause before putting it over your head. “I'm starving.” Your stomach growls, as if on cue. “Can we stop and get some take-out?”

He looks at you incredulously. “I just shattered that guy's nose and likely severely concussed him and then just dipped. Our cover is essentially blown, don't you think we should get back to the motel room and lay low until the morning?”

“There's a Chinese place open late just a few blocks from the motel–”

“If I say yes will you put on the helmet and get on the bike?”

Taking that as a win, you slide the helmet over your head and hop on behind him. You wrap your arms securely around his midsection in a tight hug and he takes off down Bourbon Street.

You spend the drive trying to ignore the thought that of all the times you've ridden on the back of Bucky’s motorcycle, you don't remember him ever feeling so tense beneath your touch.

Half an hour later, you're lounging on the rickety motel bed, stuffing your face full of sweet and sour chicken and vegetable fried rice while Bucky fills Sam in on what happened over the phone.

He sits in one of the small chairs at the singular table in the corner of the room, his posture rigid. He answers all of Sam's questions with clipped, one-word responses as he massages his temple between his thumb and forefinger.

He hangs up the phone, refusing to meet your gaze. Instead, he pretends to be interested in the episode of Family Guy playing on the old motel TV.

“Your egg rolls are going to get soggy,” you tell him, pushing the to-go box across the mattress towards him.

“I don't have an appetite right now,” he says, picking up the box of food as he stands. You grab his bicep in your hand as he begins to walk past where you're sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” you say, stopping him. “Everything's okay. Really. Don't let that guy get to you–”

“A little late for that, don't you think?” He snaps, pulling his arm from your grasp. You sit back, too stunned by his reaction to know how to respond. You just stare after him as he crams his take-out box into the motel room's mini fridge.

“I shouldn't have reacted so harshly,” he says after a moment, still facing away from you. “I couldn't stop myself. He spoke to you that way, and I could have killed him and not thought twice about it. Probably would have if you hadn't intervened.”

He turns back to you. You're frozen in place.

“Do you know what that's like?” He asks, taking a step closer to you. “To feel like you aren't in control of your own body? To be so irrationally protective of someone that you'd kill for them without a second thought?”

You feel like all air has been stripped from your lungs. He's just inches away, staring down at you from where you sit on the edge of the mattress. The way he's looking at you makes your skin feel like it's on fire.

“Because that's what you do to me. That's how you make me feel.”

Heat pools between your legs.

“Come here,” you say - it sounds more like a question than a command.

He closes what little distance is left between the two of you, and pulls you up from the mattress by the tops of your arms so that your body is flush against his.

His mouth hovers over yours - not quite making contact, though you can feel his breath fan across your skin.

He takes his flesh hand and cups the side of your face with it, his thumb trailing across your bottom lip. His metal hand wanders down your back until it reaches the curve of your ass - grasping your cheek in a firm hold and squeezing until his touch borders between pleasure and pain.

“This is what I wanted to do to you every time I saw a man so much as glance in your direction in that club,” he whispers against your mouth. “I thought about bending you over the stage and making them watch me take you right then and there, but they didn't deserve to see that.”

“They aren't here to see us now,” you murmur as you bring your hand to cup the noticeable bulge of his jeans, eliciting a hiss from him. “So what are you going to do now?”

There's a dark grin spread across his face. He pushes you, softly but effectively, back down on the bed. You scout back a few inches on the mattress, and then bring one of your feet up to remove the stiletto heels that you'd completely forgotten to take off upon returning to the motel with your haul of Chinese food.

“Oh, no,” Bucky laughs lowly. “I want you to keep those on. I've grown to like those quite a bit.”

Your cheeks warm in both arousal and bashfulness. You begin to push your pants down your thighs as Bucky kneels on the ground and helps you maneuver the fabric around your shoes. The sweater that you threw over your bustier goes next.

You're left in the lingerie set that you wore at the club.

“Call me jealous,” Bucky sighs as he begins trailing sloppy kisses up the insides of your thighs. “Call me possessive, call me crazy..”

You lay back down against the scratchy comforter as Bucky gets closer and closer to where you're aching to have him the most.

“But I don't want anyone seeing you like this but me.”

He pulls the already soaked lace material of your thong to the side, exposing your cunt.

He licks up your center torturously slow, causing you to let out a sharp exhale. He repeats the motion, and then locks his lips around your clit. Your hands shoot to his hair, fisting your fingers through the short brunet strands.

He eats you until you're a mewling and squirming mess beneath him.

You come hard, clenching your thighs around his head and riding his face through your orgasm.

“Stand up,” you instruct him as soon as you can think semi-clearly.

He obeys without any hesitation. The warm glow of the singular lamp in the motel room highlights the way your slick coats the lower half of his face.

You get up on your hands and knees before him and he lets out an audible groan at the sight in front of him. He bends down enough to kiss you - cupping your face in both of his hands and tipping your head up to give him a better angle to slip his tongue into your mouth. You moan into the kiss - the ache between your thighs reappearing already.

He removes his hands from your face, unbuttoning his pants while still kissing you.

You pull away to help free his cock from the confines of his boxers. Your mouth waters at what's directly in front of you. He's impressively long and girthy, with a thick vein running up the side.

You pump him a few times in your hand, swirling your tongue around the pre-cum dripping from his slit. He's already putty in your hands - groaning above you and placing his metal hand around the back of your neck to keep you where he wants you.

After you've run your tongue up and down his length a few times, you spit on the tip of his cock and massage it over the entirety of his shaft before taking him as far into your mouth as you can in the first go. He throws his head back, moaning your name.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and you gag before pulling back.

He curses under his breath, nudging himself slowly back towards your throat again.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he praises and you moan around his dick. He gradually increases the speed at which he pumps himself into your mouth, obscene noises echoing off of the thin motel room walls.

When he pulls out, you feel drool running down your neck and mascara-tinted tears leaking from your eyes.

“You're so gorgeous like this for me,” he tells you, and despite knowing that you look thoroughly fucked out, you believe him. “Will you turn around?”

You do as he asks, turning around on your hands and knees. You lower your chest down to the bed so that your ass is angled upwards.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunts under his breath. He grips your hips with both of his hands, yanking you to him. His erection juts against the cloth of your underwear.

He tugs them aside once more, giving him access to tease your slit with the head of his cock. You rock backwards, grinding against him. He brings his flesh hand around your stomach and reaches down to rub your clit as he begins to slowly fill you from behind.

He pauses for a moment once he bottoms out, giving you time to adjust to the fullness of him before he starts fucking into you.

The combination of him slamming into you at such an intense angle and massaging you so perfectly has your climax building shamefully fast.

You grunt his name, bouncing your ass to meet his thrusts. “I'm gonna come,” you mewl, knowing he's on the verge of doing the same as his movements become uneven.

One, two, three more pumps and you can feel your pussy clenching around him as you come together.

You pull off of him, collapsing onto the bed and rolling onto your back. He crawls over you, propping himself up on his arms above you.

“You know,” he stares down at you, his eyes trailing to your breasts that are now spilling out of the black lace bustier. “As much as I hated every second of that mission, I do hope I might get to see you in some of these outfits again.”

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist!!!

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Act Natural! Stay Cool!

This is for the @sambuckylibrary's SamBucky Summer Bingo Fill "Undercover". The vibe here is basically Sam and Bucky both undercover, but kind of failing at it and a little too into each other. Enjoy! 🥰

[sjsmith56]

Make Believe

Summary: Bucky’s cover gets blown during an undercover mission and he scrambles to get out of town, with the help of two civilians.

Length: 4.2K

Characters: Bucky Barnes, OFC (named, not described), OMC (named, not described), Sam Wilson, several other Avengers.

Warnings: Cursing, mostly.

Author notes: Just a silly little story with a fluffy ending.

🚪 🚖 🦾

Well, that could have gone better. All the planning, all the preparations, the creation of the back story for his fake identity, was for nothing when the nano sleeve on Bucky's arm suddenly stopped working and his cover blown. He had barely made it out of the building, leaving a trail of broken bodies behind him. Jumping into the first taxi he saw, he just told the driver to go, until he asked him to stop at the bus station. Arriving there, he threw some money at the driver, then bolted inside.

Quickly, he found the locker that held his possessions, and opened it with the key he had hidden inside his boot. Pulling the backpack out he reached in for his phone and dialled Sam. It was answered on the first ring.

"Where are you?" asked his partner. "You didn't answer your comms."

"Didn't have them," he replied. "The nano sleeve stopped working and they made me. Had to pull the comms out and lay them on the table or they would have killed me. Did you know they had alien pulse weapons? Even I can't outmaneuver them." He rubbed his face. "I'm at the bus station but my exit plans are shot as they took everything from me, Sam, everything except the key to the locker here and that's only because I had it hidden in my boot."

"Alright, you stay there, and I'll arrange for a pickup with a friendly face."

Bucky kept scanning the interior of the bus station for any signs of the cartel, fully expecting them to show up at any moment. It was good he did because he made the pair of men as soon as they entered. Quickly, he turned away and hid behind a pillar.

"Sorry, they're here. I have to make myself scarce. I'm going to go off-grid and get back to you."

"Buck? Stay safe."

"Always."

He hung up, putting his phone in his pocket and slipping his gloves on. Then he hefted the backpack over his shoulder and went out a door marked as Authorized Entrance Only that led to a service hallway. Eventually, he found the outside exit and went through it, stepping into an alley. He headed towards one end of it, then stopped when another door from the bus station opened and the two men who were in there looking for him came out. As they looked in the other direction, he yanked open the nearest door in the alley, breaking the lock, and stepping inside. He closed the door most of the way and looked out the slimmest of cracks towards where the other two men had just turned this way.

"What the hell?"

Whirling around, he saw a woman who had just come out of a change room with several articles of clothing draped over her arm. Grabbing her, he pulled her back into the change room, pushing her against the wall, while placing one hand over her mouth and dragging the curtain across with the other. Her eyes were wide with fear as he leaned close to her and whispered in her ear.

"I'm one of the Avengers on an undercover mission. My cover was blown and I'm trying to stay out of their hands. If I remove my hand from your mouth and show you my metal hand, you'll know I'm telling you the truth. All I ask is that you don't raise the alarm."

She nodded and he took his hand off her mouth, then pulled his glove off. Looking from his hand to his face then back again, her demeanour relaxed somewhat, and she leaned back against the wall in the change room, as she studied him. Before she could say anything, they heard the door to the alley open and the sounds of someone coming in. Bucky peeked out the curtain and mouthed the word "Fuck." Smirking at him, she put her hand on his arm, pointing to herself then towards the men. Shaking his head no at her intended action, he had no choice when she slipped through the curtain with the clothing she was going to buy and accosted the two.

"Hey, what are you doing back here? Help! There are two guys in the ladies' change room!"

They both ran back through the door into the alley and Bucky stuck his head out, then looked at her before ducking back in when the store employee came into the change room, finding the broken door. The two women both opened it and the one who helped him pointed to the two men who were at the other end of the alleyway. For a moment, he thought he would be stuck in there then the woman who helped him suddenly said she had forgotten something and returned to the cubicle, while the other went to the front to call the authorities.

"I'll distract her," she whispered. "You go out the front door."

He nodded in agreement and pulled the curtain back slightly, watching as she and the employee returned to the front of the store. As she kept the woman occupied, Bucky kept low, sneaked out past them through the front door and onto the street. Raising his hand to hail a cab he heard the woman's voice.

"I have a place nearby you can hide," she said, as she slid her hand into his arm.

"I don't want to put you in danger," he protested as the cab pulled up.

She got inside, then leaned out from the back seat. "You owe me. Now get in here."

With a sigh, he joined her, then turned around to make sure they weren't being followed while she gave the driver her address. Facing forward again, he extended his right hand to her, shaking her hand.

"Bucky Barnes. Didn't you want to stay and give the police your statement?"

She shrugged. "The lady phoned the owner, and she didn't want to deal with the hassle so they're just going to get the door fixed. I'm Julie North. So, who were those guys?"

"Drug cartel," he answered. "They were getting into arms dealing of weapons they had no business having." He raised his hand. "I had a nano sleeve on disguising this and it shut down at the worst possible time. They took everything from me, except a key to a locker at the bus station where I stashed my stuff. I need to arrange for an exit."

"Sounds exciting," she said. "I did alright back there, didn't I?"

He smirked. "Yeah, you did good, but I mean it. I shouldn't be putting you in danger. If they figure out you helped me, they'll come after you."

Just as he was about to tell the cab driver to pull over, they were sideswiped by another vehicle. Looking out the window past Julie, Bucky saw the two guys who had been in the alley in the other car, with one of them aiming a gun at them. He pushed her down onto to the floor and yelled at the driver to slam on the brakes then turn right. The cabbie complied, doing exactly what Bucky told him.

"Speed up," he said, "take the next right."

Pulling his backpack up while he looked behind them, Bucky pulled out a gun and made sure the magazine was full. He had enough time to pull a couple of full magazines out, handing them to Julie, before the cabbie calmly got his attention.

"They're behind us again. What's the plan?"

"You've been under fire before," said Bucky.

"Yup, ex-military," said the cabbie. "Doan's the name. I heard your story."

"Sorry for this," said Bucky. "You own the car?"

"Nope, but it's a piece of shit, anyway. Might be better to put it out of its misery."

"Alright. Doan, just don't let them herd us into an isolated area. Chances are they're going to try to set up some crossfire and take us out."

He pulled out his phone and dialled Sam again, putting it on speaker. Doan swerved in and out of traffic trying to dodge the following car, jostling Bucky, and Julie in the back seat.

"Hey, are you in a safe place?"

"I wish." Bucky rolled his eyes. "I'm in the back seat of a taxi and we've already been sideswiped. I have a civilian in the back seat with me and an ex-military cabbie. Can you lock onto my signal and get a safe exit route?" He looked at Doan. "You have a tracker on this piece of shit?"

"Yup." He relayed the code assigned to his taxi loud enough for Sam to hear.

"Got it," said Sam. "Torres, you into the street cams and satellite images, yet?" There was silence for a moment then he came back on. "Okay, we have you, and Peter's hacking into the street light system to get you further away from the guys chasing you. We think they're trying to force you near the waterfront so stay away from there if you can."

Suddenly, a second vehicle pulled out in front of them, making Doan swerve the wheel to avoid being hit. He turned left with enough force to send Bucky into the right door. The impact of 220 lbs of super soldier muscle was too much for the piece of shit taxi door, and he hung halfway out, desperately bracing his legs to keep from sliding out completely, while still holding on to the phone and the gun. With a yell, Julie came off the floor and grabbed hold of Bucky's belt, trying to pull him inside the taxi. It was too difficult to pull him inside, so she crawled on top of him and reached for the phone, then the gun, to free his hands so he could pull himself in. Not wanting to give the gun up Bucky held it out of her reach. He suddenly had a flashback of holding on to the bottom of the Flag Smashers truck in Germany.

"I can't pull you in, you're too heavy," she yelled in his face. "Give me the damn gun."

"Fuck!" he yelled, then let her take it, pulling himself upright.

As she scrambled back Doan took a hard right and they were both moved to the left side where Bucky's face was pushed into her chest. After a momentary slight grin, he slid backwards and reached for the right passenger door, slamming it shut. Realizing that Sam had been shouting instructions all that time, Bucky grabbed the phone.

"What? I didn't hear you!"

"I said, to turn right at Lexington but you just went right past it. Dammit Bucky. Why can't you just take an order?"

"Because I was hanging out the back door of the taxi with my fucking head only six inches from the pavement, Sam. Didn't that show up on your video feed?"

There was no answer and Bucky shook his head.

"What's the plan, Sam?"

Still no answer, then a muffled voice. "Hold on, we're heading for the quinjet and Torres is trying to keep track of you with a tablet."

"You couldn't do that before we were being chased?" No answer. "Sam? Sam?!"

He looked at Julie, who was holding her hand over her mouth as if trying to stifle a laugh. Doan was grinning as well.

"What?" asked Bucky, exasperated. "What's so fucking funny?"

"Do you two always fight like that?"

"Yes," said Sam.

"No," said Bucky at the exact same moment. He glared at his phone. "We don't fight. We have differences of opinion, especially when we don't have a plan."

"Sorry, man, that sounded like fighting," said Doan. He looked behind them through his rear-view mirror. "We shook them ... maybe. I don't see anyone behind us."

"Sam, can you confirm that?" asked Bucky. "Did we lose them?"

"Hold on." There was silence for a moment then he came back on. "Yes, probably. There's a parking garage, two blocks over after the next right. Satellite imaging shows it has an open upper level big enough and empty enough for the quinjet but it will take about 20 minutes for us to get there. Can you make it there? We'll evacuate the civilians as well."

Bucky looked at Doan. "You get that?"

The man nodded and took the next right, then went two blocks down until he saw the parking garage. It was self service, so he pulled the ticket out of the dispenser and drove up to the top level, parking along one edge.

"Okay, Sam, we're on the clock. Don't be late."

Bucky hung up as all three of them got out of the taxi, with Doan walking around the outside and taking in the damage.

"They'll fire me for sure, now," he said. He looked at Bucky quickly. "No big deal. I've been fired by worse bosses than these guys. I'll be okay."

"Well, that was fun," said Julie, sitting on the hood. "It was like playing a very realistic make-believe spy game."

"Unbelievable," sputtered Bucky, standing in front of her. "You thought that was fun."

She shrugged. "You weren't about to let anything happen to us, right? It was the highlight of my life, really." He scowled and turned away. Sliding off the hood, she ran to stand in front of him, placing her hand on his chest and looking up. "Don't get me wrong. I was scared, really scared, but you were amazing and being with you made me feel safer. For someone like me, who works in a really boring office job like a drone in an ant colony it was something I never thought I would experience. Hell, I climbed part way out of the door of a speeding car to get the phone and the gun and I didn't even hesitate. I always wondered if I came up against a situation like that if I had the guts to handle it."

Her look was so earnest that Bucky couldn't hold on to his irritation. Softening his tone, he put his hand over hers.

"You did good. Both of you did." He looked at the taxi then at Doan. "We'll cover for you with your boss, tell him you were vital to a mission of national security."

Doan smirked. "Yeah, that'll do it. Really, it's no big deal. Cabbie is the easiest job to get because no one wants to deal with the shit we deal with. Not that this was shit. The lady was right. It was like being in country again, dodging IEDs and Taliban insurgents. Just without the heat and the dust, and I actually knew what the hell I was doing."

About five minutes later, Bucky's phone rang, just as two cars appeared at the top level from the ramp below. They parked in a way that blocked the taxi from leaving. Answering the phone, Bucky heard Sam.

"They found you and we're still 10 minutes out."

"Yeah, they're already here," replied Bucky, hanging up. He looked at Doan and Julie. "Get behind the car. Now."

Neither of them hesitated, retreating to the driver's side which was beside the wall of the parking level. Standing in front of the vehicle, Bucky watched as the doors opened on both other vehicles and four men got out carrying pulse weapons. Another man opened the back door of the second car and an older man stepped out, wearing an expertly tailored suit. The six of them approached, stopping 20 feet away. Instantly, Bucky began his threat assessment of the men, calculating how many he could take out before one of them could fire the alien pulse weapon at him. No matter what strategy he employed, his best efforts would only take out two, maybe three of them before the others could fire on him, killing him in the process.

"Mr. Barnes," said the well-dressed man, lighting up a cigar, Cuban by the smell of the smoke that wafted over. "I have a proposition for you."

"You know who I am?"

The man shrugged. "No one else has an arm like that. You have a skill set that could be worth millions to you."

"I'm used to not having much money," replied Bucky. "Wouldn't know what to do with it."

"Then I'll make you an offer you can't refuse," smiled the man. He grinned at his men. "Always wanted to use that line." His face became deadly serious. "Work for me and I'll let the woman and cab driver go. You have my word."

"You see, I know who you are, too, Senor Escobar. You're not known for keeping your word. The other cartels call you cobarde y malo for a reason."

The man's face reddened, then he sneered.

"You dare call me a coward to my face?”

"If the shoe fits." A faraway sound became audible to Bucky's ears, and he chose his next words carefully, trying to give them the time they needed. "If you let them go now, I might consider your offer but that's the only way I'll listen to you."

"No," said Julie's voice behind him, as he heard her stand up. "We're not leaving you."

The cartel leader started laughing and pointed behind Bucky. His men smiled. "So brave of the woman and cab driver to think they can go up against these pulse weapons."

"Julie, Doan, stand down," said Bucky. "He's right. Those weapons will disintegrate you. Why do you think I haven't acted against him yet?"

"I don't care why," said Julie. "We're in this together."

"You're civilians!" He yelled, glancing back, then faced the cartel men again, while rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Murphy. Doan, please, stand down."

"Nope," said the cabbie, firmly. "Sometimes, you have to stand up for the right thing. L'aide est presque là."

"What have you done?" asked Bucky, ignoring the cartel men now, as he turned to the two, who were standing there with guns from his backpack trained on the others.

"Just called the police on my cell phone," he admitted. "Told them there was a bunch of cartel guys with nasty looking guns." He looked up to the buildings surrounding them. "The SWAT team should be in position now."

A shot rang out, hitting one of the men holding a pulse weapon in the shoulder, sending him toppling. As Bucky hit the ground, there was a hail of gunfire as Red Wing showed up and began spraying shots at the cartel men, sending them for cover towards their car but the gunfire forced them to halt. Two sets of wings appeared as both Sam and Torres hovered over the scene targeting the cartel leader, focusing two red dots of light onto his chest.

"Stand down, Escobar," ordered Sam. "Order your men to drop their weapons or I'll let SWAT finish what they started."

The other three men instantly put the pulse weapons down and backed away, placing their hands behind their head. Escobar reached out for a weapon, but his hand didn't even come close as Bucky jumped up and leaped towards him, picking him up by the neck and holding him up in the air. Sam and Torres landed nearby, approaching the pair as Escobar's face began to turn red.

"Hey," said Bucky, still looking up at the struggling cartel leader. "About time you got here."

"Well, once we found out SWAT was on the scene we slowed up a bit. Looks like you have it under control."

"Please," gasped Escobar. "Can't ... breathe."

Around them, the police were arriving, frisking, and placing cuffs on the other men. Sam placed a hand on Bucky's shoulder, and he released Escobar, who fell hard onto the pavement of the parking garage. Two police officers picked him up and frisked then cuffed him before leading him away. The quinjet landed on the large open space next to the taxi; the ramp opening almost at once as Kate and Peter came out, fully ready to engage. Yelena followed a moment later as she had been piloting and had to do a quick checklist first.

"We missed all the fun," she pouted when she appeared at the top of the ramp and began walking down. "Why are we even here?"

Bucky ignored her and turned towards the taxi, where Doan and Julie were leaning. He jerked his head at them to bring them forward.

"Everyone, this is Julie North and Doan. They helped me. It was Doan who phoned the police."

"Good thinking," said Sam. "Either of you injured?"

"Nope," said Julie, nonchalantly. "Before the bad guys got here, we were just telling Bucky how much we liked being involved in this. I don't know if Doan's interested, but are you guys hiring?"

"Doan is ex-military and kept his cool," said Bucky. "He would fit right in." He looked at him. "You spoke French to me. Any other languages?"

"Spanish and some Pashtun."

Sam looked at Doan. "That's high praise coming from Bucky. What about Julie?"

Bucky studied her for a long time, at least it seemed that way to her, hopeful that he would say something good about her.

"She did good, but she'll need a lot of training and I mean, a lot," he finally said. "I don't know if she can handle that."

"I can," she declared firmly. "Especially if you train me. I think we worked well together."

A flicker of a smile crossed Bucky's face. He leaned his face close to her ear.

"Be careful what you wish for, Julie North. I can be a hard man to please when I'm training recruits."

Both Yelena and Kate coughed, then smiled behind their hands.

One Year Later

The quinjet landed at the compound, the ramp opening to a welcoming party. As Tom Doan and Julie North walked down in their tac suits, applause began for the successful completion of the two rookie's first mission. Scott Lang stepped forward, offering his hand to shake theirs.

"You do know that the first round is on both of you," he said. "After that, we'll pick up the tab. Just remember that Bucky and Thor can drink anyone under the table, and don't have any of Thor's Asgardian mead. You have an hour to shower and get ready for the Ubers. Meet out front."

"Mission report and debriefing first thing in the morning, 09:00," said Bucky, to the groans of everyone.

He headed for the armoury, putting his firearms in his gun locker for cleaning in the morning. Normally, he would do it as soon as the mission was over, but this was a special occasion. Heading towards his quarters, he undid his tac suit jacket as he walked, and opened the door, noticing clothes on the floor. Shaking his head, he picked them up and draped them on a chair, then toed off his boots and took the rest of his clothes off. As he approached the bathroom, he could hear the shower going and smiled. When he opened the shower door, Julie was already there, standing under the stream of water.

"How did you get in here?" he asked.

She handed him the shampoo.

"I just asked Friday in a really nice way."

Stepping close behind her, he poured some shampoo into his hand and applied it to her hair, bringing up lots of lather while he gently massaged her scalp. When he was finished, she rinsed it off and turned around, looking up at the super soldier, gazing at him while he applied conditioner to her hair.

"You know, you were supposed to do this in your own quarters," he said.

"I know, but now that I passed the test, and completed my first mission, I thought we should come clean with everyone. I'm tired of playing make-believe, that there's nothing going on between us."

He saw the chain around her neck with the ring on it and picked it up in his hand.

"Alright, we'll tell everyone we got married. They may make you take the test again if they think I went easy on you."

Julie smiled, in that way that made him fall in love with her within a month of her starting her training.

"I have every confidence in my abilities after being trained by the best. They all know you don't make it easy. You're a hard man to please Sergeant Barnes."

"Not in everything," he smiled, taking her in his arms.

Thirty minutes later, they were dressed and ready to go. Bucky pulled his dog tags out and detached his wedding band from the chain, as Julie did the same with hers. Smiling at each other they slid the rings on their fingers then kissed for good measure. With a nod at each other, they left Bucky's quarters together, ready to show everyone what they really were, in love and married.

cobarde y malo – cowardly and mean

L'aide est presque là – help is almost here

One Shots Masterlist

Please support the author by reblogging.

[thebiggestcauliflower]

Thinking about an undercover cop fanfiction

[navybrat817]

Just Like That was so good! I would read 200 stories about them. ❤️

I'm glad you enjoyed it, nonnie! ❤️ I don't know if I could do 200 stories about them. I think you lovelies would get sick of that. 🔥

But this with the chain? Could show them undercover. 😏 Anything involving the chain.

Love and thanks! ❤️

[japrilsanatomy]

Ships I Like For Hardly Any Reason At All Because They Barely Get Any Screen Time:

Clato~ Cato and Clove~ The Hunger Games

2. Winter13~ Bucky and Sharon~ MCU

3. Skase~ Chase and Skylar~ Lab Rats: Elite Force

4. WonderBat~ Bruce and Diana~ DCEU

5. Krett~ KC and Brett~ KC Undercover

[smutconnoisseur]

Jailhouse Rock

Pairing ↠ Undercover!Priest!Bucky x Undercover!Inmate!Steve

Rating ↠ E

Word Count ↠ 1.9k

Tags ↠ Explicit content, Tags contain spoilers, Prison, Exhibitionism , Confessional Sex, No Overall Religious Themes, Frottage, Come Eating, Covert Operation, Established Relationship, Feels, Non Sexual Intimacy, Humor, Fluff and Crack, Nothing Hurts, Mentioned Accidental Voyeur, Happy Ending

Summary ↠ "I love you too." Bucky swallows down the knot forming in his throat, meaning they must say goodbye soon. He reaches down, smoothing out the numbers on the back of Steve's jumpsuit. "Inmate 25147."

Steve's mouth drops open, and Bucky is quick to the drawl. "You're keeping the outfit, right?"

Square + Prompt ↠

Ⓑ② + “You’re keeping the outfit, right?” | AllCapsBingo @allcapsbingo | Card # AC 1094 | Bingo Masterlist

Ⓘ⑤ + Kink : Exhibitionism | Stucky Bingo @stuckybingo | Card # R40101 | Bingo Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Flash Bingo 2023 @buckybarnesbingo | Card C - Covert

Author's Note ↠ Ao3 | Masterlist

[darthbloodorange]

Just Follow Orders!

Rating: Gen Universe: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairings: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Anonymous Nobodies Warnings: None Major Tags: Spies & Secret Agents AU, Humour, Double Agents, Undercover, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, Modern Bucky Barnes Word count: 100 - Drabble

Summery: Sometimes Bucky's job is very difficult...

For the: ✦ Stucky Bingo - Double Agent [O1] (Card: 5054)

Read below or on AO3 >HERE<

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against his knees. "So, am I in trouble, then?" Bucky asks.

The SHIELD sub-director glared at him, his eye twitching. "You can't flirt with Captain Rogers." 

"You're sayin' I can't flirt with my boyfriend?"

"Not when you're undercover! You can't-"

"I can't multitask?"

"No. You-"

"Is it the gay thing?"

"Barnes!" a sigh. "Just... follow directive."

"Keep flirting with Captain Rogers," His handler says.

"You want me to flirt with the enemy?" Bucky asks.

"It might throw Captain America off and cause him to make a mistake you can exploit."

"Gotcha,"

THE END

[mcu-and-buckybarnes-things]

Sam: Why did you join the Thunderbolts? 😡

Bucky: In my defense, Steve left me alone and I’m now unsupervised.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Remember that poll I did about two weeks ago? The snippet I showed off a week ago? This is for the Gay Chicken, Post-Blip tallies. Don't worry everyone who voted for Wrong Number or Stuck on a Mission or any of the others. I'll get to them soon 😉 This three-chapter fic will also go to my Y1: "Post-Blip", B2: "Gay Chicken", and B4: "Fake Marriage" for my Winter Falcon Round 2 Bingo card for @winterfalconevents. Enjoy! 🥰

Playing with Fire

| Pairing: SamBucky | Rating: M | Chapter 3/3 | WC: 17.5K |

Summary: A year after the events of The Falcon Captain America and the Winter Soldier, Sam and Bucky go on an undercover mission and end up playing gay chicken while pretending to be a married couple.

Excerpt:

Roommates. They were supposed to be roommates. Roommates who. Apparently held each other by the hip. Why was Sam doing it too? Did Bucky have love handles now? Not that that was a bad thing. Dude was all muscle for too long, it wasn’t healthy. And it was kind of nice to have a little softness to grip and – No, Sam. Stop thinking about Bucky’s slight love handles.

READ THE REST ON AO3!

[sjsmith56]

Away Mission - Part 2

Summary: Sloan’s new job involves reporting about Bucky after a month of no word from him. Bucky adjusts to his new situation. A discovery in his tent puts him on alert.

Length: 2.9 K

Characters: Sloan, Bucky, OMC and OFC.

Warnings: Worry about Bucky, Bucky having regrets, Bucky concerned about Sloan’s safety.

Part 1

💻 ⛺️

Part 2

Sloan

I filed the piece I did on a homeless shelter that had been targeted by traffickers and leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms out over my head. It had been a month since I left Bucky and according to Sam, who checked in with me regularly it had been that long since anyone had heard from him. It seemed like he had dropped off the face of the Earth. Was I worried? Yes, a person doesn’t stop caring for another person they loved, even after they separate themselves from them. At least this person didn’t. Part of me hoped that after he hooked up with whatever “private security group” he had contracted with, he would undergo a reality check and realize he wasn’t a good fit with their philosophy of anything goes as long as the price is right. But no one, and I mean no one in the Avengers, had heard from him.

“Hey, are you coming out for drinks?”

I looked up at the face of another writer at the Daily, Devlin Horne. Born in South Africa, Dev had been a thorn in the side of certain old-school military remnants of the former apartheid regime. He was an investigative reporter into the right-wing groups that longed for a return to those days, until they planted a bomb under his bed, almost killing him, when he got up to use the bathroom during the night. Instead of the pressure-sensitive device going off right away, it malfunctioned, exploding while he was in the kitchen grabbing a midnight snack. Buried under the rubble for a day until he was rescued made him realize his life was in danger if he stayed in Cape Town, so he left, coming to New York to work at the Manhattan Daily, the online news platform I became a part of after I left Bucky. We became friendly acquaintances and he checked on me daily.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“We are,” he replied. “Someone has been nominated for a Scripps Howard Award.” He looked around as if it was a big secret. “It’s not you or me, however.”

“Let me guess, Tess Murray, for her piece on the Gaza,” I said, having already heard through the grapevine. It was a prestigious nomination for an online publication. “I already heard, and I will go for one drink, only because Tess asked me, as she has an idea for a collaborative piece.”

“Really?” His accent was particularly strong at that moment, and I thought I saw something dark behind his eyes … jealousy perhaps? “Well, I guess I’ll see you at Rafters then.” He winked. “Perhaps you and I can collaborate on something, sometime.”

He left me there, walking away without giving me a chance to answer. I knew what he wanted, as he made it clear within a week of my arrival that he was interested in me. Even though I told him I wasn’t up for another relationship he had been persistent, in a friendly, non-creepy way. My in-office messaging system dinged, and I looked at the computer screen seeing a message from Tess.

That piece I mentioned working together on? Just got more interesting. Come see me now, if you’re free.

I logged out and headed over to her office. As senior correspondent and the winner of several national and international journalism awards, Tess’s office was proof of her success. Compared to my desk, sharing a space with four others, her private corner office with a view in two directions was a reward for the level of writing she filed on a regular basis. I entered, and she indicated I should shut the door. Sitting on the armchair in front of her I looked at her expectantly.

“Well, I’m going to give you a name, and if you don’t want to be part of the story because of that name I understand,” she said. “He’s been off the radar for a month, and I know you have history with him.”

To say my heart didn’t come up into my throat, threatening to choke me with its increased beating would be lying. I tried to stay neutral but even her face showed a level of excitement that I knew could make this story another award winner.

“Bucky Barnes has resurfaced,” she said. “He was spotted at an arms show in the Middle East last week, scoping out some pretty high-tech weaponry. The word in certain circles is that he is connected to the Excalibur Security Group and is leading one of their infiltration units.”

Of all the groups to be associated with, why did it have to be Excalibur? Filled with former military and CIA shadow operatives, they were known to be involved in bringing oligarchs to power in resource rich third world countries. Tess brought an image up on her computer screen, turning it so I could see photographs of Bucky handling a very advanced rifle at the show. It seemed to be made just for him, as he tried out several stances with it. There must have been a look on my face because Tess suddenly put her hand on mine.

“You, okay? Is it too soon to ask you to investigate and write about your former boyfriend?”

I swallowed then let out a breath. “Yeah, it is too soon but if he’s involved with them, it’s not a good thing. Any idea what country they’re targeting?”

“Considering the fact that he lived there for two years … it has to be Wakanda. The vacuum left by the death of King T’Challa and subsequent challenge by M’Baku to take control has convinced some consortiums that the time is right for a coup. Barnes had a very public falling out with Princess Shuri with plenty of witnesses hearing her threaten to kill him if he showed his face there again. His knowledge of the country is invaluable to the right people. I heard Excalibur offered him 8 figures, just as a bonus to go in with them. For a man who ended up in this century with nothing, many wouldn’t blame him for accepting the money. The Avengers certainly couldn’t afford that.”

I leaned back in the chair and Tess turned her computer screen away from me. I looked past her, to the view of the Empire State Building and Chrysler Building. Completed within 11 months of each other in 1930, Bucky was a teenager when they were built. The view of them was something he never got enough of, a reminder of who he used to be, before World War II and HYDRA turned him into the man he was today.

“Alright,” I said. “I’m in. What do you want me to do?”

As she outlined her investigation objectives, I tried to still the hesitancy I was already feeling about this. The Excalibur Security Group had been implicated in the kidnapping, torture and deaths of several people in the countries they had already “helped” transition to a different government; people whose only real crime was standing up to outside influence and interference. I couldn’t help but wonder why, after all his years of being a puppet of HYDRA, Bucky would align himself with an organization who seemed to follow their playbook for taking control.

Bucky

It had been five weeks since I took that ride in the windowless panel van. Being taken at gunpoint and having my head covered didn’t exactly fill me with confidence but once I was vetted and went out on a few pickups myself I realized it was SOP, Standard Operating Procedure. All new hires went through the same thing. Their bags were checked for trackers, their weapons checked for serial numbers (they were supposed to be filed off), and once we arrived at a second secret location, the operative was required to strip down and prove they weren’t wearing a wire. Because of my arm and shoulder unit I had to prove nothing in them was traceable. I must have been convincing because they allowed me to keep the arm.

There were the usual types that thought they were the baddest of all badasses but when I easily dumped them on said ass during some one-on-one confrontations, they all soon realized none of them had my skill set. It would have been laughable if not for the fact that most of these guys had received their training with the military of several different countries. Either training methods had been watered down since I took basic in 1942, or these guys had faked their resum��s. I must have pleased someone because I didn’t have to prove myself after that. One of the suits hanging around where our small army was holed up, made a big deal of transferring my $10 million signing bonus into the Swiss bank account that I set up once I agreed to join. Told me that after this mission I could begin to live the high life that I was entitled to. Of course, the suit didn’t realize that as soon as the money went into the account a forensic accounting team would begin tracing the source of that transfer. The forensic team were the best of the best, and their work would begin the accumulation of evidence that would be used to prosecute the money people behind the Excalibur Security Group.

Now, five weeks after that van ride, I was in a camp, located somewhere on a remote Australian ranch, in a tent by myself, since I was also made a unit commander. It was hot, dusty, and there was no wifi for miles. But the beer was cold, the food plentiful, and I just bided my time until the day we were in a place with internet so that everything I had recorded in that time could be uploaded to the cloud. Yeah, I was getting better at the tech thing as well. Sam would be proud of me. I paused as I stopped sharpening my knives for a moment. Lying to Sam had been hard. It started with challenging his decisions on missions, then openly mocking his authority. Like the counsellor he used to be he tried to deal with it with understanding. But I was surly with him, asking what made his plans better than mine, considering I had years more experience than him. Then I deliberately didn’t follow his plans during missions. I never did it to the point of endangering lives on those occasions, but my actions did cause problems and when he called me out on it, I reacted like one of those fake badasses I took care of. Before I ended it with Sloan, Sam was the last person that I broke relations with. The look of hurt on his face when I put my face into his and told him to fuck off out of my life was something that I’ll regret forever. I hoped to hell that when this mission was done, he would accept my apology and forgive me for the terrible things I said and did.

“Barnes, CO wants you,” said Ducharme, a former French special forces sergeant, sticking his head inside my tent.

I put my knife and sharpening stone aside, then headed over to the CO’s tent. Colonel William Moorehouse was a former Marine, who was unceremoniously dumped from his command, after being caught stealing gold from a drug lord in Afghanistan. The government of the moment wanted the gold to go towards reparations. He thought it his just due for taking out the drug lord and his small army. He had to give it back then was canned after. I stopped outside his tent, as the flap was down.

“Captain Barnes reporting,” I announced. Only took me 80 years to be made Captain.

“Enter,” said the Colonel’s voice. He had a computer up and I realized at that moment that he must have wifi. With luck and some time, I might be able to upload everything recorded so far. “Barnes, we’ve been monitoring online news sources to make sure word of our upcoming excursion doesn’t get out before we execute the plan. Looks like someone had loose lips but we’re not sure who spilled the beans.”

“Sir?” I questioned, not quite sure what he wanted me to do.

The tall grey-haired man turned the laptop screen towards me, and I saw a brief article from the Manhattan Daily. Its title stood out. So did its byline of the writers.

WAKANDAN COUP ATTEMPT EXPECTED: PRIVATE SECURITY FIRM MAY BE INVOLVED An unnamed source advised that the former Avenger, James Buchanan Barnes, recently fired from the group for increasingly disturbing behaviour has been hired by the private security firm, Excalibur Security Group. While his skill set would be coveted by any private security firm, the news of him being hired by ESG hints that his extensive knowledge of Wakanda may be utilized as part of a coup. Excalibur Security Group is no stranger to transitioning uncooperative governments, especially if they are in resource rich countries. Since the deaths of Wakandan king T’Challa, and his mother, Ramonda, the country appears to be troubled with the ascension of tribal chief M’Baku to the throne, after his challenge to the heir presumptive, Princess Shuri, was uncontested. Shuri and Barnes were recently witnessed in an unsettling encounter, threatening the other with death. The Daily will monitor the situation and report updates as they occur. Story filed by Tess Murray and Sloan Hunter.

I stood up, saying nothing for a moment. “I haven’t spoken to Sloan for over a month. She wouldn’t have known I signed with Excalibur as I only accepted after I broke it off with her.”

“I didn’t think you were the leak,” he replied, turning the laptop back to him. “That Murray woman has been a thorn in the side of several private security firms. She has eyes and ears everywhere. How are your assassin skills?”

“I would rather not use them,” I replied, as it was made very clear when I signed that I didn’t do that anymore. He gave me a look that said he didn’t like that answer. “My skills are still the best. You’re not considering a hit on the women, are you?”

“No, I just want it as an option if they start naming names,” he said. “Our contract is specific that we protect our client’s name and reputation, at the expense of our own. We have an operative in the same office as the Manhattan Daily. That person will be monitoring progress on the story. If they get too close, they will be dealt with, hopefully by our operative. If that isn’t possible, I’m afraid you may be sent to complete that operation.” I started to argue but he put up his hand. “It’s actually in your contract that you may be required for specific tasks. A hit would qualify.”

I wracked my brains trying to remember if I saw that clause before I signed. He bent over his laptop and brought up a document, turning it towards me.

“You can read it again, if you wish,” he said. “It was buried pretty deep but it’s there. Page 2, clause 4.8a.”

I read it and swore openly. “That was not in the contract I signed,” I insisted.

“Well, it’s there now,” he said smugly. “If you’re going to be a soldier of fortune you have to earn the money doing the dirty jobs, Barnes. Now get the hell out of my tent.”

Seething, I stepped out and swore again as I headed back to my tent.

“I hope you heard that,” I said, in a low voice once I was out of earshot of his tent but hopefully within range of the wifi, knowing it would record me. “It wasn’t in the contract I signed. You better make sure she’s safe and find their operative.”

When I stepped inside my tent I stopped immediately. I could smell aftershave and it wasn’t mine, although I had a vague memory of the scent. Someone had been in my tent while I was with the Colonel. Carefully, I scanned the inside of my quarters, checking to see if anything was misplaced from where I left it. Then I checked the obvious and not so obvious places to plant a bug, finding it on the side of one of the tent’s supports, in the shadows where it wasn’t readily visible. It wasn’t a standard issue bug, at least not one used by the Avengers or law enforcement. As I looked closer at it, I noticed a tiny symbol made up of four vertical lines. When I was with HYDRA some of the Russian guards and staff had it tattooed on the back of their hand, as it meant order in an ancient hieroglyphic of the culture present from about 5000 BC. To HYDRA, always using ancient cultural symbols to justify their measures, it was just another way of saying what they wanted for the world. With a smirk, I broke it in half then smashed it under my heel for good measure. I looked for another but didn’t find anything. It bothered me that someone would use a bug with that symbol on it. Was there a HYDRA sympathizer in the camp? If there was, I needed to identify them and find out what their game was. Were they part of the plan to infiltrate and destabilize Wakanda or was I a target? Either way, my mission just became a little harder.

Part 3

Short Fiction Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Please support the author by reblogging.

[braveclementine]

Undercover Sex Slave Masterlist

Soulmate Tattoos Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Face Claims Main Character OCs The Call Master Weeding out the spy Indoctrination Excuses and Planning Here Comes the Sun. . . Plane Escapades Gags and Limes, maybe they're the same thing? Things went a little sideways. But it was all part of the plan Getaway Dear Father, Let's Chat Really, Really Embarrassing Conversations Joining In A. . . Family? The Start of a family The Hunt Bullsh!t Backgrounds Sharons' Secret Preparing for the Mission Loved Detroit The Café Violated Freedom Navy Asgard Dresses Part 1 Part 2 The Ball Night Love Whip Cream and Peanut Butter Trying Halloween Halloween Costumes Part 1 Part 2 Interlude Cambodia Rue, Mateo, Kisa After Mission December Christmas Eve Christmas Eve Part 2 Christmas Morning Christmas Party Christmas Night Secrets Are Out Australia Attempts The Return Dream Come True?

[fablehaven-rulez]

Hot

SEBASTIAN STAN THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER (2021) THE 355 (2022)

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"The Commander's Omega"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: alpha/omega, dystopia, sex slavery, forced breeding, mutilation, rape, corporal punishment, fascism, hurt/comfort, power imbalance, mpreg, age gap (38/23), mentions of abortion, miscarriage

Summary: After years of a mass infertility crisis, the United States is overtaken by religious fanatics, and Bucky Barnes finds himself thrust into a brutal world of survival. When he's discovered to be fertile, he's forced to serve as a vessel: a caste of omegas who bear children for the political elite.

Chapter VI. The Shudder Before the Slide

Story Masterlist

Before:

The first time Bucky hits heat, he’s just turned fourteen years old, has just had a great birthday party over the weekend, and is stressed out over all the stuff he’s gonna have to learn now that Rabbi Schmeckle gave the green light for his mom to start planning his bar mitzvah. Alpha boys get one at 13, but beta boys have to wait until they’re a year older at least, to make sure they aren’t “late bloomers” (a euphemism for an omega son—what Bucky learns later in life is every Jewish mother except for his own's worst fear).

He’s in homeroom at 7:15 am, backpack slung across his lap and foot tapping as he eagerly awaits the bell. Harriet Falsworth is in his third period English class and he’s got a not-so-subtle crush on her. He can’t wait to slide his hand-made valentine into her locker. Just thinking of Harriet makes his heart beat faster. … Lately, it’s made other things happen, too (there’s a reason he’s got the backpack over his lap, right now). If half the kids in his homeroom have put space between themselves and him, he certainly doesn’t notice.

“Hey Barnes, what the fuck?”

Bucky turns around in his seat to look back at where George and Seth are sitting. “What?” he hisses, not wanting to get in trouble for talking out of turn in homeroom. Sister Joan is a real hard-ass when it comes to stuff like that. Everybody hates her.

“Why d’you smell like that?” Both boys snicker. “Is it your time of the month or something?”

Bucky scowls. “Huh?”

“That’s enough,” Sister Joan says from the front of the classroom, making George and Seth shut up. Bucky’s still left confused over the remark, though. “Everyone work on your homework,” Sister Joan snaps. 

All the students in the room are quick to pull out notebooks and at least pretend to be working on something, meanwhile Sister Joan’s attention has narrowed in on Bucky. He gulps as she comes over to him, thinking, great, what’d he do now? (Bucky can’t prove it, but he thinks Sister Joan picks on the kids who she knows aren’t Catholic.) 

“James,” she says, using his first name rather than the crisp ‘Mr. Barnes’ that he usually gets from her. Her kinder-than-normal tone is also concerning.

Bucky wavers uncertainly as she stops in front of his desk. “Um, yeah?”

“It’s alright. You’re not in trouble. I need you to gather your things and come out into the hall with me, Dear.”

He frowns at the ‘Dear’, certain that he is in trouble, somehow. She’s just tricking him, trying to get him away from the other kids so she can really light into him. Bucky frowns, trying to wrack his mind for what he’s done lately that somebody could’ve snitched on. But he’s been good! He’d promised his mom that he’d try harder this school year not to make trouble. He glances back to George and Seth in the row behind, confused and annoyed about why they’re still snickering at him. He can’t help but feel that he’s missed out on some soft of joke. “Erm, but ... why?” he asks Sister Joan.

Her lips thin and she straightens her spine. “Because I said so.”

-

Bucky’s forced to leave school early that day. They send him home in a taxi, since his mom and dad are both at work and can’t come to get him. He tries hard not to cry in the backseat of the cab, but it’s a challenge. He’s presented as omega. That’s what Sister Joan, and later the school nurse, had told him. Apparently they could tell it even before he could. Something about the way he smells. It’s embarrassing in a way he can’t quite yet put his finger on, and he hates it. His mom had sounded really upset on the phone, but like she was trying not to be.

Bucky squirms uncomfortably in the cab and itches to get home so he can Google about this, maybe find some fact that can prove they've made a mistake about him. He doesn't feel omega. He has a vague memory of a fifth grade puberty lecture, but he hadn’t paid attention because boys hardly ever turned out to be o!

He can’t get his mind off the way that George and Seth were laughing at him, and it sticks in his mind as the first lesson he ever gets about being omega: it’s nothing to be proud of.

“Alexa: what’s that Tony Stark quote about Isaac Asimov?” 

“Here’s what I found on the web:”  

Bucky takes an absent-minded sip of his latte as he listens to the answer. It’s gone cold by now, but he hasn’t been able to peel himself away from his laptop for over an hour. Not when he’s on such a good roll. Halfway through his paper on the practical applications for intelligence simulation in robotics, and he is in the fucking zone, hyped up on caffeine—okay, and maybe just a little bit of Adderall that he bought from weird-Kevin in the Library. His fingers skip over the keyboard as he tries to keep pace with his fast-flowing thoughts. 

On the other side of their dorm room, Dylan is working, too. Or, he’s supposed to be. But Bucky’s pretty sure he fell into a YouTube rabbit hole a while ago.

“Ohh, sweet baby Jesus,” Dylan croons.

Bucky glances over. “What?” he asks, taking a second sip from his latte and wincing. He really should just warm it the fuck up. The microwave’s only ten feet away from where he’s sitting.

Dylan removes his earpods and looks over. “Henry Cavill,” he says, as if it’s a complete sentence. 

Bucky arches a brow. “Don’t you have a paper you’re supposed to be writing?” 

“Yeah.”

“Pretty sure it isn’t on Henry Cavill.”

“S’for Family Studies,” Dylan says absently. He’s distracted, still staring at his computer screen with dreamy eyes.

Bucky scoffs at the mention of the course name. “What’s your paper on?”

“‘Gender dynamics in mate selection: A case for traditional marriage.” Dylan catches the nasty look that Bucky shoots him and defends himself with a hasty, “Well I didn’t pick it. It's a diversity requisite.”

“Stupid waste ‘a time,” Bucky mutters. “Making us take a bunch of dumb 101’s that have nothing to do with our majors. And we get the privilege of paying for it. It's extortion. I don’t get how it's even legal. I mean this is friggin' NYU."

"It's private. I guess they can do what they want, yeah?" Dylan shrugs and keeps dicking around on YouTube, his disregard for his coursework once again reminding Bucky that his roommate comes from money.

Unlike Bucky himself, who can’t afford to be careless about anything. Not when he’s depending on maintaining his GPA to keep his academic scholarship. They’re only a few weeks into fall semester right now. Dylan’s an incoming freshman, and he has to take all the same bullshit gender and family courses that Bucky himself put up with last year. He’s got no need to maintain his grades the way that Bucky does, though. Lucky fucker’ll probably nab a paid internship straight out of college, just with his family’s connections.

Dylan sighs happily over at his desk (presumably over Henry Cavill, and not his Family Studies paper). “There’s all these videos of him, like, visiting children’s hospitals. He shows up in his Superman outfit to cheer up all the little cancer kids. Ooh! and this one here: he's holding babies at Comic Con!"

Bucky rolls his eyes, attention back on his computer. “So what?”

“'So what?' So I think my ovaries just exploded, is what! So I need this man to breed me, is what.” Dylan turns his laptop to show the video where Henry Cavil is, indeed, holding a baby, then shoots Bucky a peevish look for not reacting appropriately. “He’s unf—with a capital UNF.”

“He’s okay I guess.”

“... You’re gay,” Dylan declares. “You gotta be. Your ovaries never explode. This man is prime. alpha. real estate, he’s worth like fifty gajillion dollars—”

“Pretty sure he’s not.”

“—and he’s shredded, and he’s so sweet, and he likes babies!” Dylan whines helplessly as he puts his earpods back in. “Did you see his bicep? It's bigger than the baby's head!—and I'm sorry but that baby has a fat fucking head. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Breed me Daddy.”

Bucky hisses and waves his hand. “Hey! Watch it with the God stuff, would you?”

Dylan looks over his shoulder at the door. "Door’s shut.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” Bucky scolds. “Alexa’s listening. You think that shit doesn’t get reported back to the RAs?” 

“I—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Can you repea—”

“Alexa, never mind!” Bucky snaps. He looks back at Dylan. “They clock you for too many JFC's and they’ll write you up for creating a ‘hostile environment’ for the rollers,” he scolds. 

Dylan winces. “Right, sorry. Just …” he gestures at his computer screen with a happy sigh. “Ovaries.” 

“Yeah yeah.” Bucky pushes out his desk chair and goes over to stick his cup in the microwave for sixty seconds.

He hasn't been in a very charitable mood about the university's 'decency' code, lately, not since he got into a tense altercation with his ethics professor, after the guy had unfairly ruled on a debate that Bucky had clearly won. The debate had been about the campus’ recent ban on porn viewed through the university wifi—Bucky had been against, his opponent for. The professor hadn’t equally applied the debate standards. And even if he had ... Bucky’s been growing increasingly disturbed with the more things he notices changing around campus, not to mention the broader world.

"Sorry man," Dylan promises. "I'll put a post-it up to remind myself."

Bucky almost laughs. “Good idea. And you want my advice? You’d better stop joking about your ovaries all the time, too. Or your heats."

"Exploding ovaries is my go-to!"

"Find a new one. If the rollers get wind of you being fertile, they’ll never leave you alone.” He pulls his cup out when the microwave beeps and carries it back to his desk, making a long-suffering face as he blows on the top. “Trust me, I should know.” 

Of course by now he’s started taking all the precautions that they tell you to take, these days. He’s stopped getting his suppressants from the campus health center, ordering them from an online pharmacy that uses discreet packaging, instead. He uses incognito mode on his parents’ cell plan to watch any porn, or to buy condoms, or search for anything that’s even remotely controversial. He’s deleted his heat tracking app, changed his documented religion from “Jewish-Agnostic” to “Non-denominational,” edited his dating profiles on all the apps from saying “wants kids” to “unsure,” and has even had his father sign for legal control of all his O-HIPPA forms so that nobody can ever data mine his medical records again—Emphasis on “again,” as he certainly hadn’t done it in time to prevent it from happening once. 

Somewhere out there in the digital ether, somebody already has his medical information in their database. And they’ve definitely been selling it to others, if the nonstop emails, spam calls, and junk mail he’s been receiving are anything to go by. Ever since he got the abortion last semester, various fertility-for-profit and pro-life groups have been bombarding him with heartfelt appeals for his surrogacy, offering compensation for his eggs, extolling the virtues of omega motherhood, bemoaning the population crisis, blessing him with prayers, entreating him to join up with this congregation or that one, begging him to surrender to God’s will for his 'biological destiny'. Oh, and Bucky’s personal favorite: threatening him with surprisingly graphic descriptions of eternal damnation if he doesn’t repent for his sins and produce more babies as penance for killing his unborn child. 

He even received a signed copy of somebody called Serena Joy's book: An Omega's Place. Bucky's never burned a book before, but it'd been damn tempting to start, once he'd flipped past the title page and realized what it was: a flaming shitpile of anti-omeganist trash. He'd shelved it in the library, right next to a book about infectious diseases of the bowel and colon.

“Don’t you want kids?”

Bucky presses his lips together at the presumptive question, trying to cut Dylan a break. The poor fucker probably has ADHD, and to be fair, he doesn’t realize how insensitive he's being, because Bucky hasn't told him about the abortion. “Sure," Bucky says. "I guess. Like, one day if I get married or whatever. Just not now. Not for a long time.”

“Yeah. Me too I guess.” Dylan reaches for his computer mouse with a dirty snicker. “Unless I find an alpha like Mr. Cavill. Then it’s baby-makin’ time.”

“You’d better watch your mouth,” Bucky mutters. “Pretty soon they’re gonna start a womb draft.”

“Oh come on. That’s never gonna happen.” 

“You just wait and see. They’ll be going after abortion soon,” he warns. “Then who knows what else.”

Dylan ‘tsks’ and goes back to scrolling on his computer, telling him that’s an extremist and unrealistic way of thinking. “That’s about as likely as me getting with Daddy Cavill.” He makes a sad, mournful noise. “Son of a bitch is taken. Why can’t I meet a nice alpha like that?”

Bucky hums in false sympathy and goes searching in his desk drawer for a pair of earplugs to drown out any more distractions. He’s joking about the womb-drafting thing … mostly. But he’s actually got a bad feeling about the abortion part of it.

It’s been months, but he hasn't forgotten that rude-ass doctor from back at the first clinic he’d gone to, over break. He remembers the man’s face screwed up in disdain, and more worryingly, the confidence he’d had in turning Bucky away. Bucky can’t get the guy’s parting words out of his mind:

“The law’s gonna change real soon.”

It’s silly to still be thinking about it, he knows. Because he’s checked, since then. He's been keeping up on current events, reading up on national and local politics, keeping an eye out for anything in the news about any change or challenge to reproductive freedoms in New York, or even at the federal level. But other than the usual sanctimonious op-eds and click bait about holy rollers losing their shit outside Planned Parenthoods, there hasn’t been anything happening. 

Still ... He can’t quite get the words out of his mind. 

Base camp for the resistance is a scattered collection of trailers and hastily-constructed shacks in the Appalachian mountains. Bucky knows that they’re somewhere in Pennsylvania, but that’s about all he knows. When he’d first met his contact back in Brooklyn, it’d been very secretive. Nobody had trusted him at that point, and he’d been driven around and then led into camp with a blindfold on.

That’s just fine with Bucky. He knows what he needs to know. Other people shuttle them out on missions when they need to go. Bucky’s quickly made rank as sniper. He’s killed something in the range of fifty or sixty guardians of the faith, and he’s relished every kill.

His mom wouldn’t like that if she knew, would tell him it’s sinful to be glad about killing people. But she hasn’t seen the things that The Faithful are doing nowadays. They’re hanging people who won’t convert. They’re kidnapping omegas and doing god only knows what with them. The few omega refugees that the resistance takes in don’t talk about their experiences out there, and Bucky doesn’t ask. He’s heard rumors though, ridiculous things about sex slaves and breeding centers. He’s got a hard time believing that. It’s a little too outrageous of an idea, even for The Faithful.

Anyway, Bucky’s mom is tucked away with his sisters, safe in Toronto. She hasn’t seen the things he has. Bucky likes to think she’d be proud of him, if she knew what he was fighting against.

He sits next to two other guys on one of the cots that crowd the medical tent. He and the other serving omegas are waiting their turns to get suppressant injections. Bucky had cycled naturally until he was sixteen, then his mom had taken him to the doctor and he’d gotten set up with oral suppressants. He likes the way his body feels when he’s on them, and it’s a relief that he’ll be able to stay on them here. He hadn’t expected that luxury. Sex with anyone but your own hand out here is rare, so pregnancy isn't something he really worries about. But not having a heat while he's trying to shoot some motherfuckers? Yeah that's just peachy.

“Barnes,” the medic calls out. Bucky gets up from his seat and goes over to the guy. “Let's see your ID.” Bucky shows it to him and the man checks something off on his clipboard. “Alright,” he says. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Bucky does. He watches as the medic preps the syringe. It’s been explained to him that they do injections out here instead of pills because it’s more reliable. Makes sense. One shot every three months and you’re good to go. Can’t exactly depend on having a daily pill available when you’re out fighting for weeks on end. And the last thing that’s strategic on the battlefield is an omega in heat.

He holds out his arm for the doctor to shoot him up.

Bucky grunts as Brock and the other guardian pull him out of the back of the van. This is the second damned time he’s been dragged into the red center against his will, and it makes him feel like a hell of a failure for getting caught. At least he doesn’t have a bag over his head this time, but that’s about the only thing that’s improved.

“Thought you could run away, huh?” Brock says, as he tugs on Bucky’s arm to get him to follow along. He looks over, notices the blood crusted on Bucky's neck, and pauses. “You hurt?” 

“No.” Bucky tries to pull away, but he can’t. He growls in frustration when Brock reaches up and tucks his shaggy hair behind his right ear. 

"Aw, hell kid," Brock says when he sees the mess. "What the hell did ya do to yourself?"

Bucky jerks his head away and scowls without looking at him. "What I had to do." They pass through the outer fence, then the secondary, then the inner checkpoint. Each gate locks behind them with a click and a computerized ‘beep’, the sounds like physical blows to the deepest pockets of Bucky’s remaining hope. They hurt. Those are the sounds of his freedom being stripped away, again.

Brock takes him through the gymnasium and into the old locker rooms, back by the showers. He makes Bucky take off all his clothes—beta blue that he’d stolen off one of the caretakers—and tells him to wash the grime off himself. 

Bucky turns the water on and waits for it to get hot. The old pipes behind the tiled shower wall clunk and groan as the water pressure comes through. He holds his hand under the water, noticing the coat of dirt on his forearm and the back of his hand, the blood crusted under his fingernails. He’s been living rough while trying to figure out a way to get past the city limit checkpoints. It’d been okay building up a stink. At least it’d done a bit to cover up the smell of his heat. 

The Faithful don’t believe in the use of suppressants, think it’s against God or nature or some such bullshit. So of course Bucky and the other vessels are never allowed to have them. He hadn’t been able to find any when he was out on the street, either. Being in heat had made the escape harder, but not impossible. He’d gotten out and joined a homeless encampment underneath the 495 overpass near the northeast edge of the city, had traded handjobs with one of the alphas there in exchange for protection, for him scenting Bucky up real good each day and night. It’d worked, until it hadn’t. The camp got raided, and Bucky and a few other omegas were grabbed in the chaos before they could make a real run for it.

Now he’s right back where he fucking started. 

He pumps out soap from the dispenser on the wall and rubs it over his shoulders and his neck. He peeks back at Brock. The alpha isn’t averting his eyes. He’s leaning back against the wall all casual like, watching Bucky wash himself, his mouth turned up slightly at the corners. Asshole. “So what was the plan?” he asks. “Hitch it all the way back to New York?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Or basecamp. Whichever.” He’d thought about heading for New York, or the Canadian border, but that was a long fucking way to go without being caught. From D.C., the rebellion’s basecamp in the Pennsylvania mountains had been the closest option. And even then …

“You wouldn’t’ve made it,” Brock says. “Don’t feel bad. Nobody could, not with the way they’ve got the roadblocks set up. Checkpoints, patrols, citizen tip line. It’s impossible right now. You were always gonna get caught.”

Bucky wonders if Brock’s really trying to make him feel better, or if he’s just in the mood to rub his nose in his own failure. He shrugs, sluicing the water back off of his hair. “I had to try,” he says dully. “You know that.”

Brock hums in agreement, but doesn’t say any more. Bucky pumps out more soap, washes his face, rinses. He turns around and lets the spray beat down on his back, not caring to shield his modesty at all as he stands facing Brock. He lets his eyes slip closed for a beat, enjoying the hot water. 

“You should’ve waited until your heat'd passed,” Brock says. “Bought yourself more time.” 

Bucky grits his teeth and fights not to snap back at him. Of course he knows that, now. But he’d gotten emotional and had panicked. He'd jumped the gun—and Caretaker Kevin—when an opportunity presented itself. He’d acted before he could stop and analyze his options more rationally. Remembering it now just makes him feel awful, so he purposefully stops thinking about it. He opens his eyes and looks at Brock instead, who’s leaning casually against the wall and looking at Bucky’s naked body with mild but undisguised interest (Bucky’s not worried. Brock’s never tried to take liberties before, and he’s had plenty of chances).

But contempt curls in his gut the longer he watches the other man, watching him, standing there at ease in his Guardian’s uniform and his alpha insignia armband, a radio strapped to his chest and a stun baton hanging from his utility belt. 

“Why do you do this?” Bucky asks bitterly. He knows that Brock isn’t a zealot like some of the other Guardians of the Faith are. “Why do you help them, huh? Why not fight?” He watches as Brock’s expression turns grim. For a second it doesn't seem like he'll answer, but then he says,

“I come from a big family. Italian. Catholic.” His eyes flick up to Bucky’s face and he and Bucky just sort of stare at each other for a long moment. 

Bucky wasn’t expecting that answer, and he feels like an asshole. “They alive?” he asks. 

Brock nods.

“They get out?”

“Couldn’t. Not before the borders closed.”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky swallows thickly, looks down and shakes his head. “But that still doesn’t mean that you have to—”

“Oh, they converted,” Brock says, cutting him off. “But we weren’t just a little bit Catholic, right? We were a lotta bit Catholic. Known in the community.” He gestures to himself. “I had to join up. To help sell it.”

“Oh.”

“And my kid sister? She’s o. Married to a divorcée.” 

Bucky’s guts sink. The Faithful don’t recognize divorce, or second marriages. He’s met plenty of other vessels at the red center who were ripped from their "invalid" marriages, their “unspouses” executed for adultery, their kids given away, and their wombs rented out to the state. 

Brock nods again when he sees Bucky’s wan expression. “Yeah. So. One day I take inventory of what I got. I’m ex-special forces. I’ve got marketable skills. And ex-colleagues with those same skills. I approached a Commander, back home, and we came to an understanding. He’s the only reason my sister hasn’t been salvaged.”  

Bucky just stands there under the pouring water, wishing he hadn’t asked in the first place. It’s easier just to hate. He doesn’t feel angry or self righteous anymore. He just feels … tired. Like he did right after they took his arm. “You could’ve at least tried to do the right thing,” he says, but it lacks heat. “You could’ve fought back. I did.”

Brock’s eyes harden. “And watch them string my Nonna up on some wall? Uh-uh. I’ve got too many people I love to fight back.” He points his finger at Bucky, angry. “You picked up a gun in a losing fight cause you had the luxury of knowing that your family got out. So don’t you fuckin’ stand there and judge me.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches and, bizarrely, he feels tears press up hard at the backs of his eyes. He blinks and looks away in humiliation. They’re tears of despair more than anything else, he realizes. Despair at how fucking fucked the whole world is. For everybody. He clenches his teeth and turns back around to face the shower wall, not wanting to chance letting Brock see how stupidly close to tears he is. His face feels hot, and by the time the water hits his face again, he feels a sob working its way up in his chest. He gasps and breathes open mouthed under the deluge of the shower spray, throwing his hand up to lean against the tile wall and calm down.

Behind, he hears Brock sigh heavily. “I didn’t choose any of this, kid. S’just the hand I been dealt, same as you.”

Bucky wants to snap something back to him about that, something nasty about how Brock and he are nothing alike, how Bucky had done the right thing and Brock had been a coward, and wherever their families were didn’t excuse choosing the wrong side. But he holds his tongue and reaches for the soap dispenser instead, pumps out a bunch more of the shower gel and finishes washing off a month’s worth of grime from his body, feeling more drained and hopeless than he has since the day he woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed and looked over to see a stump where his left arm used to be.

Brock’s right: His mom and sisters are all safe in Canada right now. He’d joined the resistance knowing that his actions couldn’t hurt them. Would he have done the same if they were still living in New York, under the regime? He’s never stopped to wonder. Now he’s not so sure.  

“Please!” Bucky begs, struggling against Brock and the other guardian as they manhandle him down the hallway and into one of the old classrooms.

The red center is set up in what was once a high school, and this is one room Bucky’s never been in before. Having heard the screams echoing out into the hallway, though, he’s got a good enough idea about what goes on in here. There’s a padded table with straps that makes his blood run cold and his imagination run wild, and he jerks harder in their hold as they push him closer to it. “No please!” he begs again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He’s crying, but Brock and the other guardian ignore him.

“God, shut up already and take what’s coming to ya,” Brock complains. “I thought you used to be a soldier.” He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to make fun of Bucky, but the other guardian snorts like it’s a joke anyways. Bucky tries to headbutt him, but Brock catches him in time and stops the other man from striking him. “C’mon kid,” he warns. “Don’t make us tase you, too. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Nnngh!” Bucky might’ve been able to overpower just one of them, if he still had both of his arms. But he doesn’t, and he can’t. They get him up on the table and restrain him face-down. Straps over his back, arms, waist, thighs, calves, and ankles hold him completely immobile. Bucky’s bare feet hang over the table’s edge as he sobs and begs in fear. “Please!” He’s nearly screaming it at them by the time the caretaker walks in, and his heart seizes in fresh terror when he sees who it is. 

It’s Caretaker Kevin—the one whose clothes he’d taken, whom he’d left beaten and tied up and gagged in the school’s boiler room while he made his escape. The man walks in holding a bundle of short, frayed metal cables in his hand. “Under His Eye,” he says to Bucky, as he approaches.

“Please!” Bucky begs, eyes unable to move from the sight of what Kevin’s holding. He knows what that’s for. He’s seen other omegas brought back to their cots, bloody feet bandaged and dragging behind them. “Please don’t do this! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, I believe you, Sweetheart,” Kevin coos, reaching out to pet Bucky’s hair back in fake compassion. He tuts when he sees his bloody, mutilated ear, then steps out of sight towards the foot of the table. Bucky hears his horrible, saccharine voice say, “Forgiveness is God’s gift to us all, James. That’s the miracle of His love. But that forgiveness comes through redemption. Do you know what redemption means?”

Bucky sniffles and repeats, “Please, please, please,” against the table’s padded surface, wet from his terrified tears. 

“'Renewal through blood', Ephesians 1:7-8,” Kevin recites. “We all must be punished for our sins.” Down at the end of the table, he makes a slight movement, and Bucky yelps out in fear as something cold and hard touches lightly at the bottom of his right foot.

“No no no! Wait, wait!” He looks helplessly over to where Brock and the other guardian are standing sentinel by the door. “Please help me!” he cries. It’s pathetic even to his own ears, and Brock turns his back to him, looking pained. The other guardian however, seems to want to watch. Sadist. 

Caretaker Kevin takes an audible breath back where Bucky can’t see. There's the sound of displaced air, a 'swish', and then a searing, unbearable pain in the sole of Bucky's right foot. 

He screams bloody murder.

-

They drag him back to his cot that night, bandaged and barely coherent, his eyes swollen and face snotty from crying. Once the caretakers turn in for the night and only a few remain to do the usual nighttime rounds, Bucky gets a slew of apologetic murmurs in the dark from the other nearby vessels. He doesn’t thank them, just cries miserably into his pillow. He thinks of his family and of the unending pain in his feet. He misses his mom.

Within six weeks the wounds are healed, and Bucky’s left with some pretty unique scars.

After:

One time, when he was a few months away from turning fourteen—not long after he’d presented omega, and after the embarrassing debacle of having to cancel an already planned-out bar mitzvah for a "late bloomer" who was no longer eligible for one—Bucky’s whole extended family went on a cruise to Antarctica with the money that Grandpa Herschel left in his will. 

Bucky doesn’t remember too much about the trip, other than sneaking crab legs off the buffet with his cousins and being a moody fourteen year old who was not happy about presenting omega. But one day he’d been standing out on the stateroom balcony with his dad (having a “talk” about how life was apparently going to get better) when they’d witnessed a huge chunk of iceshelf break off from the Thwaites Glacier. It’d felt almost alien to Bucky, surreal, just standing there listening to the incredible noises it'd made, feeling in awe of how something so massive and sudden could seem to happen in such slow motion.

It was the most beautifully terrifying thing he’d ever witnessed up until that point in his life, and after the trip he’d gone on a bit of a geology tangent, reading books about glaciers and watching specials on the Discovery Channel about the polar ice caps.

Looking back on it now, it’s eerie how parallels can be drawn, between icebergs and what wound up happening with the country. Because you see, the thing about the shelves breaking off like Bucky and his dad saw, is that it’s a process. It happens over a long time, and most of it goes unnoticed. The cracks starts early, and small, and they don’t look like much. Sometimes they can’t even be seen from the surface at all. But underneath, they deepen, and they deepen, and they spread, and turn into fissures. Then caverns form underneath, unseen, getting hollowed out and eroded by the seawater, bit by bit. Then the caverns disappear entirely, and it’s just this big, massive iceshelf attached to the glacier, waiting for that final crack that’ll bring it all tumbling down.

The part that you see happens all at once, in a big, dramatic rush. But there’s a ton of groundwork that needs to be laid before that to make it breakable. Then one day it happens. There's this horrible, screeching groan of ice on ice, deep inside, the shudder before the slide. And the next thing you know, the entire shelf is collapsing in this huge, dramatic cloud of ice and snow, breaking off into the water, loud, cataclysmic. And when you watch it happen from the sensible distance of a stateroom balcony, it seems like: wow, dramatic, so horrifically sudden.

But it isn’t. Not really. It happens over time, with lots of cracks you don't see.

-

Bucky’s got no real patience for metaphors, anymore.

He takes things for what they are, and doesn't think too deeply on anything when he can help it. He definitely tries not to think about his old life and how things used to be. The only thing worse than that is thinking about whether he'll ever live a normal life again, or see his family again. One day at a time—isn't that what the alcoholics say?

That day it's cool out, mid fall, the neighborhood trees having dropped about half their leaves, the temperature having dipped noticeably overnight. Bucky enjoys it, likes the way the air smells at this time of year, with all the leaves piling up on the sidewalks and starting to rot, the neighbor houses burning woodsmoke out their chimneys. It's not a smell he associates with home back in the city, so it doesn't bring up any painful sort of nostalgia. He likes that, too.

He sits cross-legged on the front porch swing and watches Sam working at unloading pumpkins and pots of brightly colored mums, hefting them out of the truck bed and bringing them over one by one to sit on the porch at either side, going up the steps and framing the house's stately front door. He’s arranging a nice, autumnal display.

Rich people, Bucky thinks with a smirk, trailing his fingers idly over the bottoms of his feet. He's barefoot even though it's cool out. His red cloak draped over his shoulders does the job of keeping the chill away, and he sits there and plays absently with the texture of the scars on the soles of his feet, contemplating the ridiculousness of seasonal porch decorations in this brave new world of theirs. He wonders if it annoys Sam and the others, to have to put up with all of the mundane domestic tasks that they have to do, to serve as cover for … whatever else it is that they do.

Probably, Bucky thinks. It would certainly annoy him if he had something more important to be doing. Though as it is, Bucky would kill to have a daily routine full of tasks like gardening and bread baking. Anything to cull the hours of boredom that he faces each day, with no reprieve to look forward to besides the couple of hours Steve allows him in the office each night—and he does look forward to it. Bucky is insanely grateful to have that.

He and Steve have become more comfortable around one another, maybe even something resembling friends. Almost. Steve still refuses to talk to him any more about The Secret. He either doesn't trust Bucky enough, wants to keep him out of the loop for his own safety, or both. Bucky thinks it's both. Natasha and Sharon and Clint and Sam have clearly been told to keep their mouths shut, too, because they haven't yielded to any of Bucky's prodding questions.

Sam arrives back at the porch with the last of the mums, setting it down in one spot and then stepping back to judge its placement. He comes back to turn it at a slightly different angle.

“Hey Sam?” Bucky says, knowing that he can talk to the others without worrying about rules of propriety. “Do you think we could carve some of the pumpkins? In private? Just for fun?”

Sam gives him a look. “C'mon. You know we can’t.” Carving pumpkins has been forbidden, along with all other Halloween-related things, since the regime took over. It’s a pagan ritual that The Faithful scorn. Sam seems aware of Bucky's boredom, though, and he glances back at the truck. "I picked up a crate of sugar pumpkins for Sharon. She'll probably need help scooping those out for pies, or whatever she makes with them." Bucky looks pointedly at his empty left sleeve, and Sam shrugs. “Well she could cut, you could scoop?"

"Maybe."

"Eh. She won't be doing it today, anyway."

"Right," Bucky says, resigning himself to his boredom.

Sam gives him a considering look. "... I could use a hand raking all these damn leaves, though," he offers. "If you're—"

"Sure!' Bucky’s never been so quick to agree to yard work in his life. He unfolds his legs and hops off the swing, hurrying for the front door. “Let me just get my shoes!"

-

Later, just as he’s raking to merge his pile in with Sam's, a black van marked with the Gilead government crest pulls into the driveway. Too many bad experiences in the backs of such vans have Bucky freezing in place and staring. Could it be guardians? he thinks. Someone come to take him away? Has someone reported him for reading? Has someone reported Steve? He gulps as his heart rate ticks up in apprehension.

The van’s side door slides open with a jarringly loud sound, and a man gets out. He’s dressed like a guardian, with an alpha’s insignia on his armband. He has slicked-back hair and a scar across his chin, a rifle slung over one shoulder and a duffle bag over the other. He’s got a grim set to his face as he spares a glance around the property, barely looking at Bucky and Sam before dismissing them and heading for the front door.

He goes up on the porch and rings the bell, and meanwhile the van he arrived in pulls away and heads off down the street. Bucky’s shoulders relax somewhat once it's turned the corner and gone out of sight. No van in the driveway means nobody’s getting black-bagged and hauled away. He still watches the newcomer with a sense of unease, though. In a moment, Steve has come to the door and is stepping out onto the porch to shake the guy’s hand, speaking with him like he was expecting his arrival.

Sam appears close at Bucky’s side. “That’s Steve’s new head of security,” he tells him lowly. “Rollins. He was assigned here. Steve didn’t pick him out.”

“Does that mean he’s not one of you?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says. He doesn’t seem pleased.

Bucky resists the urge to let his eyes slide sideways. “Should I … act on protocol, then?”

“Follow Steve’s lead,” Sam says, after a moment of tense silence. 

They both watch as Steve gestures in their direction, talking to Rollins and ostensibly telling the man who they are. Rollins’ eyes do another cool sweep over Bucky, and without realizing it, Bucky’s lowering his eyes in a deferential move that’s been drummed into him since his earliest days at the red center. When he dares to peek back up, Steve and Rollins are just disappearing through the front door into the house. 

“Definitely keep your mouth shut around him,” Sam advises. "As far as he's concerned, this is just another Commander's household. And as far as we’re concerned, he’s an Eye."

"Right."

Together, they go back to raking the leaves. Eventually Bucky works up the nerve to ask a question that he isn’t sure he really wants the answer to: “Why does Steve need a head of security?” Commander Putnum hadn’t had one.

“Death threats,” Sam says. “Not a big deal,” he assures him. “We get them all the time. Mostly it’s nothing.”

“Mostly?" Bucky scoffs, wondering who’d be dumb enough to threaten a Commander of the Faith. "Sounds like a good way to end up on a wall," he mutters.

“Most of it’s noise," Sam excuses. "Untraceable. The ones we can trace almost always lead back to resistance members."

“But I thought—”

“Other resistance members,” Sam says lowly, shooting Bucky a look that clearly says he should shut up. Nobody in the household has yet confided to Bucky just what sort of organization they work for. “Militia remnants, like the ones you used to pal around with, apparently.” Sam smirks and knocks his rake against Bucky's, then goes back to pulling in the edges of the pile they've got. "I should go get bags for these.”

Bucky ducks his head and represses the urge to ask more questions about Steve and Sam and the rest of them: who they work for, what their mission is, how they communicate with—

“This Rollins guy might not just be here for security,” Sam warns, just as Natasha appears at the front door and gestures for them both to come inside. They drop their rakes and head for the door. "There could be another reason."

"You really think he’s an Eye?” Bucky asks, hoping it isn’t true. Whenever eyes start getting involved, people start being disappeared.

Sam doesn’t deny or confirm, but the unhappy set to his face says plenty. “Treat him like one,” he mutters, as they go up on the porch and into the house. 

In the darkened interior of the foyer, Natasha is holding an armful of bed linens. “Commander Rogers is welcoming Guardian Rollins to the Household,” she says, speaking in a way that Bucky only picks up on as being fake because he’s observed how everybody talks now when their guard is down: this isn’t it. Natasha nods for them to come with her, and they follow along behind as she starts up the stairs. “They’re in the office, having drinks. Dinner is in an hour—just them, but we’ll be on standby. Then he wants us all presentable in the parlor for the evening.”

Sam and Bucky share an unenthusiastic look, but say nothing. For the life of him, Bucky can’t imagine what they’re all going to do in the parlor with their new houseguest that evening. At his last placement, the Putnams would frequently entertain guests, but Bucky was rarely ever requested to be present for such things. He’d been quite content to remain in his room in the basement—out of sight, just the way Mrs. Putnam had preferred it. 

“I’ve gotta make up a bed for him,” Natasha says at the second floor landing, and they all part ways to head off to their respective parts of the house. 

Bucky goes up to the attic level to wash up and change clothes. He tries to think of what he’ll be expected to do whilst spending an entire evening with Steve and this new guy that they need to stand on ceremony around. With all the protocols he learned back at the red center, and knowing how things were at his posting with his first Commander, he’s not expecting to enjoy the rest of his evening very much. All he can think of is that he’ll probably be expected to remain quiet and tucked aside, only speaking when spoken to, and only very politely and perfunctory at that.

He gets grumpy about it, because this means that his usual routine of eating a nice relaxed meal with everyone else at the dinner table and then getting to immerse himself in books in Steve’s office is out the window for tonight. Maybe even for the foreseeable future. Oh god, he hopes not. He hopes that this new guy Rollins won’t wind up staying long. He’d hate to lose the one thing he’s come to enjoy. 

He usually makes a firm habit of trying not to let himself get his hopes up about anything, but in this one thing, he realizes he’s failed. He’s fallen into the trap of wanting, and now it’s going to lead to the same inevitable result it always does: disappointment. 

He dresses the way he knows he’s expected to, in a fresh pair of soft red pants, long sleeved red shirt, tidy red sweater, white socks, brown indoor shoes that are more like slippers than shoes. Red’s not his color, but at least the clothes are comfortable.

He stands in front of the bathroom’s crappy plastic mirror and combs his hair, which has grown longer since they last cut it at the red center, before this placement with Steve. If it grows much longer without being cut, it’ll reach his ears again soon. Bucky considers the blurry reflection of his left ear, with the tiny redtag curled over the cartilage … and his right one. He brings his hand up absently to touch at the mutilated place where he’d used scissors to do what had to be done. He feels oddly apathetic about it, though it’s anything but attractive. What’s the point in worrying about a little ear mutilation when you’ve had ninety percent of your left arm lopped off? 

Still … maybe Steve won’t care if he lets his hair grow out.

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[navybrat817]

Just Like That

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky suggests staying in a hotel together before an undercover mission, which would be fine if you didn't have a massive crush on the super soldier. Word Count: Almost 5k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected vaginal sex, pining, flirting, slight possessive behavior, talk of undercover mission, "only one bed" trope, slight feels (it's me, okay?), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: A combination of @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge and my Bucky Barnes Smut Menu, courtesy of @ellemj. "Only One Bed" Trope and the dialogue prompt in bold italics. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The engagement ring on your finger suited you. Not large or overly flashy, the single diamond radiated a subtle sparkle. It was beautiful and a perfect fit, a representation of the unifying love of marriage. When you looked at it under the light, it was almost as if you could feel the love that Bucky had for you.

If only that were the case.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” You asked, taking a seat at the table across from Bucky.

“So we can practice and make sure we’re a convincing couple,” he replied.

You sighed as you glanced around the hotel room for the umpteenth time. A small sitting area, a dining and kitchen combination, a single bathroom, and a bedroom. When you pointed out that there was only one bed, Bucky reminded you of the expectation that the two of you had to sleep together while on assignment since you were going on a couple's retreat. Which wouldn't be an issue if you didn't have a crush on him, right?

Right.

You were completely enamored with Bucky Barnes, the handsome former assassin turned agent for the revamped SHIELD. Instacrush wasn't something you experienced often, so he took you by surprise. It was pathetic to fall for him so hard and quickly. It had to be some sort of karma or divine intervention that you were with him in a hotel room.

Just the two of you.

“You know,” he began, wetting his lips as he leaned back in his chair. You blinked, only because you didn't want him to call you out on staring. “You don't have to look so miserable to be here. Is my company that terrible?”

“What? No. Bucky, you aren't terrible company,” you promised, slumping a bit in your chair. The last thing you wanted to do was upset him. “Just been a bit since I've been in a relationship and I’m kind of rusty.”

“You're talking to a guy who hasn't been on a real date since the 40s,” he deadpanned.

He had a point. Plus, from what you understood, Bucky wasn't exactly interested in dating anyone. Every time Steve or Natasha suggested he go on a date, he found a way to brush it off or change the subject.

Even if he was interested in dating, did he think of you as anything beyond a colleague?

Taking this assignment may have been a mistake.

“I’m just not sure I’m the right one for this job,” you said.

“You’re perfect for this job. Why would you think otherwise?”

You froze like a deer in headlights, even as his compliment warmed your heart. It meant a lot that he thought you would do the job well. But how were you supposed to answer that question? That you adored him and it would be torture to pretend to be with him for a week just to back to being coworkers after?

“We should practice,” you suggested instead of giving him an answer. The backstory wasn't overly elaborate, but you had to get it right.

He leaned forward, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Did someone say something to make you think you wouldn't be good for this assignment?” He asked in a low voice. “Because I'll straighten them out.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from whimpering. The thought of him putting someone in their place to make you feel better was swoon-worthy. “No, Bucky. No one said anything. You're right. I’m good for this,” you said before you added, “We’re good together.”

You couldn't read the look he gave you and it became more difficult not to squirm under his gaze. “Yeah,” he whispered, leaning back and clearing his throat. “So. We’re engaged. Going to a resort for a much needed vacation. We’ll have to mingle with some of the guests in between investigating the owner. One of the first questions will be how we met.”

With an exhale, you recited, “We met at a coffee shop. We both ordered the same drink.”

“An iced caramel macchiato,” he said.

“And we reached for the drink at the same time,” you smiled, making a show out of reaching for the glass on the table. “Our fingers touched first. Our eyes met second.”

“And I immediately asked you out,” he smiled.

Your heart swelled. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world when he smiled like that. “You did,” you said, trying to blink the longing from your eyes. “We went to dinner and talked a bit about ourselves. You told me you're a mechanic and I told you I’m a teacher. And once dinner was over, we went back to that same coffee shop and we shared an iced caramel macchiato.”

“Even proposed to you at the same shop,” he said, gesturing to your left hand. “But I actually got the ring after our first date because I knew I wanted you to be my girl,” he said with such conviction that you found it hard to breathe.

The way his eyes softened as he gazed at you, you found yourself believing him for a moment. You had to stay rooted in realism though. The point of the mission besides the actual mission was to act as if you two were crazy about each other.

Not that you had to do any acting on your part.

You cleared your throat and pulled your hand back from the glass. “If only that were true,” you said, absentmindedly twisting the ring around your finger. You weren't cynical about love, but this whole thing was a reminder that you were single and alone.

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Heat crept up your neck. You shouldn't have said anything. “I mean, it just would've been nice if we met at a coffee shop,” you replied to avoid saying you wanted to be his girl.

“What’s wrong with how we met?” He asked, crossing his arms.

The metal arm gleamed under the light. You noticed that he had a tendency to wear long sleeves and gloves whenever he was in the building, but seeing him with his sleeve pushed up and missing glove? You would almost say he was comfortable around you.

Again, he had to play the part right.

You pulled yourself from your thoughts when he said your name, which sounded like it melted on his tongue. It made you press your thighs together. You needed to stay professional. “Do you not remember what happened or are you just being nice?” You asked.

Months ago, the day you met Bucky, Steve informed you that he planned to introduce you to him after he came back from a long assignment. Not only were you excited to meet one of his best friends and a great soldier, but you had wanted to make a good impression on him. What you did was make an ass out of yourself when you turned the corner only to smack right into the former Winter Soldier.

And splattered your beverage on both of you in the process.

Instacrush and a horrible impression on your part.

Bucky’s lips curled in a smile as your eyes widened. “You do remember,” you said, wadding up a nearby napkin and tossing it at his face, which he easily caught. “Oh, my God! That’s why you chose ‘coffee shop' for this, didn't you?”

You concentrated so much on getting the backstory right that it didn't occur to you that he was maybe poking fun at you. He wasn't the kind of guy that liked making others feel bad though. Tease you, sure. Outright make fun of you at the risk of hurting your feelings? He would never.

“Hey, I didn't choose how we met, but I also didn't object,” he said, raising his hands in surrender when you went to throw another napkin at him. “And I wouldn't forget meeting you, doll. You make a lasting impression.”

You wished you had done something to make him remember you besides spilling a drink on him. “I guess making an idiot out of myself is a lasting impression,” you teased.

Something dark flashed in his eyes, making your breath hitch. “That’s not what I meant. You didn't make an idiot out of yourself and I don't like you thinking that or talking down about yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, not used to someone getting so defensive at your self-depreciation. There was something sexy and heartwarming about it. “You were very nice about the whole incident.”

“You were nice, too,” he said, gesturing to his torso. “I mean, you offered to buy me a new shirt.”

“Because I spilled my drink on it! I felt bad,” you said.

“And when I said you didn't have to buy me a new shirt, you said, ‘Are you sure I can't pay for the dry cleaning at least, Sergeant Barnes?’” he said in a falsetto voice.

He chuckled when you rolled your eyes. “I don't sound like that, first of all, and I was being considerate,” you said. You couldn't believe he remembered your exact words. “And you just gave me that half confused smile of yours before I grabbed napkins for both of us to clean up.”

“You mean this?” He asked, his lips stretching in that familiar awkward grin.

“Yeah, that,” you giggled, your heart doing that funny flip that happened far too often around him.

In the beginning, whenever you smiled at him, he gave you that very look in return. Somewhere along the way, the uncomfortable glances on his end became genuine fondness. It didn't mean anything though.

Just an agent being kind to another agent.

Bucky stared at you as you continued to giggle at the memory. “I’m sorry. I just-”

“I love your laugh,” he said, almost making you choke on your own breath. Nothing like forgetting how to be a human and breathe. “And your smile.”

Maybe he had switched back into practice mode. “You do?” You asked, playing along as you smiled directly at him.

He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, I do,” he replied, his voice thick as he unfolded his arms. “You know, you're one of the people that actually smiles at me. And you look me in the eye when you talk to me.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Because some people are still afraid of me,” he whispered.

Your heart sank. He was a good man. A hero wrongly painted as a villain. It wasn't fair what he went through and you had no reason to fear him.

Why couldn't everyone else see the good in him?

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” you promised. And after what he went through, frightening people was the last thing he would do. “Never have been. Never will be.”

“Maybe you should be,” he muttered, some of the light leaving his eyes.

Your eyes narrowed as you tempered the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Seeing this vulnerable side of him also brought out your protective instinct. “Listen to me. You’re amazing and a good man, okay? And if I don't get to call myself an idiot for spilling a drink on you, then you don't get to say I should be scared of you, Sergeant Barnes,” you said with an air of finality.

He gave you an impressed smile. “Just like that? Because those are totally different things you're comparing.”

“Just like that,” you said, putting your hand on the table for him to take if he wished. “Do you trust that I'll have your back on this mission? Because I trust that you'll have mine no matter what.”

He stared at your upturned hand for a moment before he took it. “You're one of the only people I do trust,” he admitted.

His eyes bore into yours as you tried to find the words to respond. He wasn’t feeding you a line to make you feel good about yourself. Bucky Barnes trusted you.

“Then trust me when I say we got this,” you promised. You would look out for him and let him know that he hadn’t misplaced his trust in you.

“Why don't you have a boyfriend?” He asked suddenly.

The switch in topic jarred you, but he didn’t let go of your hand. “That’s. I’m. What? How is that relevant?”

It wasn't smooth, but it was better than blurting out that your hopeless crush on him was one of the major factors.

“I’m curious,” he shrugged.

“Oh. Well. My last boyfriend dumped me for being an agent. Seriously, he didn't like the fact that I could kick his ass if I wanted to,” you told him, squeezing his hand without meaning to. He didn’t object. “Which I wouldn't.”

“You could kick my ass if you wanted to,” he winked. Physically, Bucky was broad and strong. You weren’t sure you could take him in a real fight, but you could take him another way if he ever offered. “And your ex sounds like an asshole if he can’t stand beside and support an amazing woman.”

You smiled humorlessly. “Thanks, Bucky, but I’m not-”

“I swear to fuck if you talk down about yourself again, I will put you over my knee,” he threatened, his eyes darker than they were seconds ago.

You didn’t laugh as he stared at you. Neither did he. Your clothes suddenly felt too heavy, your body too warm. Licking your lips, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying, “Is that a promise?”

Bucky pushed his chair back and pointed at his thigh, his eyes still on you. “Get over here and find out.”

Oh, fuck.

The sound of Bucky’s phone ringing snapped you both out of whatever spell you two were under. “Shit,” he muttered, taking his hand from yours. “It’s Steve. I better-”

“Yeah, you should answer that,” you said, almost knocking the chair over as you stood. “I think I'm going to call it a night.”

“Wait, what?” He asked, answering the phone. “Hold on, punk,” he said, covering the screen as he looked at you. “You’re going to bed now?”

Guilt settled in your stomach at the hurt in his eyes. “Just going to lay down. I may not go to sleep right away. And we can practice more in the morning,” you replied. You just needed to step out of the room and take a breath.

He waited a beat before he nodded, the tension still lingering. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay,” you nodded, leaving him alone so he could talk to Steve.

You splashed a bit of water on your face when you went to the bathroom to change. The assignment hadn’t started and you couldn’t keep your cool. With squinted eyes, you pointed at your reflection and mentally scolded yourself. Yes, you wanted Bucky Barnes and maybe, just maybe, some part of him wanted you. At least, he wanted you enough to put you over his knee.

You couldn't have him though. Could you? Mixing business with pleasure could lead to complications if you crossed that line, but it wasn’t like you’d break some major bylaw by being his girl.

Now wasn’t the time to think about that.

“Get your shit together,” you hissed, rushing through your nighttime routine and changing into your comfortable yet sexy nightgown.

Your eyes went to the bed when you left the bathroom. Just a regular hotel bed. Inviting, but not overly frilly. Large enough for the both of you, but small enough that you might end up in each other’s arms.

“It’s going to be a long night,” you muttered.

Sighing, you left a light on for Bucky to see and crawled into bed, shutting your eyes as he wrapped up his call with Steve. You tried to block out the sound of his footsteps as he made his way to the bathroom. Maybe his nighttime routine would take a bit longer than you thought and you could drift off and wake up to the sight of his beautiful eyes and-

The bed dipped as Bucky curled up behind you, your eyes opening when he placed his arm around your waist and pulled you back against him. You were conscious of every shift in his body, every breath he took. How you could smell his lingering cologne as he pressed himself closer. How he ran warmer than you and you wanted him to heat you up even though you weren’t cold.

And that he wasn’t wearing a fucking shirt.

“I know you aren’t sleeping,” he whispered, his fingers brushing along the fabric that covered your skin. “Your heart’s beating too fast.”

He was right. It was about ready to burst through your chest. “Can’t sleep.”

“Why not?” He asked, helping you roll over so you were on your back. He didn’t remove his hand though. “Did my ‘threat’ make you uncomfortable?”

“No, it didn't,” you assured him, heat pooling between your legs that you couldn't prevent. “I wouldn't have continued with the banter if I was uncomfortable.”

“Just making sure,” he said. “I was only teasing.”

You huffed out a laugh in an effort to cover up the crushing feeling in your chest, your arousal fading to a dull ache. “Of course, you were,” you uttered. Teasing. Nothing more. “Good night, Bucky,” you said, turning your head away.

He brought a hand to your cheek and brought your face back toward him. How did his eyes look so blue in the faint light? “Don’t go to sleep yet, please.”

“Why not?”

“You rushed to bed and now you're shutting down. I clearly said or did something wrong,” he sighed, which made you feel bad. He hadn't done anything wrong in your eyes since it wasn’t his fault you wanted his teasing to mean something. “I need to fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix because you didn't break anything,” you said, the ring heavy on the finger. “But can I ask for a favor?”

“Of course,” he whispered.

You didn’t dare search out his gaze when you said, “I may need reminders this week that you don't actually have feelings for me.”

A few seconds went by before he asked in a small voice, “What?”

You took a breath to compose yourself. The last thing you needed to do was get upset for no good reason. “We’re going to hold hands and cuddle and share a bed and be a couple, but you may need to give me a reality check now and again that you only see me as an agent. Okay?”

Maybe he’d ask Steve for a new partner in the morning.

“You think I only see you as an agent?” He asked, sighing when you nodded. “I used to be good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“Teasing. Flirting,” he answered, leaning in close. He stopped just before his lips touched yours. “Kissing.”

“Wait. You were flirting with me?” you said, not moving forward or back as you put a hand on his chest. His heart raced as fast as yours. And your brain couldn’t compute that implication that he wanted to kiss you. “You weren’t just practicing for the assignment?”

He huffed out a laugh this time. “You’re killing me, doll,” he whispered, closing the distance.

You imagined Bucky kissing you before, but didn’t think it would ever be so soft. His lips barely brushed against yours, but it felt like the beginning of something more. It tempted you like nothing else ever had. He must’ve felt it, too, since he deepened it. You melted. You surrendered.

You never stood a chance.

“So, you like me?” You asked when he pulled back a little to gaze at you. “I’m sorry. I just need to hear you say it because I really like you and have for months. Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have said that because we have a whole week together for this assignment and now you know and I don't want it to be weird.”

Your mind almost shut down when he gave you a full-blown smile and said, “Yeah, I like you. I thought it was obvious. I tried dropping little hints, talking about your smile and trusting you.” He chuckled almost shyly as his words sank in. “I took this assignment because of you.”

A moment passed before you giggled, happiness blooming in your chest. Bucky Barnes liked you. Wanted you. “Thank fuck,” you breathed, pulling him back down for another kiss.

He groaned, ravaging your mouth as he moved on top of you. His knee pushed your legs apart so he could settle between them, swallowing down your whimpers when he pressed his growing hardness against your pussy. He ground his hips, your panties soaked as his tongue tangled with yours. The man kissed you like he had something to prove.

Like he wanted to own you.

His muscles rippled as he leaned up and grasped the bottom of your nightie. The vision of him above you like this was now engraved in your mind. “If you want me to stop, I will.”

Sleeping with him was moving fast considering you just confessed your feelings for each other, but you didn't care. “Don't stop,” you whispered, quivering as he tugged the fabric over your head.

Your hands moved up to cover your chest before he gripped your wrists. “Are you trying to hide from me?” He questioned, his smirk playful in comparison to the uncertainty in his gaze.

You didn't want him doubting himself or your want for him for a second.

“Maybe? I mean, look at you and look at…”

You wouldn't knock on your looks since you were generally confident in your appearance, but the super soldier was an entirely different level of gorgeous. He towered over even the largest of agents, with the exception of Steve, and his dark lashes framing his steel eyes were enough to pull you under.

And who were you compared to him? Just another agent. Average.

“Don't,” he whispered, releasing a wrist so he could cup your breast. You arched your back and any uncertainty in his eyes before faded when a moan escaped your lips. “You're so fucking beautiful.”

The praise almost made your eyes water as he brought his head down, losing focus when he swept his tongue across your nipple. Your eyes fluttered shut as he did it again, a wave from a sea of ecstasy crashing over you. Your heart thudded faster, addicted to the feel of his sinful mouth.

“You’re the reason I don't have a boyfriend,” you whined, your fingers twisting in his hair. Why did you say that?

He smirked against your skin before he reached down and tore your panties away. “I haven't gone on a date because of you.”

Your body throbbed with need as you met his gaze. “You're just saying that to get in my pants,” you joked.

His eyes raked down your body, stopping between your trembling thighs as he pushed his pants and underwear down. “If I had my way, I would've taken you out first,” he said, drawing a moan from you when he wrapped a hand around his thick cock. “But all I can think about right now is how loud you’ll say my name when I make you come.”

“Bucky,” you moaned, tempted to reach down and touch yourself to the sight of him.

“Louder than that,” he said smugly, rubbing the tip of his cock along your slick folds. “Fuck, I wanna take my time and explore you. Make you feel like a goddess. Treat you the way you deserve.”

It warmed your heart and sent another wave of desire through you knowing he wanted to take care of you. “I know you'll treat me well,” you smiled, opening your legs wider. “But for now, please, fuck me.”

He didn't ask about birth control, which you were on. You didn't ask about condoms. It didn't matter. You wanted to feel all of him.

You glanced down as he lined himself up, watching as he slowly eased into you. It was overwhelming as you took every inch, your mouth falling open with a moan. You floated in a cloud of lust, the sound of his groan reaching your ears.

“Look at me,” he ordered as he bottomed out.

Your eyes flew to his as he gripped your chin. The feel of him inside you, his eyes staring so intently into yours that he practically touched your soul. It was almost too much. And that was when he began to move, the weight of his body on top of yours as he fucked you in slow and deep thrusts. It was the kind of lovemaking that would make you crave more.

Crave him.

“Knew you'd take me well,” he grunted. You whined, the praise going straight to your core as you tightened around his thick cock. Your walls couldn't stop gripping him as he slid in and out. “Knew your pussy would be greedy for me. Won’t let me go.”

Your head fell back against the pillow, dizzy as he trapped your body under his. As he rolled his hips, you wondered if he’d let you ride him at some point. Maybe he’d fuck up into you as he brought your hips down. Or maybe he’d lay back and cup your breasts, let the weight bounce in his hands as you took all of him.

You’d take whatever he gave you.

The growing pleasure within you was like you were burning from the inside out, each movement from him stoking the flames. His low groans mixed with your whines, his thrusts increasing in speed when he brought his thumb to your clit. Your hand worked its way back into his hair as you cried out his name, your control slipping further and further away as he took over.

“Just like that,” he moaned. “Don’t hold back on me. Wanna hear every pretty sound you make.”

“Bucky, I'm gonna…” you trailed off, your orgasm building fast in your core and ready to burst.

“Come,” he finished for you, a filthy smirk on his face as he laced his fingers with yours.

One more thrust and you were gone, his name falling from your lips as you came. Your mouth stayed open as you spasmed, pleasure rushing from head to toe. You panted and didn't care if you'd ever properly breathe again. That was how good it felt.

“I’m close, doll,” he gritted, resembling a growl as he continued to fuck you and chase his release. “Gonna come inside you. Gonna own you.”

“Come inside me, Bucky,” you begged, watching through half-lidded eyes as his face contorted in ecstasy. It was such an erotic sight. “Please.”

He buried himself deep with a long moan as he filled you in hot, thick spurts, nuzzling his face in your neck when he finished. He said your name as he heavily breathed against your neck and it was the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. You wrapped your arms around him when he stayed inside you, not at all bothered as your mixed release slowly trickled out.

You didn't want him to let you go.

“Well,” you huffed, a dopey smile on your face as you ran your fingers through his hair. “I don't think we’ll have a problem convincing people we care about each other.”

He chuckled, kissing your warm skin. “And we won't have a problem sharing a bed,” he said, keeping you close as you yawned. “Sleep, doll. I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you, too,” you said, feeling him smile against you as you drifted off.

The delicious ache between your thighs was the second thing you noticed when you woke up. The first, of course, was Bucky’s arm and leg draped over you: warm, protective, perfect. He was still fast asleep, the blanket pooled around his waist, completely at ease with the world. You could get used to waking up like this.

You hesitated before you touched his cheek, not wanting to wake him as you kissed his forehead. You wished you had time to kiss every scar on his body and worship him the way he said he wanted to worship you. The two of you would have to leave the bed sooner or later. There was work to do.

“Mmm. Morning,” he said, his voice laced with sleep as he cracked an eye open.

“Morning,” you whispered, cuddling closer as he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed over the ring. The motion made you brush against his crotch and you were close enough to hear the hitch in his breath. You did it again, keeping your gaze innocent as he opened his eyes more and groaned.

Yes, there was work to do, but it was still early.

“You’re still horny? Didn’t I fuck you hard enough last night?” He teased.

“Yeah, I’m still horny,” you replied. Waking up next to him would arouse anyone. “Need you to fuck me again.”

“You won’t be able to walk if I fuck you again,” he smirked, rolling on top of you and digging his fingers into your waist.

“Should’ve known you’d be a cocky boyfriend,” you teased back, your heart thundering in your chest as he leaned down and skimmed kisses along your jaw. “Sorry, we didn’t put a label on this and there’s still stuff to figure out and the mission and-”

“Hey. Boyfriend, your man, whatever you want to call me, I’m yours,” he cut you off, his mouth drifting to your neck. “And I still owe you a date, got it? You’re my girl. You’re mine.”

“I'm yours,” you gasped when he nipped your skin hard enough to sting, his tongue soothing it after. You were his and he was yours. “So, we're a couple now? Just like that?” You smiled as he worked his way back to your lips.

Bucky answered you with a kiss. “Just like that.”

I struggled a bit with this one after having to scrap almost 2k and go in another direction, but I ended up falling in love with it. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[flowersforbucky]

love language

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 6.6k

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

“remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

warnings/tags: smut, oral, unprotected sex, mentions of blood, wound care, brief uses of alcohol, anxiety and self-doubt, language, reader is afab, avenger!reader, fluffier than what i typically write, undercover mission, friends to lovers!!! 18+ only

Acts of Service

“Exciting Friday night?” Your head snaps up at the masculine voice. You nearly slosh hot tea on both yourself and the pages of the book that lay open in your lap. You're surprised to see him - as far as you were aware, Bucky and Sam were in Munich. You didn't think they were supposed to be back in the country for another two days.

“Something like that,” you answer, regaining your composure as you bring the mug to your lips. “What are you doing back so early? Did recon go okay?”

Bucky lets out a long sigh as he plops down into the recliner, adjacent to where you're curled up on the sofa in the compound’s communal living room. His eyelids look heavier than normal, with dark circles underneath that aren't typically present. You place your cup of tea on the end table next to you and close the book before angling your body towards him, giving him your undivided attention.

“It was a shit-show,” he answers bluntly, voice laced with defeat. “HYDRA had the drop on us from the minute we entered Germany. What was supposed to be us just gathering intel turned into an ambush. One minute, it was just the two of us in an old warehouse, and then the next..” he trails off, eyes locked on one of the buttons of his tactical pants that he’s fidgeting with. “We’re lucky to have made it out. Sam was taken to med-bay as soon as we got back. Broken arm and collarbone, dislocated shoulder, possibly a few fractured ribs..” he lists off the injuries.

“Jesus,” you cringe, a death grip on the book in your hands as you listen to him summarize the mission. “Looks like you came out pretty unscathed in comparison.” You glance him over from head to toe, relieved to see no visible wounds or bruises.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, sitting forward and pulling the collar of his black t-shirt over to expose his right shoulder. Your eyes bulge when you see the obvious knife wound that the fabric had been concealing. “Not completely unscathed.”

“Holy shit, Bucky, why didn’t you go get this stitched up?” You stand up quickly, your book falling forgotten to the floor as you step closer to him to inspect the cut. There’s dried blood covering the surrounding skin of his chest and shoulder, with fresh blood still seeping from the opening of the wound. Even with the luxury of the Quinjet, a direct flight from Germany to New York is at least eight hours, who knows how long the cut had been steadily oozing–

“The bleeding has slacked off for the most part at this point,” he tries to assure you, attempting to cover the wound back up with his shirt. His shirt that, upon closer inspection, is thoroughly soaked through with blood. You all but smack his hand away so that you can continue to inspect the cut.

“It’s too deep,” you shake your head. “It needs stitches.”

“It’ll be fine by morning–” he starts to argue with you, but you’re already walking away from him, exiting the room to retrieve a first-aid kit kept in one of the shared bathrooms just down the hallway. Though you can’t currently see him, you have no doubt that he is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at you.

Before returning to the living room, you stop by the kitchen and grab a cold can of Blue Moon to help take the edge off. Upon reentering the living room, you find that he’s hunched over where he sits in the recliner, leaning forward to grab your book from where it had fallen on the rug.

“What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you?” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a smirk as he inspects the cover of the book.

“The Hunger Games,” you answer simply as you place the first-aid kit on the couch and hold out the beer to him. He accepts the drink, a small, surprised smile appearing on his face.

“Shirt,” you instruct a second later, turning to him with a warm, wet rag that you intend to clean some of the dried blood off with. Surprisingly, he obliges your request, placing both the beer and the book in his lap to pull the bloodied fabric over his head.

“And what exactly is The Hunger Games about?” he asks, looking up at you through his thick lashes before turning his attention back to the book in his lap. He flips it over, skimming the words on the back cover.

“The Hunger Games,” you begin as you delicately swipe the damp washcloth across the dirty skin around his wound, watching as the material turns from white to pink as it collects the old blood. “Are dystopian fiction novels. The books get their title from an annual event in which a boy and a girl, ranging from the ages of twelve to eighteen, from twelve different districts are selected by name-drawing to compete in a fight to the death. Twenty-four go into an arena, one comes out.”

“Sheesh,” Bucky grimaces and pops the tab to the beer. You turn away from him, placing the soiled washcloth on the table next to him before retrieving some disinfectant from the kit. “And what’s the point in having a bunch of children kill each other?”

“Punishment and control,” you shrug, pouring some of the clear liquid on a large gauze pad until it’s soaked. He gives you a vague nod, signaling he’s ready for you to clean the wound. You dab the drenched cotton along the opening of the wound, wincing more visibly than Bucky does himself. “The districts where the children are reaped from have had uprisings against the nation’s Capitol in the past. The games are to punish them, as well as to remind them what power the Capitol holds.”

Bucky’s brows furrow together, contemplating your words. You make the initial incision for his stitches and he lets out a grunt of discomfort. “Sorry,” you mumble, concentrating on the stitchwork.

“So what happens?” He asks after a few moments of silence, obviously trying to distract himself from the needle going in and out of his tender flesh as he sips on the amber colored liquid. “The group of kids rebel and take down the Capitol?”

“You’re not too far off,” you chuckle lightly. “I guess you’ll just have to read them for yourself to find out.”

“I suppose I will,” he says, eyeing your needlework from the corner of his eye. “Will you let me borrow your copies when I finish The Lord of the Rings?”

“You’re reading The Lord of the Rings?” you fail at hiding your tone of surprise, more focused on finishing suturing his cut.

“Don’t act so shocked,” he feigns insult. “I read when I have the free time to do so.” He turns his head towards you for the first time since you began stitching, causing you to realize just how close his face is to your own. You push down the fluttery feeling in the pit of your stomach at the close proximity, clearing your throat as you turn to grab a pair of small medical scissors. You clip the thread before backing away from him.

“That should hold you together well enough until your supernatural super-soldier healing abilities take care of it while you sleep.”

He stands from his position in the recliner, holding out your book to you. “Thank you,” he tells you sincerely. “For the stitches, and the beer.”

“Of course,” you say as you take your book back from him. “Don’t want you getting blood all over the compound.”

“I think I’m gonna go check on Sam,” he sighs. “I’ll let you get back to your reading.”

“Get some rest!” you demand as he retreats to the hallway.

“Yes ma’am,” he calls without looking back, his Brooklyn drawl making an appearance.

For the rest of the night, you try to focus on your book and not the way you felt when his plush pink lips and cerulean blue eyes were just inches from your face.

Receiving Gifts

One week later

Punctuality has never been your strong-suit, but you didn’t expect to be the very last person to arrive at Bucky’s birthday party - get together, as he insists on calling it, since he feels silly having a birthday party at over one hundred years old. However, as you’re approaching the pavilion at the compound’s lake, you see that all of your friends are already mingling comfortably.

Natasha, Sharon, and Wanda wave at you from where they lounge next to the bonfire, Steve and Sam are engaged in an intense game of beer pong (which Sam seems to be doing impressively well at, considering one arm is still in a cast and sling), Clint and Bruce are playing cornhole - everyone is here, though you don’t see the one person you came for.

You make your way over to a picnic table closer to the lake that has been dedicated to presents so that you can add yours to the pile. You had ordered the gift a week ago, the same night that you had stitched up Bucky’s shoulder wound, and it arrived just in time - in today's mail, only an hour ago.

Hence the reason you are the last to arrive with a shittily-wrapped present in hand.

“Is that Avengers wrapping paper?” You whirl around at the amused voice to see Bucky walking towards you.

“That it is,” you confirm. “You and I aren't featured, though. Just the OGs,” you shrug, staring down at the cartoon depictions of Steve and the others.

“I was starting to wonder if you weren't going to come.” He says lightheartedly, nodding in the direction of everyone else.

“Your present didn't get delivered until the last minute,” you explain, giving the box-shaped object in your hand a shake. “Didn't want to show up empty handed.”

“You didn't have to get me a gift at all,” he says reassuringly, but eyes the present curiously. “But since you almost missed my party over it, I should open it right away.” He holds his hands out expectantly, almost childlike.

You roll your eyes, handing over the poorly packaged present. You had never been the best at gift-wrapping, usually preferring to reuse bags.

“I did not almost miss your party. It's just now eight o'clock,” you defend yourself, staring at the sun that's just starting to set over the lake's horizon, painting the New York sky in hues of orange and purple.

He smirks, walking past you to place the present on the table. You watch as he rips the wrapping paper away unceremoniously, until the gift is revealed.

“I know you had asked to borrow my copies,” you begin, suddenly feeling nervous as you watch him look over the box set of the first edition of The Hunger Games trilogy. “But my copies are old, and tattered, and have been annotated to shit, so.. I thought maybe you'd like your own,” you shrug nonchalantly.

He studies the box, pulling out the first book and glancing it over with a look you can't quite decipher. There's a faint hint of rose on his cheeks, and the lines around his eyes crinkle when he turns his head to look at you.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, earnest smile. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you. I'm going to start reading them–”

“This pizza is getting cold!” You hear Sam's voice bellow from under the pavilion a few yards away. “I'm about to dig in with or without the birthday boy.”

You exhale through your nose, a half laugh, half sigh and look at Bucky expectantly. “Pretty sure you're the only birthday boy here.”

“I guess that's my cue,” he sighs as he places the books with the rest of his unopened gifts. “Thanks again, really. It's my favorite gift,” he adds with a sly grin as he begins to walk towards Sam and the table of pizza boxes.

“You haven't even opened the others yet,” you point out, following in his steps.

“Don’t need to open any of the others to know that yours is my favorite.”

Words of Affirmation

Two weeks later

Overstimulated. That's the best word to describe the way you're currently feeling.

Nervous, uncomfortable, irritable, a little hungry, even - any of those words would suffice, too. But with the way the velvet fabric of your dress hugs your hips too tightly, the way that the conversation of the drunk party guests roars in your ears, and the way that the heels of your feet already burn in your platform wedges so early in the evening, you think overstimulated sums up your current state the best.

You fidget with the extravagant ring that adorns your left ring finger, twisting it back and forth and rubbing the pad of your right thumb across the oval-shaped stone.

You aren't even supposed to be here, your brain keeps reminding you. It was supposed to be Natasha. Natasha, who has a boatload of undercover operations experience. But then she had to come down with the flu. Natasha, who never gets sick with anything more than a head cold, bedridden with the flu the day before a highly anticipated undercover mission that you are now taking her place in.

It's not that you hadn't been part of an undercover operation before - you had. You just hadn't been part of any undercover operation that required you to pose as someone's wife before.

Definitely not Bucky's wife.

The two of you had just arrived at the party no more than thirty minutes ago and you had spent the entirety of that time thinking that you wouldn't be able to make this believable; that everyone would see how anxious and awkward you feel and just know - just know that you weren't meant to be here and that it's abundantly clear that you and Bucky aren't actually together.

“Ivanov just arrived,” Bucky's voice murmurs next to your ear as he walks up behind you, snapping you out of your self-doubt induced trance. His left hand, disguised using nano-tech to look like a human, flesh hand, comes to rest against the small of your back and his right hand extends the drink that he retrieved for you from the bar.

“How'd you know I like lemon drops?” You ask, instantly recognizing the pale yellow liquid in the martini glass.

“I'm your husband. It's part of my job to know your go-to cocktail,” he smirks, looking at you in a way that almost makes you believe his words. “Besides, I'd know your drink of choice anyway. You always order a lemon drop.”

You clear your throat, breaking his stare by checking out the fellow attendees and event staff filtering through the ballroom. You slowly sip the sour liquid, trying to focus on the burn of the vodka and not the heat radiating across the skin of your back from him simply resting his fingers against the material of your dress.

“So where's Ivanov?” you break the tension. The illegal arms dealer that you'd been assigned to spy on was nowhere to be seen.

“He should be showing his face any minute now,” Bucky answers, a hint of displeasure in his voice. “I overheard some men at the bar saying he had just arrived in a three million dollar Bugatti with his twenty year old girlfriend.” You visibly cringe at the numbers. Ivanov had to be approaching senior citizen status at this point.

“Can't say that I'd expect anything else from him,” you sigh, attempting to wipe the disgust from your features. “What’s our game plan from here? Hover close by him and listen in on conversations–”

“Dance with me,” Bucky interrupts, his eyes locked on something on the opposite side of the room. You follow his gaze, realizing that Ivanov has entered with his exceptionally youthful girlfriend on his arm. Bucky extends his own arm to you, which you accept after tossing back the last sip of your drink and setting the empty glass on a table behind you.

He guides you to the center of the dance floor where several other couples are swaying to classical piano music. Ivanov mingles with a small group of questionable looking men just a few feet behind you, where Bucky is able to keep an eye on him.

He places one hand on your waist, using the other to hold one of yours in his own as he begins to slowly sway both of you to the rhythm of the music. Your free hand rests on the back of his neck, where you nervously twirl a tuft of his hair between your perfectly manicured fingers (you tried not to take too much offense to Sharon rushing you to the first salon she could find yesterday to help you look the part).

Bucky huffs a low laugh before using his grip on your hip to tug you closer to him, closing an awkward amount of space that separates your chest from his.

“If we want this to be believable, you’re gonna have to act like you kind of like me,” he murmurs lowly so that no one near you overhears. His face is just inches from yours - the scent of sandalwood from his aftershave and spearmint from his mouthwash is dizzying. Add in the fact that the lemon drop you had just quickly downed was heavy on the vodka, it’s a miracle that you’re still standing upright in these ridiculous heels that Sharon had picked out for you.

“I do like you,” you huff, your cheeks warming. “Not liking you isn’t the problem.” His gaze shifts away from where Ivanov stands a few yards behind you and down to your face.

“What is the problem then?”

You stare at his hand that holds yours, your eyes fixated on the brilliant diamond of your faux wedding ring. “For starters, I don’t really know how to slow dance,” you half-mumble. As if on cue, your left ankle shifts ever so slightly in your shoe, causing you to wobble. Bucky tightens his grasp on both your waist and hand to help steady you. He cackles - loudly enough for an old lady walking by to give him a side-eye.

“I think it’s pretty unlikely that our cover gets blown because you’re a little unsteady,” he whispers reassuringly. It does little to ease the lump of anxiety that has settled in your gut.

“It’s not just my lack of dancing experience,” you retort. “It’s all of this. I’m a bit out of my element here and I can’t help but feel like Natasha would have been able to do a much better–”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, beginning to massage his thumb over the skin of your hand in languid, circular motions. You can’t decide if it’s the effects of the alcohol coursing through your veins or if it’s just the fact that it’s him, but it feels as though there’s a continuous trail of hot sparks everywhere his skin touches yours. “You've got this. If anyone’s got this, it's you. You've handled missions far more daunting than this with ease, right?”

You finally shift your eyes to meet his gaze. His deep blue eyes bore into yours with utmost sincerity. You give him a small nod of agreement and a tight-lipped, uncertain smile.

He leans in closer so that his mouth hovers just next to your ear, his warm breath raising goosebumps down the expanse of your neck and shoulders.

“And remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

The slow, gentle swaying motions you'd been forcing your body to perform come to a sudden halt. You look at Bucky as if he's grown a second head. He’s looking at you with a shit-eating grin spread from ear to ear.

“Did you just quote Peeta Mellark?”

“I finished up the first book yesterday,” he shrugs as if his words hadn't just made your heart skip several beats. “Now let's get this job over with so we can go discuss the book in detail over some greasy diner food, yeah?”

Quality Time

The mere thought of getting the fuck out of that giant estate and away from Ivanov and the other countless skeevy party-goers to gorge on greasy diner food was more than enough motivation to get you through the duration of the mission.

Of course, it helped that Ivanov is a lightweight drunk with no concept of volume control. After a couple drinks, he handed the location of his next illegal arms deal to you and Bucky on a silver platter - without ever even noticing the two of you dancing just feet away from him.

“I'm sending the audio recording over to you right now,” Bucky says as he types on his cell phone. The two of you are currently in a drugstore parking lot half an hour away from the estate, sitting in the Audi SUV that you'd been given for this evening’s mission.

“Got it,” Sam’s voice booms through the car’s Bluetooth speakers a second later. “You guys did great back there. Go ahead and get back to the compound for debriefing.”

Your eyes flash to the time on the vehicle's touchscreen display - 10:06 pm. You can feel your stomach churning from hunger and your skin itching to get out of the restrictive velvet fabric, the last thing you wanted to do at this hour was go to a fucking debriefing.

“About that..” Bucky starts, noticing your disappointed expression and tense posture. “Debriefing is going to have to wait until the morning.”

“We should really get any details while they are still fresh–”

“What’s that? Sam? Sorry, you're breaking up, can't understand what you're–”

Bucky's flesh finger touches a button on the digital display screen and the call disconnects before he finishes his sentence.

“You know he's going to call back any second, right?” You ask after a moment of loaded silence. Bucky says nothing at first. You watch as he powers off his phone, and then grabs yours from its location in the center cup holder and powers it off, as well.

“I fully anticipate him trying,” he answers as he puts the car in reverse and peels out of the nearly vacant parking lot. “But I promised you a potentially gut-rotting meal, and I'm going to keep that promise.”

Half an hour later, you and Bucky sit opposite each other in a cozy, corner booth of the only open diner in a five mile radius. It's half diner, half arcade, and the two of you are some of the only people here save for the teenage couple making out next to the jukebox in the gaming area. You both look out of place - him in his black satin suit and you in your burgundy colored dress with the thigh-slit, but you're too relieved to be eating to care.

He's already scarfed down a fried chicken sandwich and is rapidly making his way through a pile of mozzarella sticks. You're eating a fat stack of blueberry pancakes and the best loaded hash browns that you think you've ever had.

Breakfast foods hit different at eleven o'clock at night.

“I'm just saying, Katniss is kind of oblivious,” Bucky shrugs with a mouthful of fried cheese. “It's obvious that Peeta was never just pretending to be in love with her.”

“That's a big assumption coming from someone who hasn't even started the second book yet,” you say as you fork a bite of pancake into your mouth.

He throws his hands up in mock defense, covering his now empty plate up with a dirty napkin.

“You're not wrong though,” you admit. “She did miss a lot of signs, and she's not always the most reliable narrator.”

He responds with a small hum as he watches you finish your pancakes with a soft smile that shows his laugh lines and the dimple of his left cheek.

His smile turns to something more curious as the young couple who had been making out in the arcade room earlier dashes past your booth and out the back door of the restaurant.

“What is it?” You ask, pushing your empty plate towards the center of the table.

“The game room is free now,” he states, as if it's obvious. “Now I can kick your ass in air hockey.”

And kick your ass in air hockey he does. And skee ball, and Dance Dance revolution.

“Please don't tell Natasha that you beat me at Dance Dance Revolution,” you beg him as you pick up your high heels that you had discarded for the game. “She'll never let me live that one down. In fact, if anyone asks, it was a dead tie for all of these games.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he chuckles, approaching the pool table in the center of the room and leaning against the edge. “As long as you win this game of pool.”

“No, nope, absolutely not,” you freeze where you're standing, crossing your arms over your chest. “If I couldn't beat you at air hockey then I don't stand a chance of beating you at pool.”

He ignores you, instead turning to choose two cue sticks from the selection on the back wall. He tosses one to you from several feet away, which you instinctively drop your shoes to the floor to catch.

“I haven't even tried to play pool since I was maybe ten years old,” you whine.

“Why were you trying to play pool at ten years old?” he chuckles, gathering up all of the balls and placing them inside the triangular rack in the center of the table.

“It was at a birthday party,” you admit. “I pretended to know what I was doing to impress a boy that I had a crush on.”

“And how did that go for you?” He removes the triangle-shaped container from around the balls and begins to line up his shot.

“Well, I haven't tried to play pool since then,” you begin, taking a seat on the edge of the table and turning your head to watch him. He pulls the cue stick back and quickly stabs it forward, breaking the balls apart and sending them rolling in various directions across the felt table. “And Kyle from my fourth grade class thought that I had cooties, so, you tell me how you think that went for me.”

“Sounds like it was Kyle's loss.” You watch as he walks to one of the table's pockets to look inside. “I've got stripes,” he states, looking at you with an expectant smile.

You exhale a dramatic sigh, hopping off the edge of the table and turning around to position your stick in front of the cue ball.

“Fine,” you relent, looking up at him from where you're leaning over across the table. “But you're not allowed to laugh at me when you realize I wasn't lying about having no experience at this.”

“Scout's honor,” he swears and you can tell by his smile and reddened cheeks that he’s already trying to contain his laughter.

Feeling extra nervous due to the way you can physically feel him watching you, you take an embarrassing amount of time working up the courage to propel the tip of the cue stick towards a solid purple colored ball.

It travels a foot or so across the green felt material of the table and comes to a stop just inches away from a corner pocket.

“Damn it,” you sigh under your breath.

“That wasn't too bad, actually,” he says, not even trying to conceal his tone of surprise as he walks over to where you're standing. “You just need to change your stance a little and hit the ball a bit harder.”

“So, do basically everything differently, then?”

“I can help you, if you want,” he offers with a smug grin.

“Hm,” you bite your lip as you pretend to contemplate the proposition. “Okay,” you accept with a shrug. “But this better not be an attempt to pull a cliche “pretend to help her with pool as an excuse to make a move” kind of move.” You're fully joking - you know Bucky well enough to know he wouldn't make such a corny, obvious move with anyone - and you definitely wouldn't expect him to do so with you.

But you don't miss the way his expression darkens ever so slightly and his eyes sweep up your figure before moving to stand behind you, propping his own cue stick up against the table.

The front of your thighs brush up against the edge of the table and Bucky’s arms enclose you on either side - his hands coming to rest next to each of your legs on the table's edge, as close as they can be to you without actually touching.

Your breath hitches in your throat when the silky material of his suit brushes against your bare shoulders, the sensation causing you to go deadly still as you await his next move.

“With how fast your heart is beating right now, I don't think I would have to do something as cheesy as that to make a move.” He murmurs, his mouth close enough to the exposed skin of your neck that you can feel the heat of his breath. It's an automatic response, the way your head tilts back into his touch. You start to pull away, start to feel embarrassed, start to tell him just how wrong he is, when he brings a flesh finger to the ball of your shoulder and trails his index finger down the skin of your arm, eliciting a surge of goosebumps in its wake.

This physical reaction doesn't go unnoticed by him, either. He hums a small laugh, inching closer to you so that his body presses against your ass.

“In fact,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I think that if I wanted to, I could have you bent over this table for me without having to resort to anything like that.”

If his chest wasn't pinning you between him and the pool table, you probably would have fallen over. The air in the arcade feels a sudden ten degrees warmer and you swear you can hear your blood pumping in your ears - things that unfortunately can't be blamed on the effects of the martini that had dissipated from your system hours ago.

No, it's all him. His closeness, his warmth, his voice, his scent. Just him.

“If you wanted to, yeah?” You question, your voice an octave higher than you ideally would have liked. “That makes it sound like you don't want to. But the bulge I'm feeling from your pants makes it seem like you do want to. Kinda sending me mixed signals here.” You rut back against him for good measure.

He hisses next to your ear, his hands snapping to your hips, effectively stilling you beneath him. His fingers dig into the flesh around your hip bones, the pressure somewhere perfectly between uncomfortable and pleasurable.

“Here? Bent over this table?” he tuts, his lips grazing the skin next to the shoulder strap of your dress. “Where a couple of unsuspecting teenagers could walk in for a game of skee ball at any second?” He lets out a low laugh, the sound vibrating against your back.

“No, I don't think so,” he continues. “Not when we've got a brand new Audi with a spacious backseat and highly tinted windows just outside this building.”

Physical Touch

If someone had asked you six hours ago if you thought there was a chance you would be ending this night by having sex with Bucky Barnes, you would have said no.

But if someone had asked you if you thought there was a chance you would be having sex with Bucky Barnes in the backseat of a car in a diner-arcade combo parking lot, you would have said fuck no.

You would have been wrong on both accounts. And with the way that he's nipping and sucking up the insides of your thighs, you're pretty fucking okay with that.

Your dress is bunched up around your waist, your panties discarded on the floor of the car. You're laying as comfortably as you can across the backseat with Bucky nestled snuggly between your legs. It's a tight fit, and the stagnant air inside the Audi is balmy, but you'll be damned if you interrupt this to turn the AC on. The only light inside the vehicle is from the glow of the full moon that illuminates the sky, and the giant neon green diner sign a few yards away from where you're parked.

He's not wasting any time - it's well past midnight at this point and considering the fact that Bucky turned your cell phones off hours ago, you're surprised that Sam hasn't traced the location of the vehicle and sent search and rescue already.

As soon as his mouth makes contact with your center, you’re lacing your fingers through his short, soft locks and tugging on them. You grind your pussy against his face, meeting his fervent motions with your own. He locks his lips around your clit before pulling away with an obscene, wet pop that echoes through the cab of the car.

He reaches one hand up to your shoulders while keeping his lips on you, quickly tugging down the spaghetti straps of your dress and then pawing at the fabric covering your chest to free your tits.

At the same time that he plunges his tongue inside you, he rolls a nipple between two of his cool, metal digits, yearning a sharp yelp from you. He releases his grip and then palms your breast in his hand, continuing to work your folds with his lips and tongue.

You don't know if it's the fact that it's been a ridiculous amount of time since you so much as kissed someone or the fact that Bucky eats pussy like he's starving, but you're approaching your climax insanely fast.

You clench your thighs around his ears and push your hips upwards, the friction building that warm tension in your lower belly that comes spilling over when he lets out a guttural moan across your core.

You cum against his face, feeling your juices drip down the insides of your thighs - there's a pesky voice in the back of your head telling you that you're going to have to pay to have this car detailed before giving it back.

He sits up, his back resting against the middle of the leather seat. He unbuttons and unzips his suit pants, raising off the seat just enough to tug them down to mid-thigh along with his boxers. You're still coming down from your orgasm when he's pulling you up from the seat and into a sitting position.

You tuck your legs underneath you so that you're propped up on your knees on the seat directly next to him. Bucky pumps himself in his hand as you lean over, gathering all of the saliva in your mouth and letting it slide between your lips and over the head of his cock.

You push his hand away to replace it with your own, using your spit as lubrication as you stroke him up and down. He throws his head back against the headrest, looking up at the roof of the car as he brings his hand around the curve of your ass, flesh hand finding your pussy that's still throbbing from how hard he had made you cum.

You can feel the smooth band of the engagement ring that you'd been wearing all evening repeatedly caress a large vein on the side of his dick - you remove your hand from him, causing him to snap his head back down to look at you. You bring your other hand to remove the ring from your finger, planning to tuck it into a cup holder for safekeeping while you use your hands on him.

“Leave it on,” he breaks the thick silence when he realizes what you're doing. “Want you to keep wearing it.”

You push the ring back down on your finger, his command sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. You're extending your hand back to his cock when he cuts you off, pulling you to him and across his lap.

You straddle him, his erection locked between your pussy lips and his lower belly. You move forwards, and then backwards - earning another deep groan from him as you coat the underbelly of his cock in your juices. You grind up and down against him several times, until you're feeling impossibly empty and can't take the feeling of not having him inside you any longer.

You lift yourself up on the balls of your feet, high enough for him to guide himself to your entrance. He teases your hole with his head - or at least tries to, before you're sinking yourself down onto his length. You go still for a moment when he's fully inside you, giving you both time to adjust to the new, overwhelming sensation of each other.

You begin to ride him, slowly at first - he stretches you blissfully sweet and soon you're picking up the pace, your ass bouncing off of his thighs with each comedown.

He places a hand on the back of your neck, pulling your face down to his in a sloppy, searing kiss. It hits you that he's inside you raw right now, and you're just now kissing. You taste yourself on him, warm and salty sweet. He sweeps his tongue along your bottom lip and you open up for him, letting him explore your mouth from the perfect angle that he's at beneath you.

He continues to kiss you but removes his hand from the back of your neck, moving both of them to cup your ass. He begins to meet your movements with his own, thrusting himself upwards so that his cock is ramming into that sweet spot of your cervix and sending you towards a second climax.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” you moan into his mouth, breaking the kiss for air. Your encouragement spurs him on, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Your legs turn to jelly beneath you, but he's got you - he holds you up by your ass cheeks and leans forward to take one of your nipples in his warm mouth.

It's enough to send you over the edge again. Your orgasm builds, heat exploding through your abdomen as his movements grow erratic and he spills into you from below.

He stills beneath you when you're both spent, your chest heaving against his. You make no effort to remove yourself from him, and he seems more than happy to keep you right where you are - his arms locking around your waist and pulling you close to him.

“I guess now would be as good of a time as any to ask you if you'd like to go on a date with me sometime?”

“Go on a date with you sometime?” You lean back, looking down with him with the limited amount of moonlight and neon lighting that breaks through the tinted windows. “We dressed up real nice, slow danced, spied on a bad guy, ate greasy diner food, played arcade games, and you're inside me as we speak. I think it's safe to say we're currently on a date.”

He snorts, breaking into laughter beneath you. “A second date, then,” he concedes. “I would love to take you on a second date.”

♡♡♡♡♡

thank you for reading!!! kind of nervous to put this one out there tbh, i've been working on it off and on for weeks but i love how it turned out and i hope you all do too. as always comments and reblogs are very appreciated 💕

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