I Want You To Want Me

“You like structure. You like clarity. You like knowing what’s expected. There are… sites. Communities. People who are into exactly that.”
Bucky blinked.

Then: “Oh hell no.”

“Not like that—well, actually, yes, like that,” Sam said, unbothered. “But not in a creepy ‘hey baby wanna be my little pet’ kind of way. In a genuine connection around power exchange and trust kind of way.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered, turning like he could physically walk away from the words.

“I’m serious,” Sam called after him. “You want control. Not over someone—well, maybe over someone. But mostly just in your own damn life. That’s what half of this is about.”

“I’m not going on a sex site.”

OR: A Bucky/John D/s You Got Mail story

Chapter Text

“...So then she said I should try meeting people.”

Bucky said it like the words his shrink said personally offended him. Like meeting people was a federal crime.

Sam didn’t even blink. Just took another sip of his beer, leaning against the low wall of the tower’s rooftop, eyes on the skyline.

“And by ‘people,’ she meant…”

“Like, people,” Bucky muttered. “Friends. Maybe more.”

“God forbid.”

Bucky scowled. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m just impressed.” Sam glanced sideways. “What’d you say?”

“I said I have friends. I have you.”

Sam snorted. “You can’t use me as a one-man social life, Barnes.”

“Why not? You’re versatile. Easy going. Terrible at cards.”

“You need people you don’t try to punch once a month.”

“That’s asking a lot.”

They let the breeze roll over them for a beat. The city below moved like it always did. Sam leaned back against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, watching Bucky the way he always did when he was trying not to push too hard.

“So she wants you to date?”

“She didn’t say that.”

“But you heard that.”

“I interpreted that,” Bucky said tightly. “There was a tone. And a suggestion that maybe I was a little too self-contained, and, quote, ‘rigid in my relationship patterns.’”

Sam gave a low whistle. “Damn. She came for your whole life philosophy.”

“I’m not rigid. I’m just, particular.”

“You’re a lockbox wrapped in barbed wire wrapped in ninty years of unresolved intimacy issues.”

“I liked you better when you were just flying into walls.”

“You’re thinking of Torres,” Sam said. “I always land on my feet.”

Bucky huffed. “Congratulations, Catman.”

They stood in silence again. This one softer.

Sam looked at him fully this time. Less teasing. More deliberate.

“You know,” he said, voice even, “there are other kinds of meeting people. Doesn’t have to be coffee shops and awkward small talk. You could start somewhere that makes more sense for you.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

“You like structure. You like clarity. You like knowing what’s expected. There are… sites. Communities. People who are into exactly that.”

Bucky blinked.

Then: “Oh hell no.”

“Not like that—well, actually, yes, like that,” Sam said, unbothered. “But not in a creepy ‘hey baby wanna be my little pet’ kind of way. In a genuine connection around power exchange and trust kind of way.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered, turning like he could physically walk away from the words.

“I’m serious,” Sam called after him. “You want control. Not over someone—well, maybe over someone. But mostly just in your own damn life. That’s what half of this is about.”

“I’m not going on a sex site.”

“It’s not a sex site,” Sam said. Then added, “Not exclusively.”

Bucky shot him a look.

Sam grinned. “Listen. There are ones you can trust. Could be good for you.”

Bucky looked out over the city, arms crossed tight over his chest. The breeze tugged at his jacket.

“I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, no kidding. You don’t do any kind of thing. When’s the last time you wanted something that wasn’t a protein bar or a nap?”

“I want you to shut up.”

Sam nudged his shoulder. “You ever consider not being the emotional equivalent of a locked filing cabinet?”

“You ever consider not being the verbal embodiment of a therapy workbook?”

More silence. More city noise.

Bucky shifted his weight, boots scraping lightly against the gravel of the rooftop. He didn’t say anything for a minute, and Sam didn’t press. Eventually, Sam leaned back on his elbows and squinted at the horizon.

“How’s the team?”

Bucky let out a breath that was too close to a sigh. “Which part of it?”

Sam gave him a side-eye. “Any part. Good, bad, different, frustrating.”

“Walker,” Bucky snorted.

“Ah,” Sam said, nodding like that explained everything. “Still a pain in your ass?”

“He’s a walking tension headache,” Bucky muttered. “Thinks everything’s a competition. Talks like he’s reading off a military recruiting poster from 1992. And every time I don’t punch him, he thinks we’re bonding.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s kind of impressive, actually.”

“It’s exhausting .”

“He still call you ‘Sarge’ like he’s doing a bit?”

“Yeah. I think he thinks it’s affectionate.”

Sam shook his head. “Man. No wonder your therapist wants you to meet new people.”

“She wants me to build trust.”

“Right. And instead you’re stuck sharing oxygen with Captain Repressed Rage.”

Bucky didn’t deny it.

Sam glanced over at him again, this time more thoughtful. “You know,” he said slowly, “having to be around people like him? All bravado, no self-awareness? That might actually be the best reason to try the site.”

Bucky frowned. “Because of Walker ?”

“Yeah. You spend all day dealing with men like that. Guys like that bulldoze over nuance and call it strength. This site? Total opposite. Clarity. Consent. Boundaries. Emotional fluency.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Emotional fluency ?”

“You know what I mean,” Sam said. “It’s a space where people actually say what they need. No games. No chest-beating.”

“I don’t need anything.”

Sam didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow.

Bucky looked away first.

“...Maybe I need fewer meetings where Walker explains freedom to me like I didn’t fight Nazis,” he muttered.

“There you go. Emotional honesty. That’s growth.”

Bucky elbowed him.

Sam grinned. “All I’m saying is, maybe the best way to deal with Walker isn’t to punch him. It’s to talk to someone who actually understands control. Someone who wants to give it. Freely.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

Sam held up both hands, mock-innocent. “I’m suggesting you stop pretending you don’t know exactly what I mean.”

Bucky gave him a look, the kind that usually meant don’t push it , but Sam, as always, pushed anyway.

“Look,” Sam said. “You’re someone who needs clarity. You need trust. Not the vague, ‘I’ve got your six’ kind. The kind where someone looks at you and says, yes, I want you in control. I choose that. And they mean it.”

Bucky said nothing. Just stared out over the city like he could will the topic into the wind.

Sam kept going, steady, careful. “You spent seventy years being used. Controlled. Stripped down and told who to be, what to do, who to hurt. Every time you tried to say no, someone rewrote the script.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“And now, when someone asks what you want, you freeze,” Sam said gently. “Because wanting something still feels dangerous.”

“I didn’t say that,” Bucky muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

The breeze rolled in again. This time colder.

Sam took a breath. “You like rules because they’re clean. You like structure because it gives you space to breathe. And if someone wants that from you? If they come to you asking for it, trusting you to set the pace, keep them safe, not hurt them?”

He paused.

“That’s not control. That’s healing.”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. Too long.

Sam let the silence stretch before adding, deliberate, but still careful, “I really think that kind of dynamic would be good for you.”

Bucky flinched as Sam said the word dynamic.

Sam noticed. Didn’t call it out. Just softened his tone.

“Think about it . ”

Bucky finally looked at him. Just barely.

“You think that’s something I can do?” he asked, low and flat and far too old.

Sam didn’t hesitate. “I think it’s something you’ve already been doing, even if you didn’t have the words for it. You ground people. You don’t exploit them. And you don’t let go until they tell you they’re okay.”

Bucky exhaled slowly.

“Besides,” Sam added, trying to keep it light, “you’re already dealing with Walker. So clearly you’ve got the patience of a saint.”

That finally earned the smallest tug at Bucky’s mouth.

Sam smiled, but didn’t press it.

Bucky didn’t say anything. But his jaw ticked.

Sam softened. “You’re not broken, man. You just need a different way to connect. This kind of thing—it’s really not as weird as you may think. It’s about trust. And I think you’ve earned some.”

Bucky groaned. “I still hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Sam nudged him again. “You just hate that I’m right.”

Then Bucky, grudgingly: “What’s the site called?”

Sam didn’t smile. Not really. But he pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down a name and handed it over.

“Don’t make a face,” he said. “You might like it.”

Bucky took it. Didn’t unfold it. Just shoved it into his jacket pocket like it might combust in his hand.

He wasn’t going to do it.

Definitely not.

Nope.

(Not tonight, anyway.)

Bucky shoved the slip of paper deeper into his pocket and made for the stairwell, boots heavy against the metal steps as he descended. The conversation was still echoing in his head, Sam’s voice too calm, too accurate. Bucky needed air. Or motion. Or a punching bag that didn’t talk.

The corridor was quiet. Until it wasn’t.

“Hey, Sarge.”

Bucky closed his eyes like that might make the voice disappear.

It didn’t.

John Walker stood just down the hall, leaning against the doorframe to the common room. He wasn’t even doing anything, just existing, unfortunately, but the moment he spotted Bucky, he straightened up and slid his phone into his back pocket like he’d been caught doing something.

He probably hadn’t. But Bucky didn’t trust that face. It was the same face he made after saying something vaguely inspirational and incredibly dumb.

“Walker,” Bucky said flatly, like the word had been assigned to him.

John grinned, as usual, completely undeterred. “What’s up? You look like someone kicked your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Yeah, I know..”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

John fell into step beside him. “You headed to the gym? Kitchen? Rooftop again? You’ve been doing a lot of rooftop brooding lately. You alright?”

“I was until thirty seconds ago.”

“Ouch. That’s cold.”

John gave a mock-wounded gasp, but his grin didn’t budge. “I’m just trying to be friendly. You know, build rapport. Team bonding.”

Bucky didn’t bother responding. He kept walking, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He could hear John’s boots hitting the floor in rhythm with his own, which was irritating in a way he couldn’t quite articulate.

They reached the junction near the elevator when John said, more casually than usual, “Saw you and Sam heading out together earlier. That new?”

Bucky stopped walking.

John kept going, a few steps ahead now, but glanced back when he realized. “I mean, not new-new. You guys’ve always had that gruff war vet connection thing going on. But it seems like you’ve been spending more time together lately.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You keeping tabs?”

John raised a hand like he was surrendering. “No. Just noticing. Like people do. You’re allowed to have friends. I’m just saying, it’s good, right? You and Sam getting along. Probably makes the teams run smoother.”

There was something a little too light in his voice. Something a little too easy. Like he was throwing the words out to see which ones landed.

Bucky squinted at him, not sure what he was being baited into. “You want a medal for observation?”

John smirked. “Only if it’s shiny. And says ‘Least Hated by Bucky Barnes’ on it.”

Bucky resumed walking. “You’d have to beat out Yelena and Bob for that. And maybe the toaster.”

John laughed, but there was a small hitch in it. He recovered fast. “Fair. Just figured, I dunno, maybe next time the two of you head out, I could tag along. I could be a good buffer. Lighten the mood. Talk too much until Sam makes that face.”

Bucky didn’t stop walking.

“Or not,” John added, more quietly. “Just putting it out there.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He was trying not to feel too much, still wound tight from the conversation with Sam, and now stuck in the walking embodiment of everything he was trying to not think about.

Walker. Loud. Competitive. Repressed as hell. And for some reason, relentlessly friendly like they were actual teammates instead of whatever they were now, two men of the same team, same missions, same trauma-adjacent silence.

John shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know, you can just ask me to leave if you don’t want company.”

“I don’t want company,” Bucky said, deadpan.

Walker nodded. “Cool. Still walking this way though.”

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. “And I’m going to tell you again, don’t call me Sarge.”

“What? It’s a nickname.”

“It’s not a nickname. It’s a rank. From seventy years ago.”

“Exactly. Vintage. Shows respect.”

Bucky stopped in front of the elevator, hit the button a little harder than necessary. “It shows you’re bad at boundaries.”

John tilted his head, feigning offense. “You wound me.”

“Not yet.”

The elevator dinged. Bucky stepped in and, blessedly, Walker didn’t follow.

But just before the doors closed, John gave him a lazy, two-fingered salute. “See you around, Sarge.”

Bucky didn’t flip him off. It was a near thing.

The doors shut.

The elevator descended.

And in the quiet, Bucky finally let his hand drift to his jacket pocket. Just to check the paper was still there. Still folded. Still burning like a brand against his fingertips.

He pulled it out. Looked at the name written in Sam’s careful print.

KinkMeet.
Clean interface. Optional anonymity. Verified mods.
A place for people who want to talk about power without pretending they don’t need it.

Bucky folded the paper again. Slipped it back into his pocket.

Maybe not tonight.

But maybe.

Chapter 2 Chapter Text

He waited a week.

The slip of paper was still in his jacket pocket. Still folded and intact. Still creased down the center from where his thumb kept running over it . He didn’t need to open it. The name was burned into his brain by now.
KinkTalk.

He wasn’t avoiding it. That’s what he told himself, anyway. He was just busy. Just tired. Just had other things to do, except he didn’t. The nights stretched long. Even the gym had started to feel like a treadmill in hell.

And Walker— Christ .

The guy had a talent for getting under Bucky’s skin without even trying. Just a smirk, a loud opinion, and that irritating way he always hovered like they were almost friends. Still acting like that team-up idea was on the table, like if he just kept showing up, Bucky would eventually come around.

He wouldn’t.

Bucky didn’t want a partner. He didn’t want banter. And he sure as hell didn’t want to be part of whatever redemption arc Walker thought they were building together.

The guy would not stop calling him Sarge , like it was a joke or a term of endearment, Bucky couldn’t tell which. Either way, it grated.

He didn’t need someone following him around with a lopsided grin and something to prove. He didn’t want to be Walker’s project. Or his mirror. Or his second chance.

He just wanted him to back off.

But of course, he never did.

Which made everything worse.

So he waited. Let the week tick by. Carried the folded slip like it might disintegrate if he left it in his desk drawer instead.

It was 12:38 a.m. when he gave in.

The tower was silent, citylight leaking in through the windows. Bucky sat down in the dark with his old laptop. Cracked his knuckles. Took a breath.

Typed in the address.

KinkMeet.

Minimalist interface. Black text on white background. No autoplaying videos or bright graphics or performative smut. Just clean menus. Options. Space.

He clicked Create Account before he could talk himself out of it.

Username.

There was an option to have a random user generated name. He hesitated. Then clicked:
User_1920.

Good enough.

Neutral. Clean. No history.

The next screen blinked up.

Profile Blurb (Optional):

He stared at the blank box for a long time.

Optional. But what did that even mean when the whole point was to try?

His fingers hovered.

Then, slowly, he began to type:

Suggested by someone who knows me too well and talks too much. So yeah. I’m here. Not sure for what yet.

He didn’t add a photo. Didn’t link a profile. Didn’t check boxes for preferences or kinks or roles.

Just the basics.

That was already more than he’d said about this part of himself out loud. And saying it here, typing it into a box no one had asked him to fill, it felt like cracking something open without bleeding.

He hit submit.

The site loaded. Empty inbox. Empty feed. And a quiet page and a line at the bottom:

You are now online as User_1920.

Bucky sat there, blinking at the screen. Not sure what came next.

The homepage didn’t offer much direction. It just had a simple navagation bar, a few rotating community posts, and a blinking inbox icon that, unsurprisingly, showed zero messages .

He clicked into the forums.

The categories were… varied.

Negotiation Tips. First-Time Nerves. Scenes Gone Right. Scenes Gone Wrong. Structure & Safety. Service Dynamics. Aftercare. Unpacking Control.

He scrolled. Slowly. Warily.

Some of the threads were blunt, full of acronyms and shorthand he didn’t know. Some were full-on novellas about relationship styles and color-coded charts. Others were short confessions, questions, quiet admissions typed out like the writer wasn’t sure they were allowed to ask.

That part he understood.

He clicked on a thread titled “Is it weird if I like rules but hate being told what to do?” and read through the replies. Calm, thoughtful responses. No jokes at the asker’s expense. No eye-rolling.

That was... surprising.

Bucky leaned back a little, frowning in that not-unpleasant way he did when something wasn’t as awful as expected.

He clicked into another: “Anyone else get overwhelmed being in charge all the time?”

Chapter 3 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The kitchen was quiet, at least for the first few minutes.

Bucky stood at the counter with a half-full mug of coffee and a plate of sausage he’d already forgotten to eat. He didn’t usually cook for himself when the insomnia hit bad, but this morning, he’d needed something to do with his hands.

The door swung open without warning.

"Hey!" John’s voice cracked through the peace like a bat through drywall. “Oh thank God .”

Bucky turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly.

Walker strode in like he owned the place, zero awareness of volume or boundaries, and made a beeline for the far counter. His phone sat there, right where Bucky had noticed it yesterday.

“There it is,” John said, scooping it up like it was a long-lost limb. “I thought I left it in the gym or the car or, I don’t know, in a damn cereal box. Jesus.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Just sipped his coffee.

John didn’t take the hint.

“Thanks for not stealing it, by the way,” he added, tapping the screen to wake it up. “Not that you would. I mean, unless you’ve got some hidden Candy Crush obsession you’re keeping from the rest of us. Secret shame, Barnes?”

Bucky gave him a long, flat look. “No.”

“Right. Because you’re more of an actual print media kind of guy, huh? Or wait, crosswords. You give off heavy I-need-a-five-letter-word-for-‘fuck-off’ energy.”

“Walker,” Bucky muttered around his coffee cup, not looking up this time. “It’s too early for this.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to bring a little life to this place. John threw up one hand. “Some people call that charm, y’know.”

“What do you want?” Bucky asked. “Seriously. You came in, got your phone, great. Go bother someone else.”

John blinked, his phone still in one hand, the other hovering awkwardly near the coffee pot. “Like you said. My phone.” He held it up.

Bucky just stared at him, unimpressed.

“And maybe breakfast,” John added, tilting his head, like that somehow made it more defensible. “But if you’re really asking what I want…”

He trailed off, just long enough for it to feel intentional. Like maybe, for once, he was thinking before speaking.

“…I don’t know. Maybe we could do something sometime.”

Bucky stared at him.

“Okay. Okay, cool. Can I put you down as a maybe?” John asked, like Bucky was actually considering it. “There’s this museum exhibit opening. Some historical preservation thing. Civil War stuff, I think? You might like it. Dusty old weapons, bad lighting, general sense of doom. Your scene.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like the words might be hiding up there. “I mean, I figure you’re into that kind of thing, you know, old stuff. And no one talks to each other at museums, right? It’s quiet. Very your vibe.”

He paused, then added, “Also there’s free punch. But like, the fancy kind. In a bowl. With a ladle. So.” He shrugged, as if that sealed the deal.

Bucky didn’t reply, just stared at him, like this was the kind of conversation they had all the time and not whatever the hell this was..

But John, being John, took the silence as interest.

“I mean, I’m going either way. But if you show up, great. If not…” He trailed off, then powered through. “No pressure.”

Then he kept going. And going.

“Or not the Civil War thing. Dumb idea. Bad lighting. Too many dads in cargo shorts.”

He barely took a breath and powered on. “What about that self-defense workshop the gym’s hosting? They need volunteers to ‘pretend to attack people.’ You could knock me around a little. Y’know, for community safety.”

Another glance, another test. “Or...or the tactical gear expo next weekend. It’s mostly cops and weird survivalists, but they’ve got antique knives and some old combat tech. Real nerd shit. Thought maybe you’d want to go make fun of people with me.”

Still no response.

John gave a weak shrug, like he wasn’t spiraling. “Just seemed like your kind of bleak. Plus, y’know… sharp objects.”

Bucky blinked slowly. Jesus Christ. The man had stamina. The worst kind, conversational stamina.

“Walker.”

John paused, looked over hopefully. Or maybe just hopeful Bucky was putting an end to his endless rambling. “Yeah?”

He had that expression again, half grin, half wince, like he wasn’t sure if Bucky was about to say yes, no, or hit him with a folding chair. Like he knew he was talking too much but couldn’t quite stop. Like maybe if he just kept going, eventually one of the words would land right.

“Leave.” Bucky pointed at the door with his sausage. “Out.”

John blinked, once. Then again, slower.

He looked at the sausage. Then at the door. Then back at Bucky.

“That’s fair. Bit abrupt. But fair.” He took a step back, hands raised in mock surrender.

Another step back, but he lingered in the doorway. “Still gonna text you about the expo. You can ignore it. ”

And with a final shrug, and a muttered, “Wasn’t even that weird of an idea” he backed out of the room like someone cautiously vacating a bear enclosure.

“Jesus.” Bucky muttered, shaking his head.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon that Bucky had time to breathe, let alone check his email. Most of the day had been a mess of meetings, training schedules, and one brief but unfortunate encounter with someone trying to pitch him on team-branded merch (it was Alexi). He’d come back to his quarters with his head buzzing and too many half-finished thoughts behind his eyes.

He dropped into the desk chair and opened his laptop. Inbox first. A couple updates from logistics. A forwarded security report from Sam. A full on virtual tour of whatever expo Walker had been rambling about. An email reminder for therapy that he fully intended to ignore.

And then, tucked low in the list like it didn’t want to be noticed, was the line that made him stop:

New Message: KinkMeet – You have a reply from USAnonymous

For a second, he just stared at it.

It had been… what, less than a day since he sent the message? Maybe twenty hours. He hadn’t expected anything. Not that soon. Maybe not ever.

He should’ve clicked it right away. That would’ve been the normal thing to do. But instead he sat there for another minute, fingers hovering near the mouse.

Was this really something he wanted to pursue? He didn’t spend time hoping people liked him back or wondering what they meant when they looked at him too long. That kind of hope got you killed, or disappointed.

But this was different. Low stakes. Honest in a way that most real-life conversations couldn’t be.

And something about that profile still stuck with him. Not just what it said, but how it said it. No dramatics. No obvious roleplay posturing.

He clicked the message.

And began to read.

USAnonymous: Hey. Didn’t expect a message like that, so thanks. For real. I’ve had some pretty bad luck on this site. But yours didn’t feel like that. You asked what I’m looking for from someone. I’m still figuring that out, honestly. But I guess… I want someone who doesn’t assume the worst. Someone who won’t look at me like I’m too much before I’ve even said anything. I talk a lot when I’m nervous. I make jokes when I shouldn’t. So maybe what I want is someone who stays. Who calls me on my shit, but doesn’t walk the second I mess up.

As for why I joined… The short version? Feelings. For someone who doesn’t see me like that. I don’t think I come off that great. Or maybe I just push people away before they can do it first. I don’t know. It’s complicated and I’m trying not to wreck anything, so I figured maybe it was time to move on.

Didn’t mean I stopped wanting things, though. I just… wanted to see if there was someone out there who might like me back.

Anyway. Sorry. That got long. You didn’t ask for all that, but you seemed like the kind of person who doesn’t mind a little real.

Thanks again for reaching out. Seriously.

Bucky read the message twice.

It wasn’t polished. Wasn’t a sales pitch. No teasing lines designed to bait him into interest. Just… words. Direct and a little unguarded, like someone had let their thumb hover over the send button too long before finally giving up and pressing it anyway.

He exhaled, slow.

They had the tone of someone who tried too hard to seem casual about wanting something deep. He’d heard it in his own head enough times to recognize the rhythm.

And that last part, about having feelings for someone who didn’t see them the same way?

Yeah. That landed more than he liked to admit.

He tapped the mouse a few times. Eventually, he started to type.

User_1920: Thanks for telling me that. You didn’t overshare. You were honest. That’s more than most people know how to do. What you said about pushing people first before they push you? I get that. Probably too well. Survival habit, I guess. It’s easier to be too much on purpose than to risk being too much by accident. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think wanting someone to stay makes you weak. Makes you human. And yeah, I don’t mind “a little real.” Better than pretending. If you’re still figuring it out, same here. No pressure. Maybe we could keep talking. See what happens.

He hesitated a second before signing off.

Then typed one last line.

Just so you know, I’m not great with jokes, but I don’t mind the ones that come from nerves. Just means you’re thinking faster than you can filter.

He hit send. Sat back.

An hour passed. He finished up on his emails.

He wasn’t expecting a response so soon. But just as his was about to walk away the message came:

New Message: KinkMeet – USAnonymous has replied.

He clicked it without thinking this time.

USAnonymous: Okay, first of all, thanks. Like… a real thanks. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear some of that until I read it.Especially the part about wanting someone to stay makes you weak. That one got me. Don’t think anyone’s ever said it like that before. I wasn’t sure if I should message again so soon, but you said maybe we could keep talking. So… here I am. Still nervously typing too much. You also said showing up honestly matters, and I’m doing my best there. Even if it feels like I’m saying too much all at once. And just so it’s said—I’d like to keep talking too. No expectations. Just… this. Whatever this is. Sorry again for the brain dump. You said real was okay, so I’m trying. You should know your messages read like someone who’s used to being the calmest person in the room. Like someone who draws other people in.

Which is… kinda hot, not gonna lie.

Bucky stared at the screen, one eyebrow lifting slightly at that last line.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t not smile either.

After that, life got busy. He was out on a solo mission for several days, low visibility, high noise. Bruises came and healed. He talked to Sam once, argued with him twice, and ignored his therapist's last three texts. By the time he got back to his room, it felt like a different lifetime had passed.

He powered on his laptop mostly out of habit. Notifications stacked like cards. Updates, security alerts, a reminder to meditate.

Then, quietly sitting in the corner of the screen:

New Message: KinkMeet – USAnonymous has replied.

He opened it.

USAnonymous: hey,
just checking in.
not trying to be weird or clingy or anything, totally get it if you’re busy or not feeling it anymore.
just… wasn’t sure if I said something wrong, or if this is just how the site works, or if I’m overthinking everything again (very possible).
no pressure at all.
just figured I’d rather ask and feel dumb than not ask and regret it.
hope you’re doing okay.

Bucky hit the respond button.

User_1920: You didn’t say anything wrong. I’ve just been offline a few days. Work stuff. The kind that couldn’t wait. I read your last message before I left, and I’ve been thinking about it since. Not in a bad way. Just...trying to figure out how to respond without sounding like someone I’m not. You came in honest. I respect that. Wanted to make sure I showed the same. For what it’s worth, I like how you think. Even when it spirals a little. It means you’re trying. Means it matters. So yeah, I’d still like to keep talking. No pressure on your end either. But I’m here now. Let’s see where it goes.

The response came almost immediately. Like USAnonymous was just sitting on his screen waiting for a reply.

USAnonymous: Great! I want that too. Really, same. Thanks for saying all that. I was trying not to assume anything but… yeah. Just glad you’re still here. Also, not trying to rush or anything, but there’s a message option that switches to text? Only if you’re good with that. Completely fine if not. Just figured… might be easier than refreshing this site like a maniac. Either way. Just putting it out there.

Then another message. Like he hadn’t moved.

It was kind of endearing. A little desperate, maybe. But not in a way that put Bucky off.

USAnonymous: I swear I’m not usually this keyed up. Just been a weird week. And this? This feels like the first thing in a while that doesn’t suck. Didn’t want to mess it up by saying too much. (Which I know, ironically, I’m doing right now.)

Let me know.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, the faintest huff of something close to amusement.

Keyed up was right. The guy typed like he was trying to outpace his own nervous system. It was… sincere. Earnest.

And maybe that was what got him. The sheer effort it must’ve taken to be this open with a stranger.

User_1920: Sure.

Notes:

Not too sure about this chapter. I think John comes off a bit more stupid than he should be in this story. Let me know if you think it works.

Chapter 4 Chapter Text

It was three weeks later, and he couldn’t avoid his therapist any longer.

The waiting room smelled like neutrality. Faux-comfortable chairs lined the walls, squat, neutral-colored things. He sat in the corner like always, hands resting on his thighs, not bouncing his leg even though he wanted to. A clock on the far wall ticked at just the wrong volume.

He wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. Just... keyed up. That same low buzz he got before briefings. Like his brain knew there was no physical threat but couldn’t stop checking for one anyway.

He pulled out his phone and started scrolling through old messages from USAnonymous.

It was going… well.

Better than expected, anyway.

There was a kind of rhythm now, steady, uneven in the way real people were. Some messages long, some short. Sometimes flirty, sometimes strangely vulnerable. And somehow, it worked.

USAnonymous: Okay, new game: what’s your *real-life* perfect night? No yacht parties or private islands. Honestly.

User_1920: Rain on the windows. Lamps dim. Couch that’s seen better days. Take-out in the carton. Someone leaning against me, breathing steady. Bad movie on so we don’t feel rude for ignoring it.

USAnonymous: God, yes. Mine’s that. Plus a blanket and a movie I can quote by heart. Pretending the sad parts don’t hit.

User_1920: Pretending’s half the fun. The other half is not moving even when the credits roll.

USAnonymous: What if the other person isn’t… good at that? The stillness or comfort stuff. What if they don’t know how?

User_1920: Then maybe you teach them. Slowly. and quietly. Let the silence say it’s okay to be there.

USAnonymous: What if they get twitchy and ruin it by making a bad joke halfway through?

User_1920: Then maybe the other person laughs. And says, "Come here anyway." And pulls them under the blanket like that was the plan all along.

USAnonymous: That’s not fair.

User_1920: What’s not?

USAnonymous: Saying it like that. Now I’m stuck imagining it too clearly.

User_1920: Good. Hold still. Now imagine I turn toward you just a little. One leg between yours. My voice low, just at your ear: “Still want that dumb movie on?”

USAnonymous: Jesus.

User_1920: Too much?

USAnonymous: Not even close.

User_1920: Then let me keep going.

Bucky smiled as he reread it. USAnonymous responded so well to him. He moved to another one of their conversations.

USAnonymous: Weird question: ever realize you’re touch-starved only when somebody brushes past and every circuit trips?

User_1920: More times than I’ll admit. Body treats it like incoming fire before the brain clears it. Accepting’s half the battle.

USAnonymous: Yes! I keep thinking kink might just be “touch, but with instructions.” Safe contact. Rules so my body stops guessing. Feels pathetic to type out.

User_1920: It’s not pathetic to need structure. It's just just how you guide your body back to calm.

USAnonymous: Every reply from you feels like landing a trust fall.

User_1920: Goal is fewer bruises.

USAnonymous: You’re dangerous.

User_1920: Only if you count mutual destruction as dangerous.

Three dots.

USAnonymous: That… might be exactly what I count.

User_1920: Then tell me, what are you thinking right now?

USAnonymous: That if you were here, I’d already be leaning in. Just to see how close I could get before I had to beg.

User_1920: You wouldn’t have to beg. Not unless I asked you to.

USAnonymous: Damn.

User_1920: Still with me?

USAnonymous: Barely. My hands are shaking.

User_1920: Good. Now picture this: I’ve got you pressed against the couch, back hitting those old cushions you said were part of your perfect night. One hand on your throat. Just enough pressure to remind you where you are. My knee between your thighs. Not moving yet.

USAnonymous: Fuck. Keep going.

User_1920 : You breathe in deep. Try to stay still. You’re waiting for a cue. And I’m watching your face, just watching, until I say: “There. Stay right there.” And then I move my hand. Down. Slower than you want. Just enough friction to make you ache for more.

USAnonymous: Please tell me you’re not done.

User_1920: Not even close. You’re already squirming. I haven’t even touched you yet. Not where you want me to.

USAnonymous: You’re evil.

User_1920: Correction, attentive. I take my time. I want to hear every noise you make trying to stay quiet. And when you finally let go of whatever you were holding back— That’s when I’ll kiss you.

USAnonymous: I’m gonna lose it.

User_1920: Not yet. You hold it until I say. You want structure? I’ve got you. You come when I say you’re ready. Not a second before.

A pause.

USAnonymous: Yes, Sir.

Yes, Sir. He remembered when he got that response. He didn’t like honorifics. Or at least thought he didn’t . They always felt performative, too much weight tied to them. But this didn’t feel …. wrong. He almost wanted to hear more of it.

USAnonymous: Serious question. Are you sure you’re new at this? You talk like you’ve been running secret sessions since dial-up.

User_1920: “New” with homework. Read more than I’ve done. Friend said the framework fit how my head handles control. Still road-testing.

USAnonymous: If this is beta mode, full release might kill me. You calm people just by existing.

User_1920: Not magic. I just listenin. I’ve noticed most people are wanting some sort of control in their life and want someone to make it make sense.

And more than anything, he liked how it made him feel. Like there was someone on the other end wanting what he had to give.

It was weirdly grounding. Calming, even.

He’d skimmed through more messages, thumb flicking down with an absent rhythm, until the door opened.

Walker stepped out.

Bucky paused, thumb still on the screen, then clicked off his phone and slid it into his pocket.

Walker froze halfway into the waiting area, clearly not expecting to see anyone, let alone him.

“Uh, hey, Sarge,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to salute or duck.

Dr. Raynor followed him into the hall, her notepad in hand. She didn’t glance at Bucky, just said, “John, I’ll see you in two weeks.”

John turned back to her with a nod. “Yeah, sure.”

His voice was casual, but his eyes flicked back toward Bucky, just for a second. Like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Raynor lingered just a moment too long, her gaze flicking between them with clinical interest. She tapped her pen against her notepad, then said, far too casually, “You know… maybe next time we try something different.”

Bucky didn’t even pretend to entertain the idea. “Define different.”

Raynor gave him a mild look. “Group session.”

“No,” Bucky said immediately.

John blinked. “Wait. With him?”

Raynor nodded. “It might be worth considering. You’re both dealing with parallel stressors, structure, identity, trust. There’s value in hearing each other.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “Hard pass.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, I’m… not sure that’s the best call either.”

Raynor didn’t flinch. “I’m not saying it’s required. Just that it might help to be in a room with someone whose presence brings things up.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Things are up. I’m already here, aren’t I?”

John rubbed the back of his neck again. “I just don’t know if that’s really my thing. I mean… group? Isn’t that, like, a step five kind of situation?”

Raynor looked unimpressed. “It’s not a confrontation. No one’s being asked to share more than they want. Sometimes, it’s just about not avoiding the source of tension.”

“I find tension is pretty hard to avoid even without your help,” Bucky quipped.

John gave a half-laugh, half-winced. “Yeah, and some of us are still figuring that out.”

Raynor didn’t press. “Like I said, just something to think about.”

He stood, the chair creaking as he pushed off it, and stepped forward without looking at John.

But as he passed, he slowed, just for a second, to glance over his shoulder.

Walker was still standing awkwardly, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other fidgeting at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes, but he didn’t leave either.

Bucky watched him for a beat longer than necessary, then turned and walked into the office without a word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The office was the same as always. Neutral walls. Large window. That damn fake forest plastered on the wall. Bucky sat in the usual couch. Angled so he could see both exits, not that he ever said that out loud.

Raynor didn’t sit right away. She flipped a page on her notebook, scanning something he couldn’t see, then lowered herself into her chair with the slow kind of patience that always made Bucky feel like she already knew what he was going to say.

He didn’t speak first. He never did.

Raynor set the notepad down. “You looked at him before you came in.”

Bucky didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. “You want to write that down in your little book? ‘Subject glared at teammate. Prognosis, incurable.’”

She didn’t rise to it. “Wasn’t a glare.”

“I wasn’t offering a hug either.”

“You hesitated.”

“I didn’t punch him. That’s progress, right?”

Raynor tilted her head. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m surviving. Feels like enough.”

“Why does John call you Sarge?”

“Can we talk about something else?”

A pause stretched. The ticking clock in the corner filled it.

She leaned forward slightly. “You’ve been talking more lately.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would. And you didn’t snap at the group session idea. You just said no.”

“I said no very clearly.”

“But not angrily. Not dismissively. You listened first.”

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. “You gonna give me a sticker?”

“No. I’m going to ask what you’re afraid will happen if you’re in a room with him.”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw moved like he was chewing on words that didn’t want to be swallowed.

Finally, “I don’t like being watched.”

Raynor nodded. “And you think he’s watching you.”

“I know he is.”

“Because he’s nosy, or because he sees something you don’t want him to?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, but his fingers flexed against his knee.

“I don’t need someone like that sitting in a room trying to dissect me.”

“He might say the same about you.”

“Well then we’re both right.”

She smiled, faint and not unkind. “You know, the point isn’t for him to understand you.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed.

Raynor continued, calm. “It’s for you to understand what he brings up. Why that tension hits the nerve it does.”

“It’s not a nerve. It’s just… noise.”

“You don’t react like it’s noise.”

He stared at the window for a second. Didn’t respond.

“I’m not pushing,” Raynor said. “But I do think some of your frustration with John isn’t about John.”

“I’ve had plenty of reasons,” he said, too sharp, too fast.

“I didn’t say they weren’t valid.”

Silence again. A heavier one.

Bucky exhaled. “He tries too hard.”

Raynor waited.

“And he… doesn’t know how to shut up.”

“And that bothers you.”

“It should bother everyone.”

“But you’re not everyone.”

His jaw tensed again.

Raynor softened her tone. “Is it just what he says? Or the fact that he wants something from you?”

He looked at her sharply.

“Respect. Approval. Maybe more. People wanting things from you has never ended well.”

“I’m not responsible for what he wants.”

“No,” she agreed. “You’re responsible for how you respond to it.”

Another silence. This one slower. Quieter.

“I don’t want to be his project,” Bucky muttered.

Raynor gave a small nod. “You’re not. But it sounds like you’ve been his ghost.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

She didn’t need him to.

Raynor let the silence settle, the way she always did when she knew he was about to change the subject. Bucky could feel it hanging in the air, the weight of everything unsaid, but that didn’t mean he wanted to sit in it.

He was done discussing Walker. He racked his mind of something, anything, else, to talk about.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve been talking to someone.”

Raynor looked up from her notes. “Someone?”

“Online,” he added quickly. “It’s not… It’s not anything weird. Just messages.”

She didn’t smile, but something about her expression shifted. “Okay. How’d that start?”

His hand rubbed his leg. “Someone gave me a link. To this site. Kind of a… forum. Or, like, a message board.”

Raynor raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Bucky hesitated. “Connection. Trust stuff. Not dating, not exactly. It’s… structured.”

She didn’t jump in, which annoyed him a little, he wasn’t used to people just waiting.

“It’s anonymous,” he added, like that made it more acceptable. “No real names. Just usernames. And topics. You post, you reply. Or you don’t. No pressure.”

Raynor nodded. “And what do you talk about?”

He rubbed his palms against his jeans again. “Control. Safety. People not knowing what the hell they’re doing, but still trying anyway.”

Her head tilted slightly. “Do you feel like you can be honest there?”

“More than here,” he muttered, before he could stop himself.

Raynor didn’t take the bait. “And do you feel like they’re honest with you?”

He paused. Thought about the last message he got. About how they’d said every reply from you feels like landing a trust fall. About how they were open in describing what they needed.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think they’re really trying.”

She made a note. Not to dismiss. Just to remember.

“What do you like about it?”

Bucky shrugged, looking down. “They don’t act like I’m broken.”

Raynor didn’t speak right away. “And when you talk to them… do you feel like you still need to be the version of you that survived?”

His jaw ticked again, but this time, it softened after.

“No,” he admitted. “I just feel like someone.”

Raynor closed her notebook slowly.

“That’s good,” she said. “Sounds like something worth holding onto.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t disagree.

“Alright,” she said gently. “That’s enough for today.”

He nodded once. Stood slowly.

Before he left, she added, “I still want you to consider the group session. And I’d like you to continue to work on the relationships in your life.”

Bucky’s hand hovered near the doorknob. “If I agree to sit in a room with him, am I going to have to do another ‘soul gazing’ session?”

Raynor gave a quiet smile. “No soul gazing. Just eye contact, honest words, and mild discomfort. You’ll live.”

He snorted, almost a laugh, and walked out.

The diner was too bright.

Bucky squinted as he stepped inside, blinking against the glare off the chrome napkin holders and laminated menus. He spotted Sam already in a booth by the window, sipping coffee like he had nowhere better to be. Typical.

“Hey,” Bucky muttered, sliding in across from him.

“You’re late,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow but not looking mad. “Therapy run long?”

“No,” Bucky said. “Just didn’t feel like walking fast.”

Sam gave him a look. Waited.

Bucky didn’t meet it. He reached for the water glass instead, took a sip, then said flatly, “She brought up group therapy.”

Sam blinked. “Group? With who?”

Bucky gave him a pointed look.

“Oh,” Sam said. “With Walker?”

“Yeah.”

Sam gave a low whistle. “You punch a wall on the way out or did you actually use words this time?”

“I told her it was a hard pass,” Bucky said, voice dry. “He looked like he was about to crawl out of his own skin just standing in the hallway.”

“And you?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just shrugged. Picked at the corner of a sugar packet until it ripped in half.

Sam leaned forward a little. “So why’d it piss you off?”

Bucky scowled. “Because I don’t need him looking at me like I’m a test he’s gonna fail.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s what he’s doing?”

“We’ve been over this. He talks like he’s trying to prove something.”

“Okay,” Sam said, measured. “And what if it’s not about you? What if he’s just trying?”

Bucky shook his head. “Then he can try away from me.”

The waitress dropped off two menus. Bucky barely glanced at his. Sam, of course, flipped his open like they hadn’t had this exact lunch a dozen times.

After a pause, Sam said, “Raynor hit a nerve.”

Bucky didn’t deny it.

“Maybe she’s not wrong, though,” Sam added. “Sometimes sitting in a room with someone who gets under your skin is the only way to figure out why.”

“I know why,” Bucky said.

Sam waited.

“He wants things,” Bucky muttered. “Approval. Forgiveness. Whatever.”

“And you don’t like that.”

“No,” Bucky said. “I don’t like how it makes me feel like I’m supposed to give it.”

Sam was quiet for a second. Then he said, “Maybe it’s not about giving it. Maybe it’s about not letting him live rent-free in your head either.”

Bucky gave him a look. “You rehearsed that one?”

“Came up with it just now,” Sam said, smug.

“Congrats.”

Sam grinned. “Thanks. And hey, this is exactly why I recommended that site, by the way.”

Bucky blinked. “What site?”

“You know what site.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just raised his eyebrows like he might play dumb, but not very convincingly.

Sam leaned in, voice lowering. “The one with the very awkward registration questions and the even more awkward user names. You think I forgot?”

Bucky sighed. “I didn’t say I hadn’t looked.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “Wait. Hold up. You joined?”

Bucky kept his eyes on the menu. “Sort of.”

“That’s not a no.”

He exhaled, setting the menu down. “Yeah. I joined.”

Sam looked at him for a beat, like he was trying to gauge if this was a confession or a cry for help. “And?”

“And what?”

Sam gave him a look. “And how’s it going, oh mysterious internet sex wizard?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh no?” Sam said, raising his coffee cup like a toast. “Do tell.”

“There’s someone I’ve been messaging with,” Bucky muttered. “I don’t know. They’re… responsive. Honest. Messy in a way that feels familiar.”

Sam cocked his head. “Messy how?”

“Like they’re trying. But not performing. Just figuring things out in real time.”

Sam’s smirk softened. “Sounds like someone I know.”

Bucky looked down. “They ask good questions. Don’t push too hard. Just… notice things. Listens.”

“That’s good,” Sam said. “You gonna meet them?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky muttered. “Don’t think so. Maybe not. Probably not. ”

Sam gave a low hum. “Sometimes no stakes just means you’re scared of what happens if it’s real.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. Just gave a small, humorless smile. “I’ve done real. Didn’t go great.”

Sam sipped his coffee. “Yeah, well. Maybe this one’s different.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just looked out the window, jaw flexing once.

“It’s just talking,” he said finally. “But it doesn’t feel like nothing.”

Sam nodded, then flagged the waitress. “Good. Then let’s get you something with protein before you spiral into existential dread.”

Bucky snorted. “Already there, man.”

“Then eggs it is.”

The room was dark except for the low blue glow of the screen.

Bucky hadn’t bothered turning on a lamp when he came back. He’d dropped his jacket over the back of the chair, kicked off his boots by the door, and stood at the window for a long time doing nothing.

Too keyed up to sleep. Too tired to do anything useful.

He sat now on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, thumb hovering over his phone. The last message was still open.

He read it again before typing.

User_1920: Hey, you there?

The reply came fast. Like they’d been waiting too.

USAnonymous: Yeah. You?

User_1920: Couldn’t sleep.

USAnonymous: Same. Brain’s being an asshole.

Bucky let out a short breath through his nose. He knew that version of the night too well.

User_1920: That why you’re online, or just hoping for a distraction?

USAnonymous: Both. Didn’t want to sit here spinning my wheels. Figured maybe you’d be around.

User_1920: I usually am.

USAnonymous: Lucky me.

Bucky rubbed his leg, not sure how to take that. Not sure how he wanted to.

USAnonymous: Today sucked a little. Not in a catastrophic way. Just one of those days where everything felt like being handed the wrong size gloves. You know, like nothing fit right. I’m not explaining this well.

User_1920: No, I get it. Off-balance, even when everything looks normal on paper.

USAnonymous: Exactly. Everyone keeps saying it’s fine. I’m fine. But my body doesn’t believe them.

User_1920: Yeah. Sometimes “fine” is just what we say when there’s no safe place to tell the truth.

There was a longer pause before the next reply came in.

USAnonymous: You always do that.

User_1920: Do what?

USAnonymous: Say something I didn’t know I was waiting to hear.

Bucky blinked at the screen.

Then typed, slowly:

User_1920: That’s not on purpose.

USAnonymous: I know. That’s why it works.

Another pause.

USAnonymous: You ever feel like you’re screwing it all up just by trying?

User_1920: All the time.

USAnonymous: Cool. That’s comforting and deeply concerning.

User_1920: Welcome to being a person.

USAnonymous: Thought I’d aged out of that.

User_1920: Same.

There was something easy about this. Bucky didn’t want to pull back from it yet.

User_1920 Can I ask you something personal

USAnonymous: Always.

User_1920: Do you think we’d like each other if we met?

There was a pause. It stretched. He started to get a sinking feeling.

USAnonymous: I hope we would. Hard to tell. I mean… I know I already like you. It's just, I can be kind of a lot in person.

User_1920: What does “a lot” mean?

USAnonymous: Loud. Awkward. Not great at shutting up. People think I’m something I’m not, or they decide fast that I’m too much. I guess it’s easier to be tolerated through a screen.

User_1920: I don’t think I’d want to tolerate you. That’s not the word I’d use.

USAnonymous: Okay, well… that’s unexpectedly nice. I don’t really know what to say to that.

User_1920: You don’t have to say anything. Just stick around.

USAnonymous: I will. Even if you’d hate me in person.

User_1920: I don’t think I would. But if it helps… we can stay right here, for now. No pressure. Just this.

USAnonymous: Yeah. Thanks. Just this is pretty good.

Chapter 5 Chapter Text

As the weeks went on, the messages changed.

Not all at once and not dramatically. Just, shifted.

They were getting more intense now. Not in a bad way. But things were becoming … clearer.

They were learning not only what they wanted from each other, but what they could give.

It made sense. They were on a kink site. That was the point. If anything, it probably should’ve happened sooner.

And now?

Now, sometimes a message started as a joke and ended up as a command. Sometimes it didn’t start soft at all. Sometimes Bucky would say, Do this, and he’d wait. And the reply would come: Yes, Sir.

And Bucky, for once, didn’t feel like he was fumbling to explain the rules. He just said them. And they were followed.

It was strange how steady that made him feel.

Like there was someone on the other end listening, actually listening, and wanting to get it right.

USAnonymous:
Can I tell you something a little… different tonight?

User_1920: Yeah. Always.

USAnonymous: Sometimes when we talk like this, I get this itch. Like I want to… drop into it. Not sex. Not just that. I mean like… give something up. Let go. Let you tell me what to do.
Just for a while. Just to see if I can stop thinking so damn hard.

Bucky’s pulse kicked. He didn’t move, didn’t shift, but something in him stilled.

He let the silence stretch just a second longer than expected before responding.

User_1920: You want permission.

USAnonymous: I want everything to shrink down to just one voice. Yours.

User_1920: Then say it. Say you want me in charge.

There was a longer pause.

USAnonymous: I want you in charge.

Then on a different day:

USAnonymous: You around?

User_1920: Yeah. You okay?

USAnonymous: Just… keyed up. Can’t sleep.

User_1920: What do you need?

A pause.

USAnonymous: I think I need you.

User_1920: Okay. I’ll tell you what to do.

There were nights now where Bucky had to pause and breathe between replies, phone warm in his hand, a flush through his body, a tension curling at the base of his spine that wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

USAnonymous: What would you do if I showed up at your door right now?

User_1920: Complain you didn’t give me time to clean.

USAnonymous: Rude.

User_1920: Honest. Then I’d pull you in by the shirt and make you sit down. You’d try to act casual, but I’d see the way your fingers twitch. The way your leg bounces just once before you stop it. You’d be a little too nervous to relax. I’d notice.

USAnonymous: What would you do about it?

User_1920: I’d step in close. Press my hand to the back of your neck, thumb just under your ear. Hold there until your breathing slowed.

USAnonymous: …that’s not fair.

User_1920: You’re the one who knocked. I’d lean in, let you feel the heat off me. Undo the first button on your shirt. Then the next. Slow enough to make you ache for the next part. I’d watch your breath catch.

USAnonymous: It’s quicker.

User_1920: I know. I’d still take my time.

USAnonymous: Then what?

User_1920: I’d ease you back in the chair. Thumb against your sternum. The other hand would trace your lips. Just enough to feel how warm they are. Just enough to remind you to wait.

USAnonymous: I want to suck em.

User_1920: My fingers or my cock?

USAnonymous: Whichever you ask me to. Though I hope it’s both.

User_1920: Then start with my fingers. I want you to show me how much you mean it.

USAnonymous: I'd take them slow. One at a time. I’d be so good for you.

User_1920: You’d would. You’d suck them like it was practice. Like you knew what came next and wanted to be good for it. I’d watch the way your mouth moves. Let my thumb drag across your lip when you pause. Tell you what a good job you're doing.

USAnonymous: I’d thank you.

User_1920: Good. Because once your mouth is ready, I’d stand you up. Kiss you hard, no teasing. My hand would be in your hair. And I’d ask if you’re still sure.

USAnonymous: I’d say yes.

User_1920: Good. Then I’d undo your belt. Make you sit again and work yourself up for me.

USAnonymous: You're not fair. You're not even close to fair.

User_1920: You’re the one who knocked.

And he had to admit, it was surprisingly coherent for two people typing with one hand.

He liked the way USAnonymous would ask questions. Even if Bucky didn’t have clean answers. He liked the way he listened. Earnest. Hesitant sometimes, like he didn’t trust himself to get it right. but he wanted to. Badly. That part came through, even through a screen. That wanting.

USAnonymous: You ever talk to someone and feel like… your whole body just lets go?

User_1920: Like a system reboot?

USAnonymous: Exactly. Like I’ve been waiting for impact for years, and then this one voice just tells my shoulders they can drop.

User_1920: Sounds like something good.

USAnonymous: It is. You are.

User_1920: You don’t even know me.

USAnonymous: That’s the thing, I feel like I do. I know the way you ask questions. I know how you wait and don’t need to fill silence with talking. I know you don’t flinch when I say something weird. That’s not nothing.

User_1920: It’s not.

USAnonymous:You’re helping me let go of someone I used to think I’d never get past.

User_1920:Yeah?

USAnonymous: Yeah.

The coffee was still brewing when Walker walked.

Bucky didn’t turn around. He could tell it was him from the boots. That heavy-footed, too-confident gait that usually made Bucky tense without realizing it.

Except… today, it didn’t come with excessive noise.

No muttered commentary. No endless questions. Just… soft steps. And then:

“Hey, Bucky.”

That made him pause.

Not Sarge. Not Barnes. Not a grunt or a nod.

Just Bucky.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You hit your head or something?”

John gave a weak smile. “Not lately.”

The coffee pot beeped.

Bucky grabbed two mugs out of habit and poured one, sliding it halfway across the counter without asking. John took it with a half smile, but didn’t drink.

“I’m, uh…” John cleared his throat. “Getting emails. From Raynor.”

Bucky raised a brow.

John exhaled. “She’s asking about that group thing again.”

Bucky leaned back against the counter. “Yeah. I got the same message.”

John nodded, eyes on his mug. “She said if we both agree, she’ll extend our next sessions. Push ‘em out another month.”

Bucky took a sip of coffee, slow. “Buying our cooperation now?”

“She’s… persuasive,” John said, then amended, “Manipulative. That’s the word. She knows how to get her way.”

That got a snort out of Bucky. “You’re not wrong.”

For a second, the kitchen was quiet again.

Then Bucky asked, “You sound like you want to do it.”

John didn’t answer right away. He looked like he was trying to read something in his coffee, or maybe just avoid meeting Bucky’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Feels like a trap. But… I figure if we’re gonna keep stepping on each other’s toes, might as well figure out why.”

Bucky looked at him, really looked at him.

There was something about John today that felt… off-kilter. Not in a bad way. Just not sharp around the edges like usual. Like he’d stopped trying to bounce off walls and started wondering what it would be like to just… sit still for once.

Bucky sighed.

“Fine,” he muttered. “One session.”

John looked up. “Yeah?”

“I said one,” Bucky warned, pointing at him with the mug. “Don’t get cocky.”

John lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But something in his face softened.

They drank the rest of their coffee in silence. Not comfortable, exactly, but not tense either.

They didn’t arrive together of course.

That wasn’t the kind of thing they did.

Walker was already there when Bucky stepped into the small waiting room. Seated in the far corner chair, hunched slightly like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. Or his face. Just gave a small nod , almost sheepish, and looked back down at the floor.

Bucky didn’t nod back.

He just crossed the room and took the seat furthest from him.

Not out of spite. Just habit. Distance was easier. It gave them both something to do with the tension.

The room was silent.

Walker shifted in his chair, then stilled again. One foot tapped once, then stopped. He rubbed the side of his thumb like it itched. Bucky watched out of the corner of his eye.

He wasn’t any better. His fingers curled and flexed once on his knee. Jaw tense. Staring straight ahead like he was bracing for a mission brief, not a therapy session.

The clock hit 1:00.

The door opened exactly on time.

Raynor appeared. She looked like she was taking stock of the scene.

“Alright, gentlemen,” she said, stepping aside to let them in. “Let’s give it a try.”

Walker stood first.

He didn’t look at Bucky.

Bucky stood too.

Just enough stiffness in his shoulders to make the point: this wasn’t his idea.

They followed her in single file, not speaking.

The first thing they noticed was that the furniture was gone.

Just Raynor’s chair, in its usual place by the window, and a single, uninviting stool in the middle of the room.

Bucky stared at it. So did John.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then John cleared his throat. “Is this a musical chairs thing or…?”

Bucky turned his head, slow and unimpressed.

John raised his eyebrows like he was just asking a reasonable question. “What? It’s either that or one of us is supposed to sit on the other’s lap, and I don’t think that counts as progress.”

Bucky glared at him. Considered walking out.

Raynor cut in before he could decide. “No one’s on anyone’s lap. You’re both sitting. Back to back. On the stool.”

They both turned to look at her.

Bucky scoffed. “What, you’re gonna spin us around and see who cracks first?”

Raynor didn’t even glance up from her notes. “James, if you derail this before it starts, I’ll drag Sam into the next session.”

Bucky’s mouth snapped shut.

John made a small sound, something between a laugh and a cough, but wisely didn’t push it.

Raynor gestured toward the stool. “Go on.”

They hesitated. Stared again at the impossibly small surface.

Then, with matching sighs and absolutely no coordination, they approached it.

Bucky sat first, stiffly, on one edge. John followed, shifting awkwardly onto the other side, his back bumping lightly against Bucky’s.

“Jesus,” John muttered. “This feels like a middle school trust exercise.”

“Sit still,” Bucky said, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

“I am still. You’ve got pointy elbows.”

Raynor gave them both a look. “Excellent. Let’s begin.”

Neither of them spoke.

Raynor flipped a page in her notebook. “I’ve noticed that tension spikes whenever the two of you are in the same room. So, today… you’re not going to see each other.”

Bucky shifted on the stool, just enough to make his discomfort known. “You know there are easier ways not to see each other. Like doors. Or quitting.”

“Noted,” Raynor said, unimpressed. “But this is more productive.”

“Debatable,” Bucky muttered.

“You’re not here to talk to each other. You’re here to speak about each other. You’ll answer what I ask, and you’ll do it without reacting.”

John shifted slightly behind Bucky, the pressure of his back moving for just a second, then going still.

“Okay,” Raynor said, flipping her notebook open. “Bucky, what’s something you think John wants but doesn’t ask for?”

He snorted. Couldn’t help it. “Besides a medal?”

“Answer seriously.”

Bucky hesitated. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

“He wants people to think he’s the solution,” he said finally. “Not the problem.”

Behind him, he could feel Walker freeze.

Raynor made a small note. “John?”

John cleared his throat, voice more careful than usual. “Yeah?”

“Same question. What do you think Bucky wants but doesn’t ask for?”

A long pause.

Then, “Peace and quiet,” John said, trying to make it a joke but failing somewhere in the middle.

Raynor didn’t laugh. “Try again.”

John exhaled. “To be left alone. But… not abandoned. If that makes sense.”

Something tight flickered behind Bucky’s ribs.

Raynor looked down again. “Interesting.”

Neither of them said anything.

Raynor let the silence stretch for a moment. Like she knew neither of them would break it unless she gave them reason.

She flipped to a fresh page in her notebook. “Bucky, what’s something John does that you think he doesn’t realize?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the seam of his jeans.

“He talks a lot. Jokes, rambles—

“Uh, actually, I do notice tha—”

“John, it’s not your time to talk,” Raynor cut in sharply, not even looking up from the page.

John went quiet again. Bucky could feel the tension ripple between their backs.

Raynor gestured for him to continue.

“He just keeps going. I don’t think he knows what to do with silence, so he tries to fill it .”

Raynor glanced over her glasses. “And what do you think that means?”

“It means he’s scared to be alone with himself,” Bucky said, voice a little lower.

Behind him, John shifted again. Didn’t speak.

“John,” Raynor said. “What’s something Bucky does that you think he doesn’t realize?”

A long pause. John’s breath was audible, like he’d started to answer once, then stopped.

“He waits,” John said. “He doesn’t trust people to stick around, so he doesn’t try first..”

Raynor tilted her head. “What does that tell you?”

John took a beat. Then: “That he doesn’t trust anyone to meet him halfway.”

Bucky stared hard at the floor, jaw tight.

Raynor turned a page. “Alright. Next.”

“What do you wish the other person understood about you?”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “That I don’t need fixing. I know what’s broken, I just don’t want someone poking at it like it’s theirs to repair.”

John’s reply came slower. “That I don’t need to be invited all the time,” he said. “but I’d like the door not slammed in my face.””

Neither of them moved.

Raynor didn’t interrupt the silence that followed. She let it sit with them. Heavy, but not punishing.

She flipped the page in her notebook again, then looked up. “Have either of you noticed anything different about the other lately?”

There was a pause. Bucky didn’t move. John shifted just enough for his shoulder blade to bump against Bucky’s, like he was thinking.

“I guess I’ll go,” John said finally. His voice was low. Careful. “He doesn’t roll his eyes at me as much. Might be a trick of the light, though.”

Bucky made a small sound, barely a scoff.

Raynor ignored it. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” John said. “He listens more. Or at least seems to be.”

Raynor nodded. “James?”

Bucky took a second. “He’s calling me by my name.”

Raynor looked up. “And that’s different.”

“He used to call me ‘Sarge.’ Now it’s ‘Bucky.’” He paused. “It’s… weird.”

John half turned his head. “I thought you didn’t like it.”

“I thought you said it was out of respect.”

“I still respect you.” He turned more now, searching Bucky’s profile. “That hasn’t changed.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted, like he was grinding the thought down to something smaller.

“You looked disturbed just now when you said it,” Raynor added.

“I’m not disturbed,” Bucky muttered. “I just—”

He cut off, jaw working for a second like he couldn’t quite name it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I just didn’t notice it until he did it. And then I couldn’t not notice.”

Raynor was quiet for a beat. “Why do you think it bothers you?”

Bucky shrugged, but it was sharp and unconvincing. “I didn’t say it bothered me. It’s just different. Like something changed.”

John shifted slightly behind him.

Raynor turned to John. “John, has there been anything different?”

He was quiet for a long second. “Well, kind of.”

An even longer pause.

Then: “I, uh, kind of … met someone.”

Bucky blinked, not expecting it.

Raynor didn’t react, just wrote something down. “Go on.”

“Uh, that’s pretty much it. I met someone and it’s going well.”

Bucky blinked again. Just once, slow. Like he needed a second to process what he’d heard.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t move. But something in his spine locked up, just enough to notice.

John had met someone.

John.

Of all people.

Not that he thought the guy was incapable. But...no, yeah, he kind of did. Not in a mean way, just... John was loud. Abrasive. Always one step away from saying the wrong thing or puffing up like he needed a fight. He wasn’t exactly the picture of someone people chose easily. And yet—

And yet he said it like it was simple. Like of course someone would want him.

Bucky’s jaw shifted. He tried to tell himself it was nothing. That it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t weird.

Except it was weird. And it did matter, apparently. Because now his stomach felt like it was full of static, and his brain was spiraling through questions he didn’t even want to ask.

Who?
How long?
What kind of person even—

He stopped himself.

It wasn’t his business.

Didn’t stop him from wondering, though.

Raynor kept writing.

John exhaled like the hard part was over. “It’s nothing serious. Well, not yet. Just nice. Feels easy.”

Bucky swallowed once, hard, but didn’t speak.
Didn’t trust himself to.

He wasn’t mad.
He wasn’t... anything.

It just didn’t make sense. That was all.
Just didn’t make sense at all.

As the session drew to a close, Raynor snapped her notebook shut with a decisive thwack and looked between the two of them.

“I have homework for you both,” she said, tone deliberately casual. “Do something simple after this. Take a walk. Get coffee. Just… something low-stakes. Together.”

Bucky gave her a flat look. “I’m actually already booked. I always meet with Sam after this.”

“Perfect,” she said without missing a beat. “John can join you.”

There was a pause.

Bucky blinked, slow. “That’s not—”

“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” John cut in, too quickly. “Sam doesn't exactly love me.”

But it was decided.

The diner was the same as always.

Bucky spotted Sam in their normal booth right away. Looked like he already got started with an appetizer.

Sam looked up as they came in and raised an eyebrow, chip and dip in hand.

“Two-for-one therapy day?” he said, grinning.

Bucky half shrugged. “I’ll let Walker tell it,” he muttered, already peeling off toward the bathroom without another word.

John stood there for a second, watching him go. Sam tilted his head and gestured for him to sit.

“Unless you’d rather stand there and pout.”

John huffed, but took the offered seat across from Sam. The vinyl gave a little groan under his weight.

They sat in awkward silence for a beat. Sam took another bite. John fiddled with a fork.

“So,” Sam said finally, “you two have a good time? Go alright?”

John gave a shrug. “Not terrible. Weird.”

Sam waited.

“I mean, she had us sit on this one stool. Back-to-back. Said something about us always getting tense around each other.”

Sam raised both eyebrows. “And that helped?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? We said some stuff. She asked questions, we answered. And I, uh, I talked about a person I’m seeing.”

That caught Sam’s attention.

“You’re seeing someone?”

John shifted in his seat, shoulders rolling like he was trying to physically shrug off the question. “Sort of. Not officially. It’s new.”

Sam cocked his head. “Okay, I wouldn't have thought... But good for you man. ”

“I mean, it’s not a big deal yet.” John waved a hand, trying to minimize the weight of it. “It’s just this person I met online. We’ve been talking for a while.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, leaning in a little. “Online? You joined Tinder?”

John snorted. “No. Nothing like that.”

Sam didn’t look away. Just waited, clearly expecting clarification.

John sighed, running a hand through his hair like he regretted bringing it up. “It’s, uh… more specialized.”

That made Sam pause.

He took a slow sip of his water, eyes narrowing over the glass. “Specialized how?”

John suddenly became deeply invested in the salt shaker. He turned it slowly in his fingers, voice low. “It’s just...look, I wasn’t really looking for anything. I joined out of curiosity. Mostly. But we started messaging, and it clicked.”

Sam raised both brows. “So it’s not Tinder. I’m guessing not Hinge. It’s a regular forum on some weird niche topic and now you think you’re dating someone?”

John gave him a sharp, annoyed look. “They're a real person.”

“Sure. What’s their name? Do you know what they look like?”

John immediately looked even more uncomfortable. “Well, no.”

Sam stared. “So… you’re falling for a stranger on the internet you’ve never seen or spoken to outside of text.”

“I never said I was falling for them,” John muttered, defensive now. “I said we’re talking.”

“You said it clicked.”

“It did.”

Sam sat back. “Clicked with what? Their username?”

John scowled. “We’ve been messaging for almost two months now. And it’s not shallow. It’s actual conversations. Long ones.”

Sam hummed, skeptical but clearly entertained. “Okay. What do you talk about?”

John hesitated, then shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Stuff I don’t usually talk about. Things I’m thinking. Things I want.”

“That’s vague.”

“Well, I’m not giving you a transcript, Sam.”

“Didn’t ask for one. Just curious what kind of stuff gets shared on… what’d you call it? A specialized forum?”

John didn’t answer that.

Sam’s eyes narrowed, clocking the dodge. “Is it one of those, like, a Star Wars roleplay site? Is that what this is?”

“What—no.” John made a face. “Why would you even...no. It’s not sci-fi.”

Sam swirled another chip. “Okay. Not sci-fi. Not dating. Not casual. Not visual. Just talking. Deep, meaningful talking with a stranger you won’t name, on a site you won’t describe.”

John looked ready to crawl under the table. “You make it sound weird.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s got all the makings.”

“It’s not. It’s just, this guy gets it. Like, I don’t have to explain myself every time I have a thought. He doesn’t act like I’m too much, or broken, or hard to read. He just… talks back. Like I make sense.”

Sam didn’t say anything for a second. His teasing edge softened, just a bit. “Well, if it is what you say it is, then maybe you got something good.”

“Yeah,” John said, quieter now. “Maybe.”

There was a pause. A flicker of something else passed across Sam’s face, understanding, maybe.

Then he cleared his throat. “So. You don’t know his name. You’ve never seen his face. But you trust him.”

“I don’t not trust him.”

Sam gave him a long look.

John bristled. “It’s not like I’m giving him my bank info.”

“Yet.”

“Sam.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam held up a hand. “So what do you know about him?”

John hesitated. “He’s smart. He’s… older. I think. Not old, just...like, lived-in. He writes in this calm, dry kind of way, but he notices everything. Picks up on small stuff. Calls me out when I’m deflecting. I don’t know. I like how he thinks.”

Sam’s eyebrow went up again. “And this is just… talking?”

John hesitated, slightly flushed. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“There’s some, structure to it.”

Sam blinked. “Structure.”

John squirmed. “Yeah. Like… rules. Sometimes he tells me what to try. Things to notice. Ways to manage… moods.”

Sam stared at him.

Then, slowly, leaned forward, elbows on the table. “John. Just out of curiosity. What kind of site is this, again?”

John exhaled, frustrated. “I didn’t say.”

“You gonna?”

“No.”

Sam didn’t move for a second.

Then he nodded, slow, exaggerated, and a look of deep amusement spreading across his face..

“What?” John squinted suspiciously, “why are you smiling like that?”

“Smiling? Who’s smiling? I’m just happy for you and your… structurally sound mystery man.”

Chapter 6 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Something was going on with Sam. He was being a dick. More than usual.

Bucky knew it from the moment he heard him humming behind him in the gym, off-key, smug, and entirely too chipper for someone who hated mornings. Bucky didn’t turn. Just kept scrolling through his phone, thumbs idle on the keypad while he reread a message for the third time.

“Texting your boyfriend?” Sam asked, like it was casual.

“No,” Bucky said flatly.

“You hesitated.”

“I didn’t.”

Sam circled around to the bench in front of him, looking insufferable. “Is this the same guy you’ve been messaging? The one with the… what was it… messy vibes?”

Bucky gave him a look. “You’re making that up.”

“Oh, am I?” Sam widened his eyes. “You said he was honest. Responsive. Talkative in a fun way.”

“I never said talkative.”

“You heavily implied it.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath and locked his phone.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So how’s it going with him? You confess your undying love yet?”

“There’s no love,” Bucky said. “It’s not like that.”

“No feelings?”

Bucky hesitated a beat too long.

Sam smiled. “Ah.”

“Stop.”

“I’m just asking,” Sam said, all mock innocence.

“You’re the one who won’t shut up about it.”

“Because it’s funny,” Sam said.

Bucky looked at him, unimpressed. “You done?”

“Not even close.” Sam’s grin widened. “What’s he like?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve been talking for how long?”

Bucky shrugged. “Couple months.”

“And you don’t know?”

“I know what he says. I know how he writes. That’s enough.”

“Man, you are so down bad,” Sam said, almost gleeful. “You’re out here defending a dude you’ve never even seen.”

Bucky stared at him. “Why does that bother you?”

“It doesn’t,” Sam said too quickly. “I’m just trying to imagine what kind of person gets you to open up. Bet he’s weird. Has to be. Probably really into honorifics.”

Bucky glared. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sam said, brushing it off. “Just picturing the dynamic.”

“You’re an actual dick.”

“And you’re deflecting,” Sam shot back.

Bucky made a sound like he was seriously considering violence.

It didn’t stop there.

Once Bucky started paying attention, he realized it wasn’t a one-time thing.

The next time, they were back from a mission, low-stakes, rural, muddy. Everyone was beat, but in decent spirits. Ava had taken off her boots before even getting back to the van, and Yelena was still muttering about the “unholy marriage of cow shit and American air.”

They’d showered at the compound, and Bucky was halfway into his usual post-mission uniform: black jeans, fitted t-shirt, worn leather jacket.

He was tugging the jacket over his shoulders when Sam walked in and gave a low whistle.

“Damn, Barnes,” Sam said, leaning against the doorway with a smirk. “You think that leather look’s doing it for you, or…?”

Bucky froze, his hand still on the collar.

Across the room, John, who’d just sat down to tie his boots, stopped mid-loop. His gaze flicked up, fast, then dropped again, too casual.

“What?” Bucky asked, slow.

Sam grinned, too wide, too pleased. “Just wondering if you’re trying to make a statement. Leather looks good on you”

John made a sound, sharp, too loud for clearing his throat.

“I’ve worn this jacket since before you were born,” Bucky muttered, zipping it up.

“Oh, I know,” Sam said breezily. “Vintage’s back in style. Especially the, you know, structured kind.”

Bucky gave him a flat look, but Sam had already turned away, tossing a bottle of water into his bag like the conversation hadn’t meant anything.

It came up again during a field op in the Rockies. Nothing flashy, just a recon sweep and extraction, but the terrain was steep, and the pickup zone was three miles past a washed-out incline.

They rigged a safety line across a narrow pass. Bucky was crouched near the edge, threading rope through a figure-eight knot with steady hands, shoulders tense under a thermal shirt that didn’t hide much. The wind bit through their gear, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Alexei, watching from behind with a thermos in hand, gave a grunt of approval. “Reminds me of the mountains near Irkutsk. Cold, quiet. Except in Russia, the rope would be frozen stiff and someone would already be dead.”

No one asked him to elaborate. He kept sipping like it was a compliment.

John stood nearby, eyes on the perimeter, until Sam sidled up beside him, arms crossed, watching Bucky work.

“Man’s good with rope,” Sam said, low enough to be private.

John glanced at him, wary. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” Sam tilted his head, watching the sharp, precise way Bucky secured the anchor point. “Knows his knots. Knows how to hold tension. Bet he could tie someone down with one hand and still keep the slack perfect.”

John stared. “What the hell kind of complement is that?”

“Technical one,” Sam said, all innocence. “You ever work with someone that clean? Everything balanced. Tight where it counts, but not cutting circulation?”

John turned his face slightly like he was scanning the ridge, but the flush across his neck was hard to miss.

“Looks like muscle memory,” Sam added, not letting up. “Makes you wonder where he learned it. Field training? Or somewhere more… recreational?”

Bucky stood and gave a sharp tug to test the line. “We’re good to go.”

John gave a noncommittal grunt, stepping up to clip his harness in. He didn’t look at Sam. He also didn’t look at Bucky.

Sam, grinning like he’d just won something, took his sweet time following.

Later, Bucky was in the locker room, towel around his neck, knuckles red from training, when he heard the door swing shut behind him.

He didn’t look up. “If that’s Sam again, I swear to God—”

“It’s me,” John said.

Bucky didn’t turn. He reached for his water bottle and took a long sip before replying. “What.”

John crossed the room slowly, keeping a few feet of distance. “You noticed it too, right? Sam?”

Now Bucky looked up. “You mean the endless commentary, the sudden obsession with leather, and the fact that he won’t stop asking stupid questions?”

“So… yes,” John said dryly.

Bucky gave a humorless half-huff and turned back to his locker. “He’s always a dick. Just dialed up lately.”

John leaned against the bench. “It’s not just me, then.”

“No.” Bucky paused, then added, “He’s doing that thing where he knows something but won’t say it. Grinning like a cat with a mouse in its teeth.”

John nodded. “Exactly. You think he’s trying to mess with me?”

Bucky glanced at him. “You specifically?”

John shrugged. “Both of us. Everyone. I don’t know. Just feels off.”

Bucky slammed the locker shut. “Well, let me know when you figure out what game he’s playing.”

They stood there a beat, awkward silence stretching.

Then John said, more casually, “Also… I think something’s going on with Ava and Bob.”

Bucky gave him a look. “What, like… socially?”

“Maybe. Just—odd timing. I keep seeing them sneaking around like teenagers. Coming and going at weird hours.”

Bucky blinked. “Huh.”

“Yeah. I saw Bob leaving the gym at, like, midnight last night. Ava was already there. Lights were off.”

“And you were… where, exactly?”

“Passing through,” John said, clearly defensive. “I don’t spy on people.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it.

Instead, he muttered, “I haven’t thought about either of them in a while.”

John nodded. “That’s the thing. They’ve gotten quiet. And Sam’s gotten loud.”

Bucky let that sit for a second.

Then he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “Whatever it is, I’m not playing detective.”

John watched him go. “Didn’t ask you to.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

The door clicked shut behind him.

For a while, the hallway was quiet. Dim. Echoing with the low hum of overhead lights and the faint scuff of boots two floors down.

Bucky didn’t go far.

Just enough to step away from the noise of it all, Sam’s sidelong looks, John’s half-accusations, Alexei’s unsolicited commentary. Enough to be alone with the only thing that still felt semi-normal.

He pulled out his phone and tapped open the app. The chat with USAnonymous was already pinned to the top.

He stared for a second before typing.

User_1920: Long day. Windburn, frostbite, co-worker weirdness. I swear, it’s like I’m the only one not in on the joke.

It took a moment.

Then the typing bubble appeared.

USAnonymous: Been there. That’s why I stopped trying to be funny. People only laugh when they think you don’t mean it.

Bucky exhaled slowly.

User_1920: Guess that’s why I only laugh in private. Or not at all.

USAnonymous: You do. I can tell. It’s just quieter than most people are listening for.

Bucky stared at that for a long second.

He started typing again, then deleted it. Tried again.

User_1920: You always this good at reading people?

USAnonymous: No. Just you. You’re easier when you stop pretending you’re not tired.

That hit a little too close.

It was late again. Not mission-late, just insomnia-late. The kind where Bucky found himself pacing the compound’s rooftop, hood up, boots scuffing softly against the concrete. Below, the rest of the building hummed with quiet, lights dimmed, hallways mostly empty.

He pulled out his phone. The app opened automatically, like muscle memory.

User_1920: Reread everything you’ve sent me. All of it.

He didn’t expect an immediate reply, it was late, even for them, but the typing bubble flickered to life almost right away.

USAnonymous: I do that too. Sometimes it helps. Like rereading an instruction manual. For a person.

Bucky huffed quietly. A dry, near-silent thing.

User_1920: More like a weather report. Still cloudy. Still cold. But maybe the wind’s slowing down.

A pause.

USAnonymous: You’re poetic when you’re tired. Bet you’d deny that if I said it out loud.

Bucky didn’t deny it.

Instead, he typed:

User_1920: If we ever met in real life… We could just say something from one of these threads. And we’d know.

The bubble appeared fast this time.

USAnonymous: Yeah. Wouldn’t even need names. Just one line.

Then:

USAnonymous: I’d know it was you.

User_1920: I think I’d want you to.

Bucky stared at the screen for a while, the rooftop wind cutting along his jawline..

He didn’t respond right away.

But he didn’t close the app, either.

It was mid-afternoon when Bucky noticed something off. Again.

He was headed to the gear room, cutting across one of the quieter compound corridors, when he heard low voices behind the closed door of the old storage closet—now converted into an auxiliary supply hold. Nothing unusual about that. Except the door was slightly ajar, and the voices dropped the second his boots echoed near.

He paused.

A moment later, it swung open.

Ava stood there, composed as ever, arms crossed loosely over her chest like she’d just been discussing field protocols and not, as it sounded a moment ago, issuing some kind of direct order.

Bob popped into view behind her a half-second later, smiling too wide, hair a mess, and holding—was that a yoga mat?

“Bucky!” he said, voice too bright. “Hey! Didn’t see you there.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Bucky said flatly.

Bob nodded too fast. “Right, no, of course not, just, funny, y’know. How sound travels in this hallway.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “Was there something you needed?”

Bucky looked between them. Ava’s tone was casual. Too casual. Bob looked like he’d swallowed a canary and then panicked halfway through.

“You two have been spending a lot of time together,” Bucky said.

Ava tilted her head, cool and unreadable. “We’re teammates.”

Bob let out a laugh that sounded like it wanted to be casual but came out like a bark. “Yeah, y’know, team bonding! Very important for morale. That’s what Alexi always says. Not that he said it recently. I just mean, in general.”

Bucky stared at him.

Bob visibly tried to shrink.

Ava didn’t move, didn’t flinch. “Something bothering you, Sergeant?”

He hated when she used his rank like that. It was worse than when Walker called him Sarge. Which he wasn’t anymore.

Which was fine.
It was good.
It was what he’d asked for.

It just wasn’t the same.

Not that he’d ever admit that. Not out loud. Not even to himself.

“You’re sneaking around,” Bucky said bluntly.

“We’re not,” she replied.

Bob made a vague gesture. “We’re just, look, I know how it might seem—”

“You’re not the only one around here acting strange lately,” Bucky cut in. “Sam’s being a smartass, and now the two of you are… whatever this is.”

“We’re fine,” Ava said, still calm. “So is Sam.”

That was the thing. She wasn’t lying. But she wasn’t telling the truth, either.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You know something.”

“I know many things,” she said mildly.

“About me.”

Ava smiled slightly. “I know you’re observant. And tense. And that you don’t like unanswered questions.”

That wasn’t a yes or a no. She was doing it on purpose, playing just coy enough to give him nothing while making it feel like something.

Bob fidgeted in the background, glancing between them like he wanted to disappear.

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “You’re waiting for something.”

Ava didn’t deny it.

She just gave him a very slow once-over, her expression unreadable, then glanced down the hall.

“Come on, Bob,” she said smoothly. “We’re going to be late.”

“Late to what?” Bucky asked, too fast.

Ava just smiled again, wry, knowing, slightly amused. “That’s classified.”

Bob waved as they passed. “See ya at dinner! Or, you know, after. Or whenever. Totally normal day!”

They walked off, Bob scurrying to keep up. Ava didn’t look back.

Bucky stood there a second longer, something prickling at the back of his neck.

He didn’t know what game they were playing. But he was starting to get the feeling he was already in it.

It made it worse when he saw Walker and Ava talking softly in the corner of the ops room, right near the gear lockers, backs half-turned like they didn’t want to be overheard. Ava leaned in close, arms crossed, speaking low and steady like she was explaining something technical. John nodded a little too fast, not quite making eye contact. His ears were pink.

Bucky narrowed his eyes from across the room.

He couldn’t hear them, just the occasional low murmur and John’s awkward shuffle as Ava said something that made him glance at the floor. It wasn’t the usual kind of debrief. It wasn’t mission-related. And it sure as hell wasn’t casual.

By the time they split apart, Bucky was already walking.

He cut across the room, deliberate. Ava headed out without looking back, cool as ever. Walker had just turned toward the door when Bucky stepped in front of him.

“So what was that about?”

John blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“With Ava,” Bucky said. “You two having some kind of secret briefing over there?”

John frowned, trying to recover. “It wasn’t— No. Nothing like that.”

Bucky folded his arms. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

John shifted, uncomfortable. “We were just talking.”

“About what?”

John hesitated a second too long. “Stuff. Just… community stuff.”

That didn’t help.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “What kind of community?”

“I don’t know,” John said quickly. “Just, Ava knows a lot. She’s been around. She's… experienced.”

It wasn’t the first time Bucky had heard something like that about Ava. And she was experienced—in tactics, in intel, in taking Bob apart with three words and a single glance. But this felt like something else.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You getting tactical advice from her now?”

John gave a small, humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

Bucky didn’t push, but he didn’t move either. Just held him there in the quiet hum of the room, watching how John wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

And if it bothered him, if the idea that Ava knew something about John that he didn’t made his stomach twist, well. That was nobody’s business.
Not even his own.

Later that night, Bucky found Sam in the compound’s living room, feet up on the coffee table like he owned the place, half-watching a Knicks game with the volume low and a protein shake in hand.

Bucky lingered in the doorway longer than he meant to.

Sam glanced over without turning down the TV. “You look constipated.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said dryly.

“You need something?”

Bucky crossed the room, dropped onto the opposite couch like it hurt. “You know what’s going on with Walker and Ava?”

Sam tilted his head. “Is this a gossip circle now? We doing facials and friendship bracelets next?”

Bucky didn’t bite. He just stared at him.

Sam smirked. “You jealous?”

Bucky gave him a withering look. “No.”

“That was fast. Almost believable.”

“Sam.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam swirled his drink. “What do you think is going on?”

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

Sam gave him a long, amused look. “You’re really shook over this, huh? Didn’t know you cared who Ava’s talking to after hours.”

“It’s not Ava,” Bucky muttered. “It’s… I don’t know. He was talking to her. Quiet. Weird. Like something was going on.”

“Walker’s always weird,” Sam said, waving a hand. “Probably asked her for movie recommendations and didn’t know how to say thank you.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” Sam’s grin widened. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you know something?”

Sam took a long sip of his shake, savoring the moment.

“Sam.”

“Alright, alright.” He set the cup down with a theatrical sigh. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that Ava’s the type to…educate. And let’s say Walker’s the type to be deeply confused by that education. Would that help you sleep at night?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You’re being deliberately vague.”

“And you’re being terrible at pretending you don’t care.”

Bucky didn’t answer. His jaw worked, silent.

Sam leaned back and grinned. “Why don’t you ask your mystery man about it? He seems to calm you down.”

Bucky blinked.

Sam just raised an eyebrow and grabbed the remote. “What? You think I don’t notice when you start smiling at your phone like a weirdo?”

Bucky grunted, stood up too fast, and headed for the door.

That night, Bucky lay in bed staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

He’d tried reading. He’d tried working out. He’d tried ignoring it. But the image of Ava whispering to Walker— Walker , of all people, had lodged itself in the back of his mind like a splinter.

And Sam hadn’t helped. If anything, he’d made it worse. All smug grins and bullshit hypotheticals.

Bucky didn’t even realize he was reaching for his phone until the screen lit up.

He hesitated.

Then opened the app.

The thread was still there. Same as always.

He typed:

User_1920: Question. How do you tell when something’s happening between people around you… and you’re just not seeing it clearly?

A reply came back fast as usual.

USAnonymous: Is this about friends or enemies? Or those confusing people who keep switching sides?

Bucky huffed quietly and thumbed a reply.

User_1920: The confusing kind. One second they’re stiff and hostile, the next they’re whispering in corners. And I feel like I missed the whole middle part.

USAnonymous: Maybe you can ask? Or, if you’re like me, stare at them too long until they get nervous.

Bucky allowed himself the faintest smile.

User_1920: Doesn’t work. They’re both good at secrets. And it’s not like I can just ask what they’re whispering about without sounding paranoid.

There was a minute pause. Like USAnonymous was thinking. Then:

USAnonymous: …maybe you’re not trying to ask. Maybe you’re trying to figure out if you’re included? Or if they left you out on purpose.

That stuck.

He sat with it for a minute, thumb hovering.

Then:

User_1920: I guess I just feel like the people around me are playing a different game. One I have no control over. And I don’t like not being in control.

User_1920 USAnonymous: I get that. Not the control part obv. It’s why I’m here instead of… there. Wherever there is.

Bucky stared at that.

Then slowly typed:

User_1920: Feels like I’m living in a room where everyone’s speaking a language I almost understand. But not quite.

USAnonymous: That’s how I feel when I’m near him. The guy I’ve been telling you about.

Bucky blinked.

Then typed, slower this time:

User_1920: You still talk to him?

USAnonymous: Yeah. Kinda hard not to. We work together. But even when it feels like he barely tolerates me I’m just happy to be around him. It’s the worst honestly, when someone makes you feel like you’re finally might be enough… right before they pull away again.

Bucky stared at the screen, pulse ticking in his jaw.

I’m just happy to be around him

Whoever this guy was, this man USAnonymous kept circling back to, he hated him.

Hated him because he had such a strong hold over USAnonymous but didn’t seem to realize what he had.

And Bucky wanted to be the only man who did that.

User_1920: Maybe I can do something to help you forget about him.

Three dots then —

USAnonymous: I’d like that.

Notes:

Oh, and I do plan on this being actual E. Maybe not quite as explicit as my 'You Me and Him' story but still...up there. I have a few ideas that I think will work for these characters (and Ava). If you have something you'd like to see (kink wise) let me know. I love hearing ideas.
I will update tags as I go.

Chapter 7 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Bucky was stuck in a second-rate grocery store holding the cheapest cake he could find.

Someone, he wasn’t sure who, and he had questions, had decided a team potluck was a good idea. “Bonding,” they’d said. “Low-stakes morale booster.” What it really meant was that everyone had been guilted into bringing a side dish, and Bucky, being last to reply in the group thread, had gotten stuck with dessert.

So now he was standing in the express checkout line of a strip-mall grocery that smelled faintly of mop water and overripe bananas, holding a giant sheet cake that said Congratulations! in neon-pink frosting. It had been on sale, probably because no one in the neighborhood was currently graduating, getting engaged, or surviving a bachelorette party.

The box was sweating slightly in his arms, and so was he.

The line hadn’t moved in several minutes.

The reason: the elderly woman at the front was explaining, in painful detail, the backstory of her cat’s recent surgery to the cashier, who looked like he’d lost the will to live somewhere around the phrase “abscessed tooth.”

Bucky shifted his weight. The cake slid a little in the plastic shell. He caught it before it could smear.

His mind wandered.

He thought back to Ava.

He still couldn’t figure that one out.

She had a pattern, but only in that it didn’t make sense. She’d disappear at strange times, slipping away as soon as a mission was over, skipping shared meals with a half-shrug and no explanation. Sometimes she took Bob with her, and he’d come back looking flushed and too cheerful, like he’d barely dodged saying something embarrassing. But other times, she left alone. Or worse, left with John.

That part stuck.

Because it hadn’t just happened once.

One afternoon, Bucky had been headed toward the gym when he saw Walker ducking out of the eastern corridor,looking flushed and awkward, glancing over his shoulder like he was checking to see if anyone noticed. And not five minutes later, Ava had walked the same path in the opposite direction, cool and unhurried, like she didn’t have a care in the world.

He didn’t see where they were both headed.

Another time, John had vanished from after a mission debrief, muttering something about a call, and Ava was gone a few minutes later. No excuse orexplanation. Just… gone.

It wasn’t like they were sneaking off together, exactly. Bucky had been watching. If they were meeting up, they weren’t touching. No jokes. He didn’t see lingering stares. But there was something there.

Something he couldn’t understand. Or wasn’t being allowed to understand.

And that pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

Because Ava never said more than she had to. And John, well, John could barely lie with a straight face, but lately he hadn’t been saying much at all. Not to Bucky.

“Poor Mr. Wickers,” the woman was saying, voice high and warbly. “He’s just not himself without his little chew toy, bless him.”

God, she was still at it.

Bucky stared at the impulse-buy candy rack with the thousand-yard stare of someone who had once jumped out of a plane without a parachute and still found this worse.

The cashier muttered something sympathetic. The story continued to wonder and so did his mind.

Sam was… well, he was still making comments.

Ones he thought made him funny.

Bucky glanced down at the cake again.

The old woman turned a little, sensing his stare behind her. Her cardigan was floral. Her sneakers had velcro. Her hair was carefully set in a poof and white. She couldn’t have been more than eighty.

Bucky gave her a tight smile and a small, polite wave.

She smiled back at him sweetly, entirely unaware that she was younger than he was by at least two decades.

He looked away.

Another minute passed. The register beeped once, without urgency.

This, Bucky thought, was what he got for not calling dibs on napkins.

He finally made it back.

The cake wasn’t that lopsided, which he was counting as a win.

The team was gathered outside on the concrete patio behind the compound, folding tables lined up in a crooked row under a pair of string lights someone (probably Bob) had rigged along the fence. Nearby, Sam stood over a huge propane burner rig, sleeves rolled up, an apron slung across his chest that read Boil 'Em or Spoil 'Em ..

“Authentic seafood boil!,” Sam stated, watching Bucky arrive.

Yelena and Ava were arguing over who’d cheated last time they played super mario. Alexei had already cracked his second beer and was squinting into the cooler like something might change if he stared long enough.

And John, John was at the far end of the folding table, apart from the others.

He wasn’t eating. Wasn’t drinking. Just sitting there, hunched over, turning a paper napkin between his fingers.

He looked… off.

Sam caught Bucky gaze and looked over at John.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just sulking because I won’t let him help cook.”

John looked up and gave him a glare. Then looked over at Bucky.

“You get the cake?” John asked, already pushing himself up from his seat.

He crossed the grass toward Bucky where Bucky had set the cake down on the table. When he got close enough, he leaned in a little to inspect it properly.

“Congratulations?” John read out loud, like he wasn’t sure he was seeing it right. “Uh, so, who's being congratulated? ”

“Me. For my restraint in not stabbing Sam, you, or myself.”

John huffed, but there was no heat in it. Just a soft twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Uh-huh,” he said, eyes still on the frosting. “Well… it should be... edible.”

Bucky looked back down at it and doubted it.

Sam looked over, brandishing a knife used to cut corn like it was a microphone. “Damn,” he said, taking in the sad cake with mock horror. “That’s the most sorry excuse for a dessert I’ve ever seen.”

Bucky didn’t look over. Just rolled his eyes.

“And don’t think I didn’t notice that his sorry ass cake got less negative feedback then my boil.”

John glaired again.

“Yeah, because your boil is a crime,” John shot back, dry. “You can’t just wing the ratios and hope the seasoning sticks.”

Sam turned like he’d been personally insulted. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” John replied, arms crossed again, unmoved, “if you oversalt the water, you lose the sweetness in the crab. That’s not an opinion. That’s basic chemistry.”

Sam stared at him. “You quoting Alton Brown at me?”

“No,” John said. “I’m quoting me . Who grew up cooking Sunday dinner for the church crowd and once placed first at the Georgia State Fair chili cook-off.”

“You made chili,” Sam deadpanned, standing near the big propane burner set up at the edge of the patio. “This is seafood.”

John rolled his eyes and walked over to the boil pot. He grabbed a long metal spoon resting on a clean towel, stirred once, then fished out a sausage.

He blew on it and took a bite and chewed.

Then made a face.

“It’s not even spicy.”

Sam straightened, affronted. “Not spicy? Man, I toned it down for the international crowd. You want to make Yelena breathe fire? Be my guest.”

From the bench, Bucky muttered, “You are both out here performing like this is Iron Chef: Pain Edition.”

Sam didn’t miss a beat. “You saying you’re also into pain? Cool. Good to know. Something you two can bond over. Very, wholesome.”

Bucky looked up slowly. Gave Sam the kind of deadpan stare that usually meant violence. Then stood.

He walked over to the burner setup and stood in front of Sam and John..

“Walker,” he said, voice level, hand out. “Give me that knife. I need to stab Wilson and then scrape ‘congratulations’ off that cake.”

Sam grabbed the knife first and gestured.

“If you’re going to be like that, go back inside. I’ll call when it’s ready.”

Bucky gave Sam a look, glared again, then shrugged, turned, and headed inside. He missed John giving Sam a look like Bucky was the master who just downgraded his favorite dog and may be looking for a new one.

It was nearly an hour and a half later when Ava appeared in the doorway like a grim reaper.

She didn’t knock. Just leaned her shoulder against the frame, chewing on something and looking vaguely entertained.

“Barnes.”

Bucky looked up from where he was still half-slumped on the couch, flipping through a book he hadn’t actually read a page of. “What now?”

“You’re needed outside,” she said. “There’s been a situation.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The kind of situation that requires me? Or the kind where I pretend I didn’t hear you?”

Ava popped the rest of whatever she was chewing into her mouth, and shrugged. “Walker made a second boil.”

Bucky blinked. “What? Why?”

Ava just tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Why does Walker do anything?”

That didn’t answer anything. But it didn’t surprise him either.

As they stepped out into the sun-drenched patio, Bucky was immediately greeted by a burst of heat and spice in the air. And Sam, who met Bucky at the door and leaned in with an exaggerated whisper: “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Sam just grinned like he’d said something profound and clapped him on the back before sauntering toward the burner.

John was at the far side of the yard, standing a little too stiffly next to a second pot. His sleeves were pushed up, collar damp with sweat, face pink from heat or nerves—maybe both. His hands were fidgeting, fingers brushing along the rim of the pot like he didn’t know what to do with them now that it was done.

Two identical bowls were set out on the table in front of him, neatly arranged side by side.

Bucky stared at them. Then at the men. “Really? I’m a food judge now?”

Sam stepped back with both hands raised in mock surrender. “Hey, you’re the one we trust with dangerous decisions.”

“Is that what this is?” Bucky muttered. “Dangerous?”

John gave a short laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just pick whichever one doesn’t kill you first.”

“Reassuring,” Bucky said flatly.

He stepped forward, stared at the bowls again, then looked between Sam and John.

Both were watching him way too closely.

John looked like he was holding his breath.

Sam looked like he was holding back a smirk.

“Oh for…,” Bucky muttered under his breath as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “Gonna regret this.”

He picked a sausage from the left bowl. It was good, balanced, smoky almost. Solid. A decent burn.

Then he peeled a shrimp from the right and popped it in his mouth.

And immediately paused.

That one was considerably spicier. Almost painfully so. A sharp burn bloomed at the back of his mouth, then spread through his sinuses like it was kicking the door open on his nervous system. He reached for a napkin, not because he needed one, but just to do something while his taste buds recalibrated.

He went back to the left. Then the right again.

The right hit harder every time. But not in a bad way. The spice was intentional, layered with different kicks. And beneath the heat, it was rich and earthy and warm in a way Bucky didn’t expect.

He blinked slowly and looked back up.

Sam raised an eyebrow, still smirking. “Well?”

Then Bucky peeled another shrimp, slower this time, right from the right bowl covered in heavy spice, and was getting ready to pop it into his mouth.

But just before, he pointed down “This one.” And he popped the shrimp in his mouth and spoke while he began to chew. “I honestly don’t think a restaurant could do it better.”

John tried, and mostly failed, not to grin. His mouth tugged up at one corner, proud and smug. He crossed his arms, and turned to Sam, preening like it wasn’t obvious. “See, like I told you, cooking is my one consistent skill outside running toward explosions.”

And Bucky choked.

Actually choked.

Notes:

I have no idea how to make a boil or how long it takes. If this is wrong, blame google.

Chapter 8 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Bucky was choking on a shrimp.

The others were looking his way as his nose was running and his eyes were watering. His body had apparently decided the only reasonable course of action was to eject the shrimp through every available orifice.

“Shit,” John said, lunging toward him. “I know the Heimlich, just, uh, don’t punch me.”

Sam was already there, slapping Bucky’s back hard enough to qualify as a mugging. “Come on, you’re fine, you’re overreacting. ”

Bucky let out a strangled wheeze, bent over the table, tears streaming down his face. He waved them both off with one hand while clutching a napkin in the other.

John was nervously circling him like he might actually try the Heimlich. He kept reaching out then pulling back, like he wasn’t sure if touching Bucky would help or get him punched.

“I’ll get you a glass of milk. Wait here!” And John turned and bolted for the compound.

“Seriously, man,” Sam said, whacking him again between the shoulder blades. “Are you okay?”

“Stop.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse, but sharp enough to cut through the noise.

Sam didn’t. He gave him another solid thump.

Bucky jerked away with a ragged cough, eyes still streaming from the spice and sheer indignity of it all. “Sam,” he wheezed, straightening just enough to fix him with a glare, “if you hit me again, I will strangle you.”

Sam opened his mouth, clearly revving up for one of his signature smart-ass remarks, something about Bucky liking it rough, no doubt, but then paused. Thought better of it. His mouth closed again.

And that was the moment everything clicked.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, breath still shallow, mind moving faster than his pulse. The shift in Sam’s posture. The double entendres. The smug little smirks every time Walker’s name came up. The offhand comments about spice and pain.

“You knew,” Bucky said, low and accusing.

Sam blinked. “What?”

“You fucking knew! ” Bucky barked, voice raw.

Sam held up his hands, the picture of innocent denial. “Knew what?”

A pause.

Then Sam grimaced,. “Look, I didn’t know know—”

“You figured it out,” Bucky growled. “You figured it out and you’ve been what, laughing at both of us with your shit remarks like an asshole.”

Bucky let out a sharp breath and grabbed Sam by the sleeve. “Inside. Now.”

“We’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this.”

And with that, Bucky dragged him toward the compound to find a private space to talk.

“You better start explaining,” he said, closing the door, voice low and controlled.

Sam didn’t flinch. Just let out a long, world-weary sigh, like he’d been expecting this moment.

“There’s really nothing to explain,” he said, leaning casually against the wall. “Walker mentioned he was seeing someone. After that group therapy session. And… some of the things he said started to sound a lot like the things you said.”

Bucky folded his arms across his chest, eyes narrowing. “Define ‘things.’”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.”

Bucky had a look that said ‘try me.’

Sam watched him a beat longer, then tilted his head. “But seriously. What did he say that made you figure it out?”

There was a long pause. Bucky looked past Sam, like maybe if he stared hard enough at the drywall, he could disappear into it.

“He said he was a good cook,” Bucky muttered.

Sam starred. “That’s it?”

Bucky’s arms tightened over his chest. “Said it was his only consistent skill. Besides running toward explosions. Same words. Exact phrasing.”

A beat.

Then Sam burst out laughing. “Man, if this turns out to be true then it’ll be the funniest thing ever.”

“ If? ”

“Well,” Sam said, pushing off the wall slightly, tone softer now, “we don’t know for sure.”

And suddenly, Bucky felt it in his chest like a cold splash of water, they really didn’t. Not for sure .

It could all be one big coincidence. A stupid, convoluted, humiliating coincidence.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, voice quieter now. “Yeah. You’re right. We don’t.”

Sam straightened, watching him more carefully. “Barnes. Talk to me.”

Bucky inhaled like he was preparing to lie, or trying not to. “You’re right,” he repeated. Then, slower: “It could be someone else.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

“It’s… likely someone else,” Bucky added, though his tone sounded like someone trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “He said things that don’t match up.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Like what?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked silently. His shoulders were tense, his posture defensive.

“He wants to be told what to do. He likes it. Walker fights it every step of the way.”

He paused, his hands together, jaw tight. “He’s just tired of having to be in control all the time ...”

Sam continued his unimpressed look.

Another pause.

“Also, Walker said he is seeing someone.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

Shit.

“He...The other guy,” Bucky added quickly, like that clarified anything, “he said he’s trying to get over someone!”

SHIT.

“You know what,” Sam said, pushing off the wall, “I’m gonna go ahead and leave you to stew in this. Let the pieces click into place at whatever speed you require.”

He walked to the door, opened it slowly, then glanced back over his shoulder.

“Good luck, man,” Sam muttered, already halfway down the hall, hands in his pockets.

As he disappeared around the corner, a familiar voice echoed behind him.

“There you are! I’ve been trying to find you. Is Bucky over there?”

Walker appeared at the doorway, slightly breathless, holding a glass of milk like it was a peace offering.

He stepped inside, slowing as he caught Bucky’s expression. He held out the glass a little awkwardly. “I, uh… I’m really sorry. I didn’t think it was that spicy.”

Bucky stared at the glass. Then at him.

He didn’t take it right away.

But eventually, he reached out. Their fingers almost brushed. The contact was brief.

Bucky closed his hand around the glass and held it for a beat. Then, without drinking, he looked John straight in the eye.

“I can’t do this right now,” he said, voice flat but not unkind. Just tired and guarded. “Out.” He motioned toward the door. “Go.”

John blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “You—what?”

“Just… go.”

John hesitated. His gaze flicked to the milk, the door, then to Bucky’s face again. He didn’t move.

“You sure?” he asked. Like he wasn’t sure whether to leave like Bucky asked, or make sure he was ok.

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. Just stared back.

Then he nodded once, tight and brief.

John’s shoulders slumped. He stepped backward into the hallway, one hand still on the doorframe like he wasn’t sure he wanted to let go.

“I’ll just… be out there.”

Then he was gone. And Bucky slammed the door.

John stared at the closed door, full of tangled emotions he didn’t have the energy to sort out. He should walk away. Let it go. Stop being this goddamn pathetic.

But he didn’t move. Not at first.

He finally turned and started slowly down the hallway, feet dragging a little like they weren’t convinced either.

He wanted to get over Bucky. Honestly. He was tired of this. Tired of reaching a hand out and constantly getting turned away or burned.

But Bucky always crept back in, a calming quiet in the loud parts of John's brain.

The way he put on his leather jacket like it wasn’t a big deal, even though it made John’s breath catch in his throat. The way he sat, too casual, too grounded, like nothing could shake him. The way he commanded space without even trying, like gravity bent toward him just because he existed.

And John wanted that. Wanted him.

Wanted to be steadied by him. To be held in place. To be given a reason not to keep spiraling.

It was why he’d joined the site.

Five months ago…

They’d been in the middle of a joint operation outside Richmond, extraction and containment, nothing flashy on paper but high-risk on the ground. A biotech smuggling ring had taken over an old freight depot, and the team was running cleanup. Too many moving parts. Too many people improvising under stress. John was prepaid to take control of the scene. He always did.

But then Bucky had stepped in. Issued orders in a voice that didn’t rise or rush. Just clear.
“You two sweep left. No hero shit. We don’t separate.”
“Walker, you’re with me.”

And John had followed. No second-guessing. Just the certainty that someone had the bigger picture in their head, and that if he stayed close, things would be alright.
Bucky’s steadiness had felt like something he hadn’t realized he was missing until it was right there.

They’d finished the mission without a hitch. Clean lines. Controlled exits. Nobody dead.

But later that night, John couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t the adrenaline. He felt calm for the first time in years.

After sitting with it, he realized what it was and found the site two days later.

He found it to be a mixed bag. A lot of people talked in circles, using terms that sounded clinical or performative. But here and there, between the noise, were phrases that clicked .

“I want to hand it over for a while.”
“I don’t want to think, just respond.”
“I feel better when someone else is holding the line.”

Yeah. Yeah, that was it. He wanted it so bad he could taste it.

Then there were the sex bits.

At first, John skimmed past them. Figured they were just people oversharing or roleplaying. Stuff that didn’t really apply to him.

But then one caught his eye. Then another. And more still.

“You don’t move unless I say.”

“You’re safe because I’m watching everything.”

“You take this because I know what you need, even when you don’t.”

It made his breath catch. He wanted … needed, that.

After that he started intentionally looking for those threads.

“I’ll hold your wrists down and make you breathe through it.”

“You don’t come until I say.”

“You kneel, and I touch you when you’ve earned it.”

“You’re good for me when you listen. You want to be good, don’t you?”

It made John imagine being on his knees. Thoughtfully. On purpose.

He read post after post about slow blowjobs given under orders. About being told to stay still, to keep eye contact, to take it all while praise was murmured into his hair.

“You’re doing so well.”
“Don’t think. Just feel it.”
“That’s it, baby, open wider. Let me in.”

John hadn’t realized how much he needed that.

He jerked off to one thread three nights in a row. A story where the Dom made the sub wait. Edge. Obey. Rewarded him with an orgasm only after he’d begged properly, head bowed between the Dom’s thighs.

The praise afterward had stuck in John’s brain like a brand:

“You take me so well.”
“You’re mine when you’re like this.”

That’s what undid him.

The ownership. The safety in it. The idea that someone, somewhere, could look at him, messy, unguarded, flushed, and call that good.

He made his “be matched accordingly” profile that night. Kept it simple. No face pic.

The responses rolled in fast.

But they weren’t what he was looking for.

One messaged him with:
“You’ll be gagged and caged before morning, slut.”
Blocked immediately.

Another opened with a twenty-paragraph monologue about protocols and contracts and how subs should never speak unless spoken to.
John barely made it through three lines.

A third sent a picture of a paddle shaped like a hand and asked, “How many smacks would it take to make you behave?” John stared at that one for a long time before closing the app entirely.

So when he checked his email and saw he had a new message from someone named User_1920, he was hesitant.

The name didn’t scream anything. He didn't notice any warning flags or cartoonish dominance.

He opened it expecting the worst. Another stranger trying to act larger and more in control then they were.

But it wasn’t. It was something possibly good.

After his first message back, and several days with no response, he was kicking himself that he scared the one decent guy that had contacted him.

Then, somehow... User_1920 kept messaging him back. And User_1920 seemed to like him. Seemed to actually want to hear what he had to say. Some messages were serious, some were funny, some were hot.

It felt…right.

He wanted it to work between them. He wanted it enough that he brought it up in group therapy, carefully. Vaguely. Said he "met someone." Said it might be serious.

And then, to Sam, Almost offhand at first, just to test the waters. But what he wanted wasn’t advice. It was validation. For someone else to see what he had and say yeah, that’s real. That matters.

But then Ava showed up and made things more complicated. He noticed her and Bob sneaking around. After asking Bucky about it, and trying to ignore Sam's too-close-to-home innuendos, he walked up to her to try to figure out what was going on.

He found her by the side entrance to the Watchtower gym, halfway through what looked like her cooldown stretch. She didn’t look surprised to see him..

“Hey,” he said.

Ava glanced over without stopping. “Hey.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “So. I’ve been noticing… stuff.”

That earned him a raised brow. “Stuff?”

“You. Bob. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Ava let out a breath, half sigh, half laugh. “Good to know.”

John stepped closer, arms folded tight. “You gonna tell me what’s going on or do I have to keep guessing?”

She finally stood, brushing her hands off on her leggings. “You asking because you care… or because you think it’s your business?”

He hesitated. “Little of both.”

Ava studied him. Really studied him. Like she was picking apart every little twitch in his posture. Her expression didn’t soften, but her tone did. Barely.

“You’re not clueless, Walker,” she said. “But you’re new to this. And yeah. I can tell.”

“To what?” he asked, defensive but curious.

She didn’t answer right away. Just walked over to the water cooler and filled a paper cup. Then handed it to him without comment.

He took it. She watched him like she was debating what to say next. Then she said, flatly, “You’ve got sub energy coming off you like a spotlight. You just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

John nearly choked on the water. “What—okay, first of all, that’s—”

“True,” she said, cutting him off. “Second, I’m not judging. Just letting you know you’re not hiding it as well as you think.”

He looked down, jaw flexing.

“You’ve got the signs,” Ava added. “Always trying to prove you don’t need anyone. Always putting yourself last. But you light up when someone takes charge. You want the pressure taken off. That sound wrong?”

He didn’t didn’t know what to say.

“How—”

Ava sighed. “I’ve been doing this for a while now.”

She looked at him to see if there was judgment coming. There wasn’t . Just curiosity.

“There are places to go, that I go, where it’s normal to want control or give it up. I’m a Domme. A practiced one. I go to local kink nights, clubs, meetups. People talk, scene, sometimes just sit around comparing notes. It’s someplace where it’s normal to be like that. ”

She looked at him again, steady. “You’d fit in more than you think.”

He didn’t know what to think.

He didn’t know what to say.

“And Bob?”

She shrugged again. “He was curious. Told him I’d take him under my wing.”

“So you’re what, dating?”

She snorted, “No, it’s not like that.”

John must have had a look, that she caught. “It can be like that, but it’s not with us.”

She looked at him considering.

“There’s a local club,” she said. “Not weird or culty. Dommes, subs, switches. Some military, some civilians. We meet up. Talk. Often scene, sometimes don’t. It’s not about sex unless you want it to be.”

John blinked at her. “You’re inviting me?”

A shrug. “I’m offering. You’re spinning out. Thought you might want to be around people who get it.”

He gave her a hard look. Ava Starr, who turned invisible when she wanted, who kept people at arm’s length with a glance, was extending something that felt a lot like understanding.

“…When?”

“Thursday night. Industrial district. I’ll text you the address. No pressure.”

She turned to leave, then paused.

“And John?”

He looked up.

“Don’t show up thinking you have to perform for anyone. Just come as you are. That’s the point.”

Then she disappeared around the corner, literally.

Thursday came quick. Too quick.

John stood across the street from a squat, nondescript building tucked behind an abandoned strip mall, pretending he was just another guy waiting on the sidewalk and not someone slowly losing his nerve.

The train ride over had been quiet. Just the steady clatter of tracks and the sound of his own doubts getting louder. He’d almost gotten off at the stop before this one. Almost stayed on past it. But he didn’t. He’d made it all the way here. Now he was staring at the building like it might lunge at him.

It didn’t look like much. No sign. No windows. Just a black-painted door and a discreet keypad. Nothing about it screamed “community” or “welcome.”

He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and paced a little, pretending to check his phone, maybe User_1920 would text. Just as he turned back toward the door, a familiar voice spoke beside him.

“You’re here.”

He jumped. Actually jumped. “Shit, Ava—”

Ava tilted her head, unfazed. “You always this twitchy?”

He flexed his hands. “Maybe. What you said the other day… it stuck with me.”

She gave him a quiet nod. “You plan on going in?”

He looked at the building again and gave a half-shrug. “I got on the train. That felt like enough for one night.”

Ava studied him for a second. “You don’t have to do anything once you’re inside. You can sit in the back. Get a soda. Leave in ten minutes if it feels weird. No expectations.”

He hesitated. She noticed.

Then, casually: “I’m honestly surprised Bucky isn’t here.”

That stopped him cold. “What? Why would he be here?”

She just looked at him. Calm. Almost amused. “Like I said, I can see the signs. And I see how you are around him.”

John blinked. “It’s not like that,” he said too quickly. “Bucky’s not into this. He doesn’t, he wouldn’t…”

Ava raised both eyebrows.

Not in judgment. Just in the kind of silent, knowing disbelief that made him feel like a toddler insisting thunder was God bowling.

“He’s not,” John insisted, but with less conviction this time. “I mean, I would’ve picked up on it.”

“Sure,” Ava said dryly.

Then he had a horrible thought, “You aren’t going to tell him anything about this, are you?”

“You think he’d react negatively.” She asked, tilting her head.

John just gave a small laugh, “He always does when it’s about me.”

She paused in thought, then shook her head. “I won’t say anything to him,” then took a step toward the door. “Come on.”

She led him in.

The entry hall was dim and quiet, painted in muted reds and charcoals. Soft lighting glowed from sconces along the walls. It felt more like a speakeasy than anything sordid—refined, intentional, controlled. A desk at the far end had a guest list and waiver forms, but Ava flashed a card and nodded once. The woman behind the desk smiled and waved them through.

John followed, hands shoved in his pockets.

The next room opened wide, like a lounge crossed with a private studio. It was warm and dark and quiet in a way that felt private but not secret. There were clusters of couches and low tables scattered across the space, broken up by soft curtains that could be pulled shut for more seclusion.

And people. Pairs. Trios. Some watching. Some quietly talking.

Some… not talking.

A man knelt on a padded mat in front of a woman dressed in soft black leather, nothing harsh, nothing cliche. She had one hand in his hair, tilting his head just enough to look her in the eye. Her other hand held a glass of water, which she guided to his mouth. He drank obediently, then lowered his gaze again like it was a relief not to decide anything for himself.

In the corner, another scene played out more overtly.

A younger guy, maybe mid-twenties, was cuffed to a wooden post. Not harshly, his arms were loose, relaxed, the cuffs more decorative than binding. His shirt was off, and a taller woman in a sleek burgundy dress was slowly dragging the tip of a riding crop down his chest.

She tapped his thigh once, then twice, and he nodded without speaking.

She gave a small smile. Then struck.

Sharp enough to make him flinch. Not away from her, toward her. Like he wanted to be closer. Like the sting was welcome. His breath hitched, and he whispered something too quiet to hear. She stepped in closer and spoke low in his ear.

John realized his mouth was dry.

He blinked and looked away, toward the back of the lounge where a man in a suit sat on a couch, completely at ease, while another man knelt at his feet, head in his lap. The kneeling man’s eyes were closed. He wasn’t being touched, wasn’t doing anything but breathing slow and deep. The man in the suit was carding a hand through his hair like it was natural.

And that…

That was the one that got John the worst.

The intimacy of it. The grounding. The way the one man looked steady because someone else had anchored him in place.

John stood there, hands fisted in his pockets, and didn’t move.

Ava leaned in close and murmured, “It’s a lot the first time. Just watch.”

He nodded slowly. “I’m… watching.”

And he was.

Notes:

edit: adding this after the post but how do you feel about John's POV in this story? I meant this to be a one off. If you like it, would you want more, or do you like Bucky's POV better?

Chapter 9 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The next time Ava texted him with a time to meet up at the club, John wasn’t as hesitant.

There was still that weird flutter in his chest when he reread the message— Friday, 8pm. Same place. , but it wasn’t just nerves this time. It was curiosity now. Anticipation, even.

He arrived early again. It was becoming a pattern. He stood outside for a few minutes, pretending to check messages, or re-read messages rather, one hand shoved in his coat pocket.

Ava showed up a few minutes later.

With Bob.

John squinted automatically. “Really?”

Ava gave him a knowing look. “Good evening to you too.”

Bob just gave a friendly smile and a wave. “Hey, Walker.”

John muttered something close to a greeting. It wasn’t worth being rude. He just hadn’t mentally prepared to see Bob in this context, walking up beside Ava like they came as a set. Like this was their thing .

Ava didn’t seem to notice John’s reaction. Or she did, and chose to ignore it.

“I booked one of the private rooms tonight,” she said, casually slipping her card to the woman at the front desk. “Me and Bob have been wanting to try a scene we talked about. You okay flying solo tonight?”

John gave a half shrug. “Yeah. Of course. I mean, I was mostly by myself last time, so…”

Bob turned toward him, cheerful as ever. “Hey, you could always watch, no pressure.”

John’s face twitched in shallow horror. “I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thanks.”

There was a pause.

Ava glanced at him, eyes narrowing just slightly, but not unkind. “You sure?”

John nodded in what he hoped was a convincing manor. “Yeah. Really. Go do your… thing.” He really didn’t want to think about what those two were going to be doing.

Bob grinned, either oblivious or choosing peace. “Alright, man. Have fun.”

Ava lingered a second longer, studying John’s posture like she was reading something in it. Then she just said, “We’ll be in room three if you change your mind,” and turned to follow Bob down the hall.

John let out a slow exhale through his nose once they were gone.

He turned toward the main lounge.

There seemed to be more people here than last time.

The main lounge was fuller with low conversation. Lights were dimmer, casting amber glows across dark wood and leather. What caught John’s eye was the arrangement of chairs and couches facing the far side of the room, where a low stage sat. Curtains framed it, half-parted. It looked like he walked into something just wrapping up. People were standing around discussing it.

He drifted toward the back, trying not to look like he was hovering. Just curious. Just taking it in.

A small group stood a few feet away, murmuring to each other with the easy confidence of regulars. John caught only the end of a sentence:

“...if her Mistress thinks she did well, there will be a collaring ceremony later.”

That made him pause.

He blinked, gaze snapping toward the speaker without meaning to. A woman with a shaved head and a high-necked black dress was laughing softly, while the others in the group, two women and one man, nodded along like it was a foregone conclusion.

John kept staring.

The man noticed first.

He turned slightly, catching John’s expression with a friendly but amused look. “Hey, I recognize you. Last Thursday, right?”

John blinked again, caught off guard. “Uh. Yeah.”

The guy smiled, unbothered. “Thought so. You sat near the corner for most of it. I’m Caleb.” He didn’t offer a handshake, just the name, like they were in on something together. “You just missed the performance.”

John just shrugged. “ Didn’t realize there’d be one.”

Caleb turned more fully toward him, gesturing vaguely toward the stage. “It was a degradation scene. One of the more intense types done publicly, but it was all planned out. They negotiated everything ahead of time.”

John’s brow furrowed. “The part about… collaring?”

“Oh, yeah,” Caleb said, clearly pleased to explain. “The submissive,Brie, has been training with her Domme for about a year. Tonight’s a test, of sorts. If she made it through the scene the way they agreed on, her Mistress is going to collar her after.”

He said it like it meant something important.

John glanced toward the stage, throat dry. “That’s… a big deal?”

Caleb nodded. “It’s like a commitment ceremony. Means she belongs to her Mistress now.”

“So it’s like… getting married?” John asked, brows drawing together.

One of the women, the shaved head one, made a noise in her throat and shook her head, amused.

“God, no,” she said, tone dry but not unkind. “I could walk outside right now and marry someone I met on the train. Five minutes, a courthouse, and a legal signature. Doesn’t mean I trust them with my body. Doesn’t mean they know how to pull me out of a spiral or read my limits when I’m nonverbal.”

John opened his mouth then closed it.

She went on, voice quieter now. “A collaring isn’t about paperwork. It’s earned. Slowly. With intention. It means they’ve done the work—together. Learned each other inside out. Set the rules. Kept them. Broke them. Repaired. Built something around consent and trust and power that works for both of them. That’s what a collar represents.”

“Some people,” Caleb added, “call it a dynamic. Some call it a relationship. Some don’t use labels at all. But the point is, it’s not just sex or a game. It’s a bond.”

He nodded slowly, fingers curling into his pockets. He didn’t know what to say to that. What could he say?

Then the third woman spoke up, dark curls, heavy eyeliner, a playful smirk. “You came with Ava, right? Are you one of hers?”

That got John's attention. “What? Oh, no. God, no. I mean, she’s cool, but not like that.”

She grinned, clearly amused. “Okay, okay. Just curious.”

Then Caleb tilted his head, giving John a slower thoughtful once-over. There was a flicker of interest there, like he was trying to place a puzzle piece and realizing it might fit.

“So what’s your story?” he asked. “You came in with Ava, so I’m guessing you’re more than just curious.”

John shifted his weight, debating how much to say. How much to hand over to a group of near-strangers in a space that still felt new. But something in him had been knotted up for too long, and it felt good, strangely good, to have someone ask. To have the chance to answer.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I guess she… clocked me.”

The group gave knowing little smiles, recognition.

“I joined KinkMeet five months ago,” John went on, glancing down before he pushed through the rest. “Kind of on a whim. I’d been trying to get over someone in real life, someone I thought maybe… I don’t know, maybe there was something there.”

“Was there?” one of them asked.

John snorted, low and bitter. “Not unless I’ve managed to charm him with incoherent rambles and unwanted hovering.”

He didn’t mean to say it out loud. But once it was out, the memory came with it, sharp, embarrassing, and stupidly vivid.

It had been a quiet afternoon. He’d come back from a run and spotted Bucky alone in the kitchen, fiddling with the ancient drip coffee maker. John had walked in, sweaty and winded, called Bucky Sarge and, God, tried to strike up a conversation about coffee . Said something dumb about beans being like people: bitter but an acquired taste. A joke. Sort of. Mostly nerves. Bucky just stared at him.

“Anyway, like I said… I joined KinkMeet and started talking to someone on there,” John said, his voice quieter now. “Anonymous, obviously. We’ve never met, don’t know each other’s real names. But we’ve been messaging for two months.”

He let out a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck.

The others nodded, not pushing, just listening.

Then, from around the corner, a woman emerged, wrapped in a soft gray bathrobe, hair slightly damp with sweat, cheeks still flushed. Her steps were careful, measured, like she was still coming down from something.

The smallest woman in their group lit up. “Brie! You were amazing!”

Ah, she must be the woman who’d just spent the last hour being broken down in front of an audience, on purpose.

Brie gave a tired but radiant smile. “Thanks.”

Caleb stepped forward and held out a bottle of water, which she accepted gratefully. “Seriously,” he said. “That was intense. In the best way.”

Brie sat slowly on the edge of a nearby chair, like her limbs were still catching up with her. Her Mistress wasn’t far behind, appearing just long enough to drape a blanket over her shoulders before retreating again, giving her space but staying close in a way that said, I’m still here. You’re still mine.

One of the other women leaned in, speaking softly. “ You were clear the whole time. I could see it.”

Brie ducked her head, a little shy now.

John stood quietly nearby, watching it unfold. He wasn’t sure what he should be doing, whether he should step back or say something. But no one seemed to mind him being there. No one made him feel like an outsider.

Still, he had to admit to a tiny twinge of jealousy.

Even though he was technically talking to someone in a way that felt deeper than most things he’d had before, it was a far cry from what Brie and her Mistress clearly shared.

The conversation around them was starting to wind down when John asked, “So… how did you two meet?”

Brie looked like she might answer, but her Mistress stepped forward instead.

“I’m Camille,” she said simply, then added with a small smile, “Brie and I knew each other casually but one day she invited me to her bakery. She said she had a special cake she wanted me to try. I knew at first bite.”

Brie smiled up at her.

John looked between the two. The obvious affection there, that apparently started out with baked goods.

Then, suddenly, he had an idea.

He could cook.

And bake.

And do both well .

Hell, he even said so on his profile.

An idea was taking form. He began to picture it.

Bucky, standing in the kitchen, looking confused at first. Then curious. Then surprised.

"Wait...you made this?" Bucky would ask, lifting a forkful, eyes narrowing like he couldn’t quite believe it.

And John would shrug, casual. “Yeah. I cook when I can’t sleep.”

Bucky would take another bite, slower this time. And then he’d go quite, obviously impressed. Because something about it caught him off guard.

John imagined the way Bucky might shift, leaning back against the counter, still chewing, brows drawing together like he was processing something.

"This is good," Bucky would say, finally.

And John, like the idiot he was, would probably make a joke. Deflect it. But Bucky would be ok with it, smile.

Yeah. Yeah, this could work.

It was about an hour later when John met back up with Ava by the front door.

“Where’s Bob?” he asked.

“Oh, he left after we were done,” she said casually, adjusting her coat. “I had others to attend to.”

John just nodded. He didn’t ask for details.

They started walking side by side toward the train station, the night air cool against their skin.

After a beat, John spoke up. “So, I had an idea.”

Ava glanced over at him. “That sounds dangerous.”

He ignored the jab. “What if we hosted a team dinner? Or a cookout? Or hell, even a potluck.”

Ava raised a brow. “At the Watchtower?”

“Yeah,” he said, warming to it. “You know, something casual, low-stakes. I’ll cook. People bring whatever. Maybe even make it a thing, like monthly or something.”

Ava glanced over at him, one eyebrow already arched and a smile starting to form. “So I assume you met Brie?”

John’s head snapped toward her, already on the defensive. “Yeah. So?”

She gave an infuriatingly knowing smile. “Oh, nothing. Just that she’s a very popular baker around here. Apparently so good she wins hearts, and gets collared.”

John huffed, cheeks flushing. “It’s not like that.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m just saying I can cook too,” he muttered. “People like my cooking.”

“I’m sure they do,” Ava said smoothly. “And I’m sure this sudden potluck idea has absolutely nothing to do with impressing a certain emotionally constipated super soldier.”

“Pfft,” John scoffed, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. “No.”

Ava grinned. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. “I just think it’d be good for morale. You know. Team building.”

“Right. Team building,” she echoed, amused.

There was a pause.

“…But you’ll help me plan it?” he asked, a little quieter.

“I’ll send a group text.”

It would be another week before the potluck/cookout finally came together.

John imagined something small and intimate. Spent too long debating between cornbread or biscuits. Settled on both. He pictured prepping a spice rub for chicken thighs he was going to grill himself.

He was even debating on a dessert until he saw Bucky signed up for that. Well, the blueberry pie could wait.

Ava smirked and mentioned, out loud to the group, Bucky, and God himself, that she knew a good bakery.

John nearly threw a pan at her.

But then Sam happened.

He was halfway through arranging skewers in the Watchtower kitchen when the elevator dinged.

Sam strolled in.

Well— burst in, really.

He had sunglasses on. Indoors. Three massive insulated bags slung over one shoulder. A fourth one on wheels behind him.

“Morning, lovebirds!” he called out like he was stepping into a sitcom.

John blinked. “What—”

“We’re doing a seafood boil,” Sam declared, already heading in like he lived here. “I brought crab, shrimp, potatoes, corn, sausage. And don’t worry, I brought the seasoning too. ”

John just… stared.

“This is a potluck,” he said.

“It is ,” Sam said cheerfully, unloading a mesh bag of crawfish. “I’m just making it better. ”

“You invited him?” John asked, turning toward her, whisper-shouting.

She shrugged. “I said something in passing.”

“This isn’t a side,” John hissed, gesturing to the mountain of shellfish overtaking the counter. “It’s a whole event !”

“Exactly!” Sam said, grinning like a man who’d just won a bet no one else knew they were making. “You’re welcome.”

Before John could argue further, the elevator dinged again.

Yelena strolled in, sunglasses on top of her head and a six-pack of weird Eastern European soda in hand. She took one look at the table and let out a low whistle. “Seafood boil? Nice. ”

John tried to redirect. “It’s a potluck . I made skewers. Cornbread. Maybe, pie.”

“Ooooh,” she said, peeking under the foil of one tray. “And it smells amazing , I’m just saying, this? This is going to be good.”

Alexei followed her in a beat later, holding an entire watermelon under one arm and a bottle of vodka in the other.

“Did someone say boil?” he boomed. “I love a boil!”

John rubbed his temples. “No one said boil. It wasn’t supposed to be a boil.”

Bob came in right behind. “I didn’t know what to bring so I just made fruit salad. Is… is this a seafood thing now?”

“Yes,” Sam said.

“No,” John said, at the same time.

They stared at each other.

Sam just smiled and clapped his hands once. “Perfect! We’ll set up outside. More space, better airflow, fewer fire hazards.”

Everyone began to head outdoors.

Ava, already getting up from her seat at the end of the kitchen island, sipped her drink and watched the whole thing unfold like it was theatre.

He shot her a look.

She just smiled sweetly and said, “Don’t worry. I’m sure Bucky will love Sam’s food.”

John’s mouth opened, then shut again.

He tried to salvage the event.

If they were doing seafood, it may as well be done well .

John rolled up his sleeves, and marched out to the patio. “Okay,” he said, loud enough to draw a few glances, “if this is gonna be a boil, we’re at least gonna cook it right. No one wants undercooked potatoes.”

Sam didn’t even look up from where he was slicing corn. “Oh, so now you’re an expert?”

“I’m from Georgia ,” John shot back. “We know a thing or two about seafood.”

Sam chuckled. “Georgia? That’s like claiming barbecue cred from a gas station.”

John stepped in closer, not impressed with Sam’s ‘cooking’.

“I know what I’m doing,” Sam said, tossing some corn right into the stockpot. “Go set the table, Georgia Peach. I’ve got this.”

John glared and forcefully sat at one of the folding tables, muttering to himself about ruined plans. He flicked at a napkin until it tore at the crease, then crumpled it up and grabbed another one just to have something to do with his hands.

He was halfway through folding it into a sad triangle when he heard footsteps on the gravel and Sam’s voice call out, chipper and too loud:
“Don’t mind him. He’s sulking because I won’t let him help cook.”

John’s head snapped up. Bucky was back.

And he was holding a cake.

A very sorry-looking cake. Frosting smudged on one side like it had shifted. Maybe it wasn’t too late to start that pie. The filling was still cooling in the fridge.

Bucky was exchanging words with Sam and at least seemed equally upset at him. He straightened. At least someone got it.

Bucky went back inside to wait.

John sat back down at the table, letting out a slow breath. His leg bounced under the table. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until he caught the edge of the tabletop with his knee.

Across the yard, Ava was finishing up her conversation with Yelena. The two of them laughed at something, and then Ava drifted toward Sam, who was still hovering near the boil.

John tracked the two of them from the corner of his eye.

They were talking now. Low. Close. Ava had that amused little tilt to her head, the one she got when she was encouraging trouble but pretending not to. And Sam—Sam kept glancing over his shoulder, directly at him .

John scowled. He didn’t like that look. It was a plotting look.

He crossed his arms.

Sam leaned in to say one last thing to Ava, who snorted into her drink, before turning around fully and raising his voice for everyone to hear.

“If you think you can do it better,” Sam called out, loud and bright, “how about a little friendly competition?”

Now it was night. Most of the team had gone their separate ways. The string lights still glowed faintly out on the patio, but the leftover food was packed up and the tables cleared..

The so-called ‘friendly competition’ had ended in disaster.

John sat alone in the kitchen, elbows on the table, a plastic tub of blueberry pie filling in front of him. He didn’t even want to bake it anymore. He just pried off the lid, grabbed a spoon, and started eating it straight.

He still couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong.

Why Bucky had choked.

Ava must’ve felt partially responsible for the whole thing, probably because she was , because she sat down across from him without asking, balancing a glass of water in one hand and wearing an expression somewhere between amusement and pity.

He held out the spoon.

She took it with a small shrug. “Might as well,” she muttered, dipping it in. “It smells amazing, for what it’s worth.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes.. Passing the spoon back and forth.

Then Ava spoke.

“John, I think you need to be honest with yourself.”

He glanced at her, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, gently, “everyone can see you have feelings for Bucky. It’s incredibly obvious.”

He didn’t even try to deny it.

Didn’t flinch. Just sighed and stirred the spoon through the filling again, chasing whole berries like they might rearrange his life.

“I know you’re talking to someone else,” Ava went on. “And I’m not judging that. But I think you owe it to them and yourself, to both of them, really, to decide what you want.”

“I know what I want,” John said, voice low. “The problem is it’ll never happen. So I’m trying to move on.”

Ava tilted her head, watching him. “But are you?”

He looked away, jaw tightening.

There was a pause, long enough for him to think the conversation might be over. But then Ava’s voice came again.

“Look… I know you asked me not to say anything.”

He looked up suddenly, a flicker of alarm in his eyes. “Ava—”

“And I won’t,” she said quickly, holding up a hand. “I won’t. I gave you my word.”

He relaxed a little, shoulders easing, but only barely.

“But you should say something,”

She had a look like she was debating how much to say. “I really think that it would work out better than you may think.”

Another pause.

He sighed and was about to tell her why that was a dumb idea when he looked up and saw Bucky enter, holding a still full glass of milk.

Notes:

Bucky's POV will return next chapter

Chapter 10 Chapter Text

After John had given him the glass of milk and quietly stepped out, Bucky didn’t move for a while. He sat perched at the edge of the chair, elbows resting on his knees, the condensation from the glass already starting to bead against his palm.

His mind was running. Fast. Erratic. But underneath all the noise was one question that refused to leave him alone.

Was it really him?

He set the milk down on the nearest table and pulled out his phone. Stared at it.

His thumb hovered over the messaging app.

He tapped it open and scrolled through his list of chats until he found the familiar handle: USAnonymous. Stupid name. Stupid in a way that used to make him smile.

Now it made his stomach twist.

He clicked into the thread. And before he knew it, he was dragging his thumb all the way to the very top. Back to the beginning. To when it all started.

Their first message exchange wasn’t anything special. General questions. Testing the waters. Nothing personal yet. Just cautious back-and-forth.

But something in the tone stuck out to him now.

“Hey, just trying this out, not sure what I’m doing.”

“Sorry if I’m awkward. I’m better at following directions than starting conversations.”

Back then, Bucky had read it as insecurity. Now he read it as Walker.

The pacing of the sentences. The shifts between blunt honesty and attempted jokes. The slight defensiveness. Like the guy was waiting to be rejected before he’d even started.

It was painfully familiar.

The more Bucky read, the worse it got.

He could hear Walker now, in every overly polite message, every sarcastic comment, every attempt at trying to play it cool. The voice had always been there. Bucky just hadn’t recognized it.

Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to.

Because this guy, the one on the other end of these messages, had been consistent. Honest. Eager. Confused. Asking to be told what to do.

And Bucky had started to care.

He had.

He kept scrolling, past the clumsy flirtation, past the tentative praise and long late-night paragraphs. Past the first time USAnonymous admitted that he was exhausted, and that sometimes he just wanted to be told he was doing things right without having to guess.

Walker had never said those words aloud.

But maybe he didn’t want to.

Maybe he already had.

But then he scrolled down to the — more explicit messages.

User_1920: Ok. I’ll tell you what to do.

User_1920: Take off your shirt first. I want you to slow down doing it, pretend I’m watching. Do it like you know someone’s waiting to touch you. Then sit on the edge of your bed. Don’t touch yourself yet. Just sit still. Be good for a minute. Let yourself feel what it’s like to be still.

Bucky remembered writing it.

He remembered how long he’d hesitated before sending. How deliberate he’d made his words.

He kept reading.

USAnonymous: Ok. I’m sitting. You’d laugh if you saw me. My shirt got stuck halfway off and I almost fell over. Still. I’m still. Just breathing. This is weirdly hard.

Bucky had smiled at that, back then. He was still staring at the screen now, but his heart was pounding.

He read his own reply.

User_1920: You’re doing fine. Don’t talk for a minute. Just sit there and feel it. Acknowledge the edge of the bed against your thighs. The air on your skin. Your own breath slowing down. Don’t move unless I say so.

And then came the message that made him catch his breath. The one that lived in the back of his brain.

USAnonymous: I wish I could do this for real sometime. Not just online. I think I’d actually… feel better. If someone was there to say it like this. You make it feel less like I’m broken.

USAnonymous: God, that’s too much. Ignore that.I’m good. I can keep going. Just tell me what you want.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Not now anyway. Then, it was a maybe. Maybe they really could meet up one day. Maybe it would be something good. Maybe there was a future there.

But now maybe had a face.

And that face was Walker.

It didn’t stop there

User_1920: Take your cock out. But don’t stroke it yet. Just wrap your hand around it. I want you to feel what it’s like to be told what to do. I want you to know someone’s on the other end, thinking about how you’re holding yourself. How hard you are.

Bucky’s jaw was tight. He could still remember hitting send. The way he sat perfectly still after, like his own body was on hold, waiting for the reply.

It had come several minutes later. Spaced out, broken. Like whoever was typing couldn’t quite manage full sentences anymore.

USAnonymous: I’m holding it. Fuck. I keep thinking about your voice. I don’t even know what it sounds like but I keep hearing it in my head. Telling me I’m doing good. Please.

Bucky had taken his time replying. He always did, when things got like this. He wanted it to matter.

And when he finally answered, it was slow.

User_1920: Start stroking. Slow. Just the tip at first. I want you so desperate you forget your own rhythm. Tell me what it feels like. Use your words.

Now, re-reading it, all he could picture was Walker, several rooms down, hand on his cock like Bucky told him to, trying to find the words to describe how good it felt. How the head felt slick and swollen in his palm. How much he liked what he was being told.

Fuck .

He stood abruptly. His own body was reacting, heat pooling low.

He took several deep breaths and began to pace. Short steps at first, like if he moved small enough, maybe his thoughts wouldn’t spiral. But they did. Memories coming in fast, his own words typed out late at night, the rush of knowing someone trusted him enough not only do what he said, but wanted it.

But then the other memory hit.

USAnonymous: I want to get over him.

He stopped mid-step.

When he first read that message, back then, he’d been agitated. Possessive, even. He hadn’t said it out loud, hadn’t even typed a response right away, but it had hit something raw. Some ugly, territorial part of him had bristled at the idea of his submissive, his anonymous , thinking about someone else. Wanting someone else.

He tried not to dwell on it. But he did.

He knew that part of himself existed. Had known it for a long time. The part that wanted to claim what was his, that flared at the thought of being replaced or forgotten. The part that didn’t like sharing, didn’t like uncertainty, didn’t like the idea of someone slipping through his fingers. He usually shoved that instinct down. Hard. Kept it under control, beneath layers of logic and restraint and detachment.

Even filling out his profile he wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, that he was looking for that. Because it was too much. Too intense. Too dangerous. He’d learned the hard way that acting on it could ruin things. Make people afraid. Push them away.

But now? Now, with all the pieces lined up in his head, that possessiveness curdled into something colder. He had a sinking feeling in his gut, the kind that landed and stayed.

Because it wasn’t just someone USAnonymous had been trying to get over. It was him.

Walker, John , had liked him. Maybe more than liked. He must’ve seen something in Bucky. Wanted something from him. Hoped that maybe Bucky would respond, would see him the same way. Would want him back.

But Bucky didn’t.

Or not in the way John needed.

And now John was trying to let go. Trying to move forward. Trying to find someone else. Someone who wasn’t Bucky.

He let the feeling rattle around in his chest like a stray bullet.

The deep part of him,the part he didn’t like to acknowledge, wanted to march out of this room, find John, push him against the nearest wall and make him understand. That he wasn’t done. That he couldn’t be replaced. That he belonged to him. Still belonged to him, in every word and every message and every late-night text. Even if Bucky hadn’t admitted it. Even if he hadn’t deserved it.

He shook his head sharply, like it might shake the feeling loose. Suppress it. Down. Further. Further still. That part of him was a relic. An instinct he’d spent a lifetime learning to ignore.

He had belonged to someone once. For decades. And there was nothing romantic about it. Nothing mutual. Just ownership. Control. And pain. He knew better than anyone what it meant to be claimed.

What he should do, what the rational part of him would do, is delete his profile. Erase the connection. Give John a real chance to find someone who could give him what he needed. Someone without baggage and a past soaked in blood. Someone who could be honest about what they wanted.

Someone who wasn’t Bucky.

But that deep deep down, claiming , part of him wasn’t ready to let go.

He took a steading breath. He needed to clear his mind. He needed to go for a run. Maybe then he could do the right thing.

He grabbed the milk and went to his room. Grabbed his ear buds and turned on something loud. Something to drown out the thought.

He’d drop off the glass in the kitchen then head out.

As he was rounding the counter, Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.

John was there, in the kitchen, with Ava, seated at the far end of the island and eating something out of a Tupperware container. The two of them were hunched together like they’d been deep in conversation until just now.

He turned off his music.

John’s eyes met his. He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, like he’d been caught doing something. His gaze flicked from Bucky’s face to the still-full glass of milk in Bucky’s hand, then away, fast, like it stung to look.

Ava turned in her seat, clocking the tension instantly. She gave Bucky a once-over and lifted a single eyebrow. “Didn’t like your milk, Barnes?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, pulse stubborn in his neck, fingers tight around the glass.

John, in the meantime, had gone back to pretending he wasn’t sweating. He shoved another spoonful of whatever he’d been eating into his mouth, too quickly. A smear of blueberry streaked across the corner of his mouth, and he didn’t seem to notice.

Bucky noticed.

And so did Ava. She grabbed a nearby napkin and whipped off the smear. She gave him a small smile and he gave her a grateful look.

His jaw tightened. He bit his tongue. Hard.

Without another word, he crossed to the sink, emptied the untouched milk, rinsed the glass, and slid it into the dishwasher.

Behind him, John’s back was to him now, his shoulders hunched slightly. Head bowed. He was biting his lip like he was debating something, wrestling with it. Ava had the spoon now and was taking a small bite.

Then John took it back. Took a large scoop out. Turned to him.

He held the spoon out, tentative. Hopeful. “Do you want a bite? I made it this morning.”

Bucky looked at them. At the spoon they were obviously sharing.

He swallowed hard, words forming in his throat that he knew would come out too sharp if he let them out.

“I’m not hungry.”

A flicker crossed John’s face, something small and disappointed, but he quickly turned away again, lips pressed tight.

Ava gave Bucky a long, unimpressed look.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asked, voice even. Calm, but with that underlying edge that said she already knew the answer.

“Three hours ago. You saw me.”

“More than half a potato and two shrimp,” she said, not missing a beat. “That doesn’t count.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

He met her eyes and gave her the kind of irritated look that was supposed to be enough to shut people up. But Ava didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just kept watching.

He exhaled through his nose. “I had lunch yesterday.”

Her eyebrows went up. Just slightly. But it said everything.

John turned back to him, giving him a slightly concerned look, like he was weighing whether to say something too. Bucky didn’t look at him. His mind was still flicking too fast, looping on things he didn’t want to think about. He didn’t trust what might come out of his mouth if he opened it.

Ava stood up slowly and pointed at her seat. “Barnes, sit down.”

Her voice was smooth. But it had that tone, like it wasn’t a suggestion.

He raised an eyebrow. Now he was giving her a look. One that said she had him confused with someone else if she thought she could boss him around. He didn’t take orders. Not anymore. Not from anyone. Especially not from someone half his size with a Tupperware lid in one hand.

Maybe it was the suggestion of food, or maybe it was whatever they had been eating, but Bucky's body betrayed him. And to his absolute mortification, his stomach made a small, traitorous noise.

They all heard it.
John looked at him.
Ava smirked, slow and knowing, and pointed again at the chair, like this wasn’t a negotiation and she’d just been waiting for proof.

Bucky worked his jaw. He glanced at the seat like it might bite him. Then, with reluctant tension, he slowly began to walk toward it.

“I’m sure John is more than able to whip up something,” Ava said, voice all sugar and steel. “Right, Walker?”

John looked up suddenly, like he’d just been handed orders from God. “Oh. Yeah! I can—” He bolted upright and lunged toward the fridge, nearly tripping over the rug in his rush.

Bucky once again worked his jaw and he watched Ava walk past John and pat him on the back then make her exit.

The possessive feelings resurfaced and he glared at her retreating back.

He turned his attention to John, who was already muttering to himself in front of the open fridge.

“Okay, okay… shrimp… no. No shrimp,” John said under his breath, casting a wary glance at Bucky then back, like the shrimp personally betrayed him. “Yeah, that’s a no.”

He pushed the shrimp aside and reached deeper, then perked up as he pulled out a covered bowl.

“Oh. Right. The chicken I was marinating.”

He pried the lid off and gave it a sniff, then a little satisfied nod to himself. “Perfect.”

Without waiting for comment, he set the bowl on the counter and moved with practiced ease. He tossed a skillet on the stove, added a bit of oil, and got to work. Chicken chunks went in first, sizzling on contact. He added spices without measuring, a few flicks. Garlic, pepper, a splash of something citrusy from a glass bottle.

Bucky sat, silently watching the whole thing. The pieces sliding into place with the knowledge that this was his USAnonymous. The person he refused to let go.

His stomach growled again, traitorously loud this time.

John didn’t comment. Just shot him a quick glance and turned to keep working.

Bucky didn’t say anything. But his eyes didn’t leave John. Not for a second.

Something in his face must have made John nervous because suddenly his movements were jerky. He reached for the salt shaker then nearly dropped it.

Then reached for a fork but fumbled it. The utensil slipped from his fingers, hit the edge of the counter, and clattered to the floor before skidding directly under Bucky’s chair.

“Shit,” John muttered, already crouching down.

Instinct had Bucky pushing his chair back an inch, but he didn’t move further. Just watched as John dropped to his knees, arm reaching blindly beneath the chair.

And there it was.

John, kneeling at his feet. Nearly between his legs.

It hit him hard. Bucky’s fingers twitched against his thigh.

He fought the urge to reach out, to grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back. Just to see his face. Just to make him look up. He wanted to see that mouth parted in anticipation.

If he shoved two fingers in, would he suck instinctively? Or would he wait, lips just barely parted, eyes steady, needing to be told?

Bucky’s hand twitched at his side.

Would he lean into it, eager and quiet, wrapping his mouth around whatever Bucky gave him? Would he flatten his tongue first, or seal his lips right away, hollow his cheeks to show how good he could be?

Bucky could almost feel it. The warm breath and wet heat. He imagined pushing deeper, pressing past hesitation, letting his fingers rest heavy on John’s tongue until he gagged just a little. Just enough to make him blink, to make him refocus. Then maybe Bucky would ease back, let him catch his breath, and do it again. Slower.

He wondered what else that mouth could take. A third finger. A strip of leather—

“Got it!”

John grabbed the fork off the floor and straightened. Their eyes met.

John froze mid-motion, fingers still curled around the utensil. He looked up at Bucky, wide-eyed, the moment flickering across his face like he’d just thought the same thing.

John swallowed—hard. His throat bobbed, the movement unmistakable. Like he was also thinking what he could do on his knees between Bucky's spread legs.

The moment stretched. Even the hum from the fridge seemed to quiet.

Then John blinked. Once. Twice.

And flushed. It spread quickly, blooming over his neck, across his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears. He looked away like the eye contact had been too much.

John slowly began to stand on shaky legs. “Uh, it … it’ll be done soon.” And slowly turned back to the stove.

Bucky clenched it all down. Every impulse. He shoved it deep and sat there like a man on a leash he wouldn’t allow loose.

John grabbed some rice from a leftover container, added water and butter, and popped it into the microwave to steam. While the chicken finished browning, he opened a cabinet, pulled out a can of beans, and got those simmering too, adding cumin, hot sauce, and a little chopped onion he found in a baggie in the veggie drawer.

It wasn’t fancy. But it smelled… good.

He tried to focus on the scent. Just the scent. Nothing else.

After a few more minutes, John plated it up. Chicken over warm rice, a scoop of beans on the side. He added a sprig of cilantro he plucked from a mug on the counter—then hesitated and removed it. “Never mind,” he mumbled. “That’s kinda weird."

Then, quietly, he set the plate in front of Bucky with a new fork from the drawer.

No big speech. Just a simple offering.

“You don’t have to eat it,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere just past Bucky’s shoulder. “I just… figured you should have something. If you want.”

Bucky watched John’s hands as he set it down.

He wanted to reach out and grab his wrist. He gripped the edge of the table a little harder.

John must have seen his hand clenching and realized how it must look from the outside. Like Bucky was getting ready to hit something, or someone. He knew how it must read.

He forced himself to inhale through his nose. Slow. Deliberate. He loosened his fingers from the table edge one at a time. It took effort.

Then, finally, he picked up the fork.

He took a bite.

John looked like he stopped breathing.

They locked eyes. Just for a second.

Bucky chewed, slow. Swallowed. The silence stretched.

“It’s good,” he said. He meant it.

A slow hesitant smile began to spread across John’s face.

Chapter 11 Chapter Text

The food was good. And he was hungrier than he initially thought. Bucky took another bite, his eyes flicking between the plate and John, who also set down a glass of water next to him.

Now John was moving around the kitchen like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Hands drying the already-clean pan with a towel that didn’t need to be there. Rinsing a spoon that hadn’t been used. Opening the fridge, staring into it for a few seconds, then closing it again.

His shoulders were tense, pulled up too high like he was waiting to be told something, maybe praised, corrected, or dismissed. His body was buzzing with leftover adrenaline and no outlet for it.

He glanced over once at him, quick and cautious.

Bucky didn’t speak. Their eyes met.

Then John’s gaze dropped to the spot on the floor where he’d been kneeling. His eyes flicked between that place and Bucky.

Bucky watched as his mouth parted, tongue running over his lower lip absently.

When their eyes met again, John gave a sharp shake of his head like he could knock the thought away, then turned around and busied himself with the cabinets, opening one, pausing for a few seconds, then shutting it again without grabbing anything.

And Bucky? Bucky was sitting still, eating one careful bite at a time, while every thought in his head kept circling back to the same damn place.

What would John let him do?

He imagined leaning back in the chair, spreading his legs just a little wider, and saying, Come here. Quiet and commanding. No room for confusion.

Would John hesitate? Or would he move automatically.

Would he kneel again? Slower this time. Deliberate. Place his hands behind his back, head tipped down.

He took another bite, still chewing slow, but now his gaze was fixed to the same spot. On the floor where John had knelt. The place where he could kneel again.

He imagined guiding John’s face forward with a hand under his chin. Tilting him up until their eyes met again. Until Bucky could look down and say, Open.

And John would..

Another bite. Bucky barely tasted it now.

He imagined feeding him. Slowly, bit by bit. One piece of chicken at a time, watching his lips curl around the fork. Or maybe he’d eat straight from Bucky’s fingers, lips closing around them just long enough for Bucky to test his earlier theory. Would he suck instinctively, or wait to be told?

He took a sip of water. His grip on the glass was tighter than it should’ve been.

Maybe John would act on his own. Maybe Bucky wouldn’t have to say anything at all.

Maybe all it would take was holding something in his palm, a small bit of the beans, and John would lean in and lick it clean. No hesitation. Just his mouth, his tongue, dragging across Bucky’s skin.

He could almost feel it, the warm breath against his hand. And when he was done, when he’d swallowed every last bit, he’d look up through his lashes, like he was waiting for a verdict. And Bucky would say Good boy.

And John would reply—

“You want more?”

The words landed like a splash of cold water.

Bucky blinked, eyes snapping to where John stood across the room, looking over his shoulder as he rinsed the pan in the sink. His gaze dropped to the empty plate in front of him.

Jesus fucking Christ.
They were in the middle of the kitchen.

He cleared his throat. Sat up straighter like that would somehow help.

“No,” he said, voice even. “I’m good.”

John paused, hand hovering under the stream of water. He glanced over his shoulder again. “Did you like it?”

They looked at each other. Bucky gave a tight smile.

“Yeah, actually,” he said after a second. He nudged the plate with his fingers, eyes still on John. “It was... really good. Kinda surprised me.”

He shifted in his seat. He needed to clear his head. Talk about something else, “Where’d you learn to cook? You get that from your mom or the military?”

“Oh.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… sort of neither? I mean, my mom made, like, four things and they were all casseroles with crushed chips on top. Not bad, but I wouldn’t say inspiring.”

He turned the water off, drying his hands with slow movements like he was buying time. “Boy Scouts, actually. I used to go on these weekend trips when I was a kid, one of the dads taught us how to cook on a camp stove, real simple stuff. Eggs in a bag, foil dinners, that kinda thing. And I liked it. I liked being the one who figured out how to make things work with what we had.”

John leaned back against the counter, shoulders relaxing as he spoke. “After that, I just kept messing with it. Tried recipes, watched videos. And people liked what I made. It made them happy.”

John gave a small shrug.

Bucky’s fingers stilled on the plate. He didn’t say anything for a moment.

“I almost took a culinary class once,” John said, trying for casual. “Thought it’d be a good way to meet people.”

He paused. Long enough for Bucky to catch the flicker of realization cross his face. Like John knew how that sounded and knew Bucky would clock it for what it was, a failed attempt at dating.

John cleared his throat. “But turns out it’s just a bunch of couples fighting over pasta water.”

The joke didn’t land. His smile faltered.

He shifted quickly, searching for safer ground.

“Anyway… still. I’m glad you liked it, Sar—”

The word slipped out before he could catch it.

John winced. “Shit. Bucky, sorry.”

Bucky looked down at the plate, then back up at him. He didn’t miss how John’s mouth twisted, how he flinched like the word had burned him.

“Walker — John —look,” Bucky said, voice lower now, quieter at the edges. “If you still want to use ‘Sarge’... it’s fine.”

John’s brow furrowed. His mouth opened, then shut again. “You sure?”

He hesitated, then added, more cautiously, “You seemed pretty upset the last time I did it.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Was I unclear, soldier?”

John huffed out a small, quick laugh. “No, Sarge.”

A pause.

“I still need to go on my run.” Bucky pulled the earbuds back out of his pocket and stood, already half-turned.

“Oh...right.” John glanced at the bit of food still left in the dish. “Uh, do you want the leftovers for later? Or I could make something new?”

Bucky had already stood. He paused, eyeing him. “What else can you make?”

John perked up slightly. “Oh! All kinds of things. I’m still a little hit-or-miss with Asian stuff, but I’m sure I could figure it out if that’s what you really want.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, not that. Something simple’s fine.”

“…So breakfast?” John offered, a little hopeful.

Bucky gave a nod. “Sure.”

“Great! Cool. Great.” John immediately cringed at how overeager he sounded. “I’ll, uh..I’ll see you in the morning.”

Bucky headed for the hallway, casting one last look over his shoulder.

“Looking forward to it, soldier.”

Then he was gone.

It was past 10 p.m. now, but that didn’t mean anything for New York.

Bucky ran down the long stretch of the West Side Highway. Taxis screeched on the pavement. Somewhere behind him, a couple argued outside a late-night bodega. Sirens whined in the distance.

He pushed harder.

He ran for miles, for hours. He tried to outrun the possessive feelings he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He was almost in Battery Park by the time he finally stopped.

He felt better. Not good, but better. He could mostly think straight again.

He needed to be logical.

John wanted User_1920. Not Bucky. Who he was trying to move on from. And Bucky had made this messy. Let himself care too much. Want too much. He thought back to the plan he’d settled on earlier. Delete the profile. Let John find someone else.

It would be a clean break. Like closing a book.

Then why wasn’t it feeling like that?

He wanted to be the one John came to. The one he depended on . Needed. But wanting something didn’t make it good. He refused to be the kind of person who owned someone. Better a clean break now.

He pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the app icon, then tapped.

The screen lit up with the familiar threads. At the top was the option: Unmatch .

It didn’t look like John was online. No green dot. But Bucky knew that if he sent a message, John would respond. He always did.

Bucky’s thumb hesitated over the tab.

Instead, he hit the message field and typed:

User_1920: Can I ask you something?

He sat back and waited. He knew it wouldn’t take long.

Less than a minute later:

USAnonymous: yeah, of course, sure

User_1920: I know we only talked about it a little, but… is there any chance you’ll end up with that guy you said you were trying to get over?

There was a pause.

Bucky imagined John reading the question. Thinking it over. Deciding how honest to be.

The reply came in:

USAnonymous: i… really don’t see it happening if you want honesty, and I think you do. We’re friends. But he wouldn’t want me like that

Bucky swallowed.

Wouldn’t .

User_1920: If he did want you, would you be with him?

A longer pause.

The typing dots blinked on.

Disappeared.

Came back.

Disappeared again.

Bucky stared at the screen, jaw clenched. He didn’t want to need the answer. But he did.

Finally:

USAnonymous: you don’t have to worry about that. I like what we have and I think… he only sees me as a friend. Which is probably the best i could hope for

Bucky stood there, phone heavy in his hand.

That didn’t sound like someone who was secretly waiting for the other guy.

It sounded like someone trying to move on.

From him .

And the worst part? It almost made him feel worse.

Because Bucky didn’t want to let him move on.

Then another message came in:

USAnonymous: If you’re worried, if there’s anything I can do to make you feel more sure about me, just say it

Bucky stared at the blinking cursor. The part of him that wanted to do the right thing was quiet now. Now that he was standing still, the desire to own was creeping back in. That side of him wrote the next message:

User_1920: I want you to tell him how you feel. Tell me what he says.

User_1920: If he turns you down, I’ll be here to catch you

He could picture it, John standing in the middle of his room, pacing, phone in hand, trying to figure out if he was brave enough to do it.

The three dots appeared.
Paused.
Disappeared.
Came back.
Disappeared again.

They kept flickering in and out.

Bucky waited.

But after a few more minutes, the thread went still.

No response.

He slipped the phone back in his pocket.

Then he turned and started walking back.

It was still early in the morning when Ava got a knock on her door.

She moved from her couch, where she’d been typing up training instructions on her laptop, and padded barefoot to open it.

Walker was standing there.

He looked like hell. Like he’d hadn't slept at all.

She leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. “What’s going on with you?”

“Can I talk to you?” His voice was lower than usual, rough around the edges.

She stepped aside to let him in.

He walked past her and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, shutting the door behind him. “Is it Bucky?”

“What? No...well, not exactly.”

She arched a brow but didn’t press. Just gave him a moment to collect his thoughts.

He raked a hand through his hair and exhaled. “So... the guy I’ve been talking to? He thinks I’m gonna leave him for Bucky.”

Ava tilted her head. “Well. That makes sense.”

Walker blinked. “Really? You too? ”

She gave a small shrug. “We just talked about this. I know things are going well with you and your mystery man, but I don’t blame him for wanting some reassurance that his potential sub isn’t gonna run off with someone else.”

Walker sighed loud and dramatically, and dropped onto the edge of her coffee table. “I’m not running off with Bucky. There’s nowhere to run to! ”

He looked up at her, exasperated. “And besides, I’ve lost count of how many people you’ve said you’re currently seeing.”

“I’ve mentioned three,” she said coolly.

She wasn’t going to tell him about the rest.

“See? You’ve got a whole harem!”

“The difference,” she said, unfazed, “is that I communicate it from the beginning. I don’t take in subs who expect exclusivity.”

John gave a defensive little shrug. “Okay?”

“But you do.” She didn’t soften it. “It’s why we would never work.”

Walker stared at her, wide-eyed. “ What? ”

“I thought about it.” she asked, folding her arms. “While I watched you spiral.”

His expression twisted. “Oh my god. Was I going to be another Bob to you?”

Ava raised one eyebrow, deadpan. Technically , he’d have been another Anne, but that was a whole different story and she had no intention of sharing it.

“Anyway. Back to Bucky” She said, refocusing. “How did things go after I left the kitchen last night?”

She watched him pause, watched the slight flush creep up his neck.

“Uh... it went… well,” he said. “It was good.”

Her eyes narrowed. She could definitely smell something behind that.

“John,” she said, pointing. “Go sit on the couch. You’re going to tell me what happened.”

He groaned but obeyed, dragging himself across the room and sinking onto the cushions.

“Okay,” she said, settling across from him. “Start from the top. What happened?”

He half-shrugged, eyes on the floor. “Nothing bad. I made food. Was kinda jumpy, he kept looking at me like he wanted to hit something. But he didn’t. I dropped a few things. The food turned out fine. He said he liked it. So... yeah. It went well.”

She tilted her head. “There’s something you’re not saying.”

He shifted. “Not really much else.”

“Then tell me the ‘not really much else.’”

He bit his lip, hesitant. “Well… like I said, I was jumpy, and I dropped a fork. It went under his seat.”

He winced. “And...look, I know how this sounds, and it’s not really what happened, but, after I picked it up…”

He cleared his throat. “I was kind of on my knees. In front of him.”

Now both her eyebrows lifted. Slowly.

“You kneeled for him?”

“No! Not like that. Not really . Kind of. But no.” His voice pitched higher as he spiraled. “But it, sort of felt like it.”

He trailed off, ears red.

“And what did he do?” Ava asked, her tone deliberately neutral.

John gave another small shrug. “Not much. We just… looked at each other. He looked kind of twitchy.”

Ava leaned back slightly, considering that.

Huh.

Maybe Barnes was finally coming around.

No halfway-attentive Dom could miss the implications of a sub kneeling in front of them

She didn’t know how well-versed Barnes actually was. At one point, she’d even considered inviting him to the club herself.

But… too many things could go wrong with that.

For one, she was almost certain he’d be popular. Very popular. Subs and switches would flock to him. He had that look, steady hands, watchful eyes, haunted-but-hot. And even Walker wasn’t there…

If Barnes showed up with a sub one day.

Yeah, that wouldn’t end well.

“So,” she said, voice calm but pointed, “what are you going to do?”

He looked up, tired and conflicted. “I don’t know.”

Ava raised one eyebrow. “You do.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You know what I’m going to say.”

He groaned. “You think I should tell him.”

“Yep.” She took a sip of her water. “And do it now. Before breakfast. So you don’t change your mind.”

John stared at her like she’d suggested skydiving without a parachute.

She gestured toward the door with her glass. “Go.”

Ava pointed again.

“Fine,” he muttered, heading for the door.

He didn’t go to Bucky’s room right away.

He didn’t want to show up empty-handed.

He could at least make breakfast like he said he would.

He started with the eggs. Cracked four into a bowl, added some milk, salt, a bit of smoked paprika and whisked. In a pan, he sautéed a handful of diced red pepper and scallion. He toasted two slices of whole wheat bread, then spread a little butter over them. Cut up half an avocado and fanned the slices neatly on the side. Didn’t overdo it. Just enough for color.

He paused for a second, just looking at it.

Then he grabbed a clean dish towel, folded it under the plate for balance, and headed down the hall.

He paused outside Bucky’s door, lifted a hand, and knocked.

There was a pause long enough for John to start seriously questioning whether this was a terrible idea. Then the door opened.

Bucky stood there, hair still lightly damp like he’d showered in the last half hour.

“Breakfast already?” he asked.

“Yeah,” John said, holding out the plate. “I hope this is a good time?”

Bucky looked at him. For a long time.

John’s confidence started to erode by the second. Maybe it wasn’t a good time. He could leave. Come back later. Or never.

But then Bucky said, voice dry: “Well… you didn’t give me time to clean.”

John blinked. That almost felt familiar for a reason he couldn’t figure out.

He glanced past Bucky into the room. Bed made, clothes folded, desk organized. It looked perfectly clean.

“It looks fine?”

Bucky didn’t answer that. Just took the plate from his hands with a quiet, “Thanks.”

Then, casually: “Why don’t you sit down?”

There were two chairs pulled up to his desk. Bucky gestured toward one and sat in the other, setting the plate on his lap.

John sat, hands clasped between his knees, they were facing each other.

Bucky picked up the fork and started eating. One slow bite at a time. Methodical. His eyes flicked up once, like he was waiting to see if John would say something.

John didn’t.

He couldn’t figure out how to start.

Bucky took another bite, chewing slow. “This is really good,” he said, voice low.

John smiled, but only briefly. “Thanks.”

Bucky paused. Tilted his head. “Did you eat first?”

“Oh. No. Not yet.” John rubbed his palms on his thighs. “I will later.”

Another pause.

Then Bucky shifted forward slightly in his chair, lifting the fork again, this time with a small bit of eggs, and held it out.

“Here,” he said, calm but deliberate. “Take a bite.”

John blinked. “I—uh—” He started to lift his hand, reaching for the fork, but Bucky didn’t let go.

He held it steady, right in front of John’s mouth.

John hesitated.

But Bucky didn’t move.

So, slowly, cautiously, John leaned forward and opened his mouth. The fork slid past his lips. He closed his mouth around it, lips brushing the metal. Bucky’s fingers barely shifted on the handle as he pulled it back.

This felt like something.Something John didn’t know how to name.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His pupils were wide, swallowing up the blue in his eyes. He was focused on John’s mouth, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.

John couldn’t look away.

He didn’t even notice chewing. Didn’t register the taste. Only Bucky’s gaze.

Then, still watching him, Bucky lowered the fork slowly, scooped up another bit of egg, and lifted it again.

Held it out.

All John could do was lean forward again, slower now, more deliberate.

The fork slipped between his lips, and Bucky didn’t pull away. His fingers lingered on the handle, steady, close enough to brush John’s jaw.

John took the bite, lips dragging a little more on the way back, and Bucky’s fingers twitched, but didn’t move.

Then Bucky set the fork down and reached for a slice of avocado, already soft and slick between his fingers. No utensils now.

John wasn’t thinking anymore.

He just opened his mouth.

And Bucky, slow and deliberate, slipped the piece of avocado past his lips.

His fingers didn’t leave.

They followed, just slightly, pressing in deeper than they needed to. Maybe an inch inside. Two fingers resting lightly on John’s tongue.

He could feel the texture of Bucky’s skin against the sensitive part of his mouth. Could feel his body reacting, breath going shallow, saliva pooling fast. His pulse thudded in his ears.

he swallowed, slowly, his lips curling almost unconsciously around Bucky’s fingers as he did.

Bucky’s gaze didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. Eyes held on John’s mouth.

Then, slowly and carefully, he withdrew his hand, wetting John lips just a bit.

John’s mind was a blank sheet, and somehow, from that white noise, words managed to stumble out.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he whispered, voice uneven.

Bucky’s head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching, not quite a smile.

“You’re the one who knocked,” he said, voice quiet and low.

And this time , on nothing but air and saliva , John was the one who choked.

Chapter 12 Chapter Text

“You’re the one who knocked,” Bucky said, voice quiet and low.

John coughed and flinched, the spell between them broke and John’s head snapped back.

Bucky watched him carefully, “You alright?”

John gave a stiff laugh and shook his head. “Sorry. That just… sounded like something I heard before.” He waved a hand, trying to dismiss it. “I’m fine, I swear.”

Bucky sighed, slow and steady, then turned to glance out the window like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

He wasn’t sure what to do next. When he’d opened the door and said You’re didn’t give me time to clean, he’d hoped it would jog something in John’s mind. But John had just looked confused.

So he tried a different line. A breadcrumb.

His feelings kept oscillating . One moment, he was calm. Grounded. Ready to be honest and explain everything. The next, all he could think about was John, on his knees. Grabbing him closer, making him work Bucky’s zipper down with his teeth. Obedient. Eager.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Focus.

He turned back to his plate and broke off a piece of the well buttered toast. He popped it into his mouth without thinking, chewing slowly. Just as he popped the toast into his mouth, he noticed it. John. He leaned forward slightly, mouth parted. But then Bucky had brought the toast to his own mouth, and John blinked. Realization hit. He snapped back. Embarrassed.

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just broke off another piece and ate it, slow and deliberate, watching as John’s eyes followed his hand the whole way.

He glanced at him. Considering.

Then, casually—, too casually, he asked, “So, you'd mentioned you were seeing someone?”

John blinked twice, eyes darting from Bucky’s hand to his face.

“Huh? Oh! Yeah. I am.” He immediately looked everywhere but at Bucky.

Bucky gave a soft smile. He broke off another piece of toast and held it out. John hesitated. He looked at the toast, then at Bucky’s face, then back again. Slowly, he leaned in and opened his mouth. Bucky slipped the bite between his lips.

“And how’s it going with him?” Bucky asked, voice neutral.

John swallowed, visibly tense. “Good. It’s going good.”

Bucky nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything.

Across from him, John was looking twitchy. His leg bounced, and he rubbed his palms against his thighs.

“And, uh…” he started, glancing down. “On a sort of related note… I have to say something.”

Bucky stilled, but kept his expression neutral.

John took a breath, eyes fixed on the table. “It’s kind of a big something.”

He sucked in another breath, like he was about to go underwater.

Bucky broke off another piece of toast and held it out.

“Oh!” John leaned in without thinking, mouth parting instinctively. He accepted the bite, chewed, and swallowed, almost grateful for the delay.

Bucky smiled faintly, watching him. “Go ahead.”

John cleared his throat. “So, uh… he’s a person I’ve been talking to. Online.”

Bucky didn’t react. Not outwardly. He broke off a piece for himself this time and chewed.

“We’ve been messaging for a while now. He kind of… pushed me to admit something.”

They made eye contact.

“I… I know I’ve kind of been a pain but… I… you should know… I have feelings… for you.”

The words came out soft and fast.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“What kind of feelings?” he asked, voice even.

John swallowed. “All kinds.”

A pause.

“The kind where I think about you when you’re not around. Where I want to make you laugh. Where I remember dumb shit you said days later and it still gets to me.”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around the edge of his plate.

John looked down at his hands, then up again.

“The kind where I want to sit next to you and not be the loudest person in the room. Just… be near you.”

They looked into each other's eyes. A long deep moment passed.

And then, quieter: “The kind where I’d probably let you ruin me, and still come back saying thank you.”

Bucky stopped breathing for a second.

John winced. “Sorry—was that too much? Honestly, my mouth is my worst trait.”

Bucky could list seven things he wanted to do with that mouth, and that was without even having to think first.

He swallowed hard. Now it was his turn to say something. To be honest. To do the right thing.

The pendulum swung.

Straight into the want.

He set the plate down on the table.

“And do you want me more than him?”

John’s breath caught. He looked conflicted. His mouth parted, then closed. Thought. Then:

“All I know for certain is that I want you.”

That was enough.

Bucky leaned forward, wrapped a firm hand around the back of John’s neck, warm skin, tense muscle, breath hitching under his palm.

“Correct answer, Soldier.”

And then he pulled him in. Hard.

Their mouths met with a force that stole the air out of the room. Bucky didn’t hold back, he kissed John like he wanted to devour him.

John made a noise against his lips, surprised and hungry all at once.

Bucky shifted his grip, dragging John forward, lifting him out of his chair like he weighed nothing. John’s hands scrambled briefly for balance, gripping Bucky’s shoulders as he was guided, no, placed, into Bucky’s lap. He straddled him without hesitation, instinct taking over.

The kiss turned messy fast, sloppy and greedy. John pressed in like he was starving. Bucky let him. Let him take. Let him need.

One hand stayed wrapped at the base of John’s neck. The other settled at his hip, fingers curling hard enough to bruise.

Their mouths moved in sync, desperate, uneven, lips slick from need and spit. Neither of them pulled back.

Until Bucky did.

He fisted a hand in the back of John’s hair and yanked him back, sudden and sharp. John gasped. A thin strand of saliva stretched between them, glinting, then snapped.

They were both breathing hard, faces flushed, eyes wild.

Bucky spread his legs wide, kept his grip tight in John’s hair, and pushed him down , right between his thighs.

John didn’t resist. He dropped instantly, hands braced on Bucky’s knees, body sinking between them like he belonged there.

Because he did.

This wasn’t like before. Not like the kitchen, where John had been trying not to slip into subspace and Bucky had been trying not to own .

Bucky stared down at him, John on his knees, chest rising fast, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. Perfect.

He reached forward, hooked his thumb into the side of John’s mouth. Pulled his mouth open.

Bucky slipped his thumb out, then shoved his two middle fingers in, fast and deep.

John’s eyes fluttered shut, a shudder rolling through him as he groaned low in his throat. He sucked automatically, lips sealing, tongue pressing up .

Bucky exhaled through his nose. There it was. Finally. The answer he’d been looking for. He loosened his grip in John’s hair, gave him room.

John bobbed once, slowly, testing, then again, deeper this time. Hands still braced on Bucky’s thighs for balance.

Bucky watched him. Watched his every movement and breath. Heat coiled low and tight in his gut.

He ran his thumb along John’s jaw as he worked.

“Good boy.”

John shuddered at the praise. That little tremor ran all the way through him.

He picked up the pace, more confident now, falling into rhythm.

Bucky let him have it, for a moment.

Then he pushed in deeper, slow and firm. Just enough to choke him a bit.

He felt the reflex hit, John gagging, throat spasming around his fingers, and he didn’t pull back.

Still with me, he thought. Beg for more.

He shifted his weight and slid one leg out, threading it between John’s knees. Pressing his thigh up into the space between John’s legs.

John hesitated, head still bowed. Slowed, but didn’t stop.

He looked up, eyes glossy, mouth red, breath heavy around Bucky’s fingers. Questioning and needy.

Bucky gripped his hair again, guiding him just slightly back, enough to see all of him, to speak the next command clearly.

He leaned in.

“You’re going to hump my leg until you come,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Understand?”

John’s entire body jerked.

A groan left his throat around Bucky’s fingers, deep and desperate.

Bucky didn’t move. Just held him in place.

Then John started to move.

He rutted forward in short, needy thrusts, hips grinding down against the solid muscle of Bucky’s thigh, cock straining beneath his jeans. His rhythm was uneven, frantic. Nothing graceful about it. Just instinct.

Bucky held him there. Watched him fall apart.

That’s it. Show me. Mess yourself up for me.

He could feel the drag of John’s breath, the sound of it catching each time he pressed in. Each time John sucked forward and Bucky shoved in just a bit too far. Could feel how hard John was. How desperate. And god, he could see it all in his face, how close he was already.

Bucky flexed his thigh underneath him, gave him more friction.

“Harder,” he ordered. “Make it count.”

John whimpered and obeyed. Bucky pulled his fingers out with a pop and pulled him close.

John ground down harder, hips snapping forward in fast, frantic thrusts. Desperation bled into every movement, his forehead pressed against Bucky’s chest, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, panting raggedly like he couldn’t catch enough air.

Bucky tightened his grip in his hair, anchoring him. His other hand slid down John’s spine, slow and firm in a way that made John shudder all over again.

“Keep going,” Bucky said, low and steady against the top of his head. “You don’t stop until you come.”

John groaned like he was in pain. But he didn’t stop.

His movements lost rhythm, got jerky, hips bucking with less control, more need. He was close. Right there. The flush across his cheeks deepened, his whole body tensed like a wire about to snap.

Bucky leaned back just enough to look at him. He wanted to see it.

It was beautiful.

John’s mouth parted, brows drawn together, whole body locked tight, and then he choked on a breath and came with a stuttering cry, hips grinding down hard against Bucky’s thigh as the orgasm tore through him.

Bucky felt it. Every part of it.

The way John’s thighs trembled. The warmth bleeding through the fabric of his jeans. The collapse that followed, John sagging into him, spent, trembling, breathing like he’d just been dragged through something.

Bucky caught him easily.

Held him in place.

One hand in his hair. The other on his back.

He let him come down.

“Good,” he murmured into John’s hair. “That’s it. That’s my good boy.”

John shivered, barely nodding.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

John wasn’t sure how much time had passed before thoughts began to return. All he knew was that he was curled up against Bucky’s chest, his cheek pressed against warm muscle, Bucky’s arms wrapped solidly around him.

His pants had a cooling wetness to them. Sticky. Uncomfortable. He should probably care. He didn’t.

He felt calm.

For the first time in, God, he didn’t even know how long. Maybe months. Years probably. His brain wasn’t racing, his chest wasn’t tight, and the ever-present itch to do something, prove something, was gone.

Just quiet.

Steady heartbeat under his ear. The slow rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. The weight of a hand where it rested at the back of his neck.

He shifted slightly, and Bucky must’ve felt it. His arms loosened, just enough to let John move if he wanted to.

John didn’t move far.

He tilted his head back instead and looked up at him.

Bucky was already looking down.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

John swallowed. His voice came out low and rough. “Hey.”

One corner of Bucky’s mouth quirked. “Hey.”

John didn’t know what to say next. Didn't know what this was now. All he knew was that being here, wrapped up in Bucky’s arms, the aftershocks still humming through his body, felt like safety in a way he couldn’t name.

So he stayed there, breathing him in.

Bucky’s scent was warm and grounding, soap, skin, and something from breakfast. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm John could’ve followed for hours.

But eventually, reality started to creep back in. The cooling mess in his pants. The floor beneath his knees. The awareness of time passing and unspoken things hanging between them.

John shifted again, slower this time. “I should probably…” He gestured vaguely downward, embarrassed but too wrung out to care much.

Bucky’s hand tightened just slightly at the back of his neck.

“No,” he said softly.

John blinked, looked up at him.

Bucky’s expression was calm. Unshaken. But kind. Steady.

“I want you to stay like that. Just for a little while longer. Until lunch.”

John didn’t even try to protest.

Because he didn’t want to.

His chest ached a little with how much he didn’t want to. If that was what Bucky wanted, then he’d do it. Gladly. No part of him questioned it. No part of him even considered moving.

~Lunch time~

They had broken apart at some point though neither could say when.

Now it was nearly noon, and John was back in his room, peeling off clothes that had long since cooled and clung unpleasantly to his skin. He didn’t rush. There was something almost reverent in the way he undressed, finally easing out of his soiled jeans and underwear, letting them fall into a heap on the floor. The knowledge he was following orders.

He stepped into the shower and let the warm water hit his shoulders, head bowed, arms braced against the tile. The heat soaked into him, slow and steady, loosening what tension remained. For the first time in… maybe ever, he felt quiet inside.

Until two things occurred to him at once —

He still had to report back to User_1920.

Bucky hadn't come.

Chapter 13 Notes:

I've had a few people ask, and yes! I'm still working on my other story :) it's just keeps not coming out like I wanted. Hopefully soon!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Ava walked out of the elevator and stretched, she was intent on returning to her room to relax. It was well into the evening, and the warm afterglow of the day still lingered in her muscles. She had a pleasant buzz from time well spent with two of her more attentive submissives. She carried her cane loosely in one hand, the polished black finish catching the hallway lights. It wasn’t for walking.

Her heels echoed that warned: off the clock . Just as she turned the corner—

“THERE YOU ARE!”

Ava jolted, instincts kicked in. Her hand snapped up, and before her brain fully registered the source of the voice, her cane had already connected with something solid.

Smack.

A sharp grunt followed.

“OW—shit!”

Her vision focused.

Walker.

“Jesus,” she hissed, already pulling the cane back. “What is wrong with you?”

He staggered back half a step, one hand pressed to his face. “I think my face is bleeding.”

She stepped closer, annoyed but assessing. There were a few small spots, split skin near his cheekbone and eyebrow, already darkening, but with his serum, it’d be gone in an hour. Still, he was milking it.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she said, voice low and cold.

John continued to rub the mark, sulking. “Fine. Jesus. Sorry.”

Despite the apology, he trailed after her as she turned to unlock her door. She didn’t invite him in, but he followed anyway.

Her pleasant buzz was officially gone. She sighed as she set the cane carefully on the side table, more irritated with herself than with him.

She walked further into the room, shoulders tight with the weight of the interruption. “Okay. What.”

John stood there awkwardly near the door, shifting his weight like a kid who got caught somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

“I have a problem,” he said.

Ava gave a noncommittal hum as she kicked off her heels and walked toward the armchair. “Hm-mm.”

“I told Bucky.”

That made her pause halfway through unfastening her cufflinks.

She glanced over. “Told him…?”

John looked sheepish. “Everything. About how I feel.”

That earned him an eyebrow raise.

“All right. Fine. Sit down. If I’m going to listen to whatever mess this is, I’m at least going to be off my feet.”

He slowly lowered himself onto the couch. She took the chair across from him, folding one leg over the other with perfect control.

“So,” she said, settling in. “How’d it go?”

Now that she’d asked, he almost looked like he didn’t want to talk about it. His mouth opened, then closed again. His hands fidgeted in his lap.

“I… we… well, I almost don’t believe it happened,” he muttered.

Her brow lifted. “So it went well?”

John exhaled a little laugh and nodded. “Yeah. He smiled. Kissed me. Said some things. Did some things. It… went really well.”

Good, she thought. Barnes finally got his head on straight. “So what’s the problem?”

John hesitated.

“I still need to tell the person I’ve been talking to.”

She groaned. “Seriously? You’re freaking out because you need to break up with someone? How old are you?”

“So you think I should break up with him?”

She stared at him.

“What did you think your options were?” she asked flatly.

He looked wounded. “I don’t know! You’re seeing more than one person. Maybe I could do that.”

Ava didn’t even sigh, barely. She already knew that wouldn’t work, but she didn’t say it outright. Not yet.

“You could,” she said evenly. “Sure.”

John’s face twitched. “So… it’s not totally out of the question?”

She tilted her head, voice dry. “Are you okay with Bucky being with someone else?”

The look that passed over his face, horror, followed immediately by indignation, was everything she needed.

He sputtered. “What? No!”

Ava leaned back, re-crossing her legs. “Look, there are couples where one person is with several others, while each of those people is only with them . ”

That made John perk up a little. “Right, yeah. So that could work?”

She gave him a look.

“If that’s what you’re planning,” she said, voice even, “then you’re going to have to ask both of them if they’re okay with that.”

John blinked. The hope drained from his face in real time.

“Oh,” he said.

There was a knock on the door.

Ava groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Now what.”

She got up, not bothering to hide her annoyance, and opened the door.

Sam stood on the other side, casual as ever, arms crossed.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, unimpressed.

“Hello to you too,” Sam said with a tight smile. Then he glanced past her. “And Walker.”

John gave a nod from where he was slumped on the couch. “Hey.”

Sam walked in without waiting for an invitation. He looked like he was about to say something to John, but changed his mind at the last moment, or maybe just saw the cane on the side table..

“There’s a mission I think you should take a look at ,” he said.

Ava crossed her arms. “Go on.”

Sam hesitated, just a second. Then, “It’s a situation involving a community that’s… calling itself a ‘traditional lifestyle stronghold.’”

Ava stared. “A what?”

“Think, conservative, white, rural, God-and-country types. Patriotic branding, private security, homeschooling networks, the works.”

“Sounds delightful,” she said dryly. “Why is this my problem?”

Sam sighed. “Because there are women and kids involved, and I’m betting they’re not there willingly.”

Ava’s posture shifted slightly. She still looked unimpressed, but now she was listening.

Sam continued. “There’s been chatter about ‘re-education programs’—coded language for trafficking. We’ve picked up signals suggesting some of the women and minors are being moved in and out of the compound under the radar. Could be smuggling routes, could be recruitment for something worse.”

“So it’s a cult,” Ava said flatly.

Sam raised a brow. “Aren’t they all?”

She exhaled, rubbing at her temple. “Fantastic.”

From the couch, John looked interested. “When are we heading out?”

“Not sure yet,” Sam said. “I still need to talk to Bucky and Yelena. I can’t find Yelena, and Bucky’s been with you.”

John went shifty and slightly pink.

Sam caught it instantly and smirked. “Care to share what the two of you’ve been so… wrapped up in ?”

John stood abruptly. “No.” and walked straight out of the room.

They both watched him go.

“You having fun?” Ava asked, voice dry as desert air.

Sam just gave her a look.

She crossed her arms, one hip cocked. “You didn’t come all the way here to deliver a mission briefing and harass Walker. What are you circling around?”

He hesitated for half a beat. “You remember that site you told me to pass on to Bucky?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah. What about it?”

“Well… Bucky joined.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “ Excuse me?”

John was back in his room trying to decide what to do. Obviously he wasn’t going to give up this thing with Bucky.

He almost wanted to go straight back to Bucky’s room and see if they could do that again. He didn’t need it to be the same. Just needed Bucky’s hands on him. His voice in his ear. Instruction so he didn’t have to think.

He was still embarrassed he hadn’t even thought to make sure Bucky came. Granted, his mind had been pretty black by the end but he remembered the press of Bucky’s cock when he was pulled into his lap. He could’ve done something. Would’ve, if he’d been told to.

The familiar itch was returning. Restless, low in his belly. He took two steadying breaths, deep and slow.

He just… needed to see Bucky again.

He hoped it wasn’t too soon. He knew he could be, well, needy.

He left his room, walked down the hall and turned a few corners, just as he was about to turn the last corner, and noticed that Bucky’s door was already open.

He stopped short.

Inside, Bucky, Ava, and Sam were standing in a loose triangle, Ava by the wall, arms folded, Sam with his hands on his hips, and Bucky, still as stone in the center. The air looked tight. Their voices were low but tense.

John stepped back, just barely out of sight. He didn’t mean to listen.

But he didn’t move.

“…You’re going to have to tell him,” Sam said, calm but not casual.

Tell who what?

John frowned slightly, trying to piece it together.

Bucky didn’t respond right away.

“Seriously,” Ava cut in, voice sharper. “You’ve had your little identity crisis. Great. Now get over it.”

Identity crisis? Who had? Bucky?

There was a pause.

“It’s not that simple,” Bucky said, voice low. Flat. Controlled.

John’s shoulders stiffened. What the hell were they talking about?

Sam scoffed. “It is. You’ve been messaging him for months. He trusted you. He still does.”

John froze.

Messaging who. Wait—no.

His pulse spiked.

“Yeah,” Ava added, not missing a beat. “And I’m guessing he just threw himself at your feet—probably literally, knowing him. And you let him do that without telling him who you were?”

His breath caught.

No way. No fucking way. Messaging… months… threw himself at—

His heart was pounding. It was Bucky. It’d been Bucky. It is Bucky

He stared into the middle distance, eyes wide as the pieces slid into place.

The way User_1920 talked to him. How he was steady, direct, grounding. The little turns of phrase. The calm control. The dry humor. The way he always saw right through him.

Bucky had said something weird when he was at his door. His mind flashed back their messages. Bucky has probably been trying to tell him. And then they —

Oh God. Oh God.

He swallowed hard, chest tight in a different way now.

Bucky had seen everything. All his messy, desperate admissions. Every time he’d spiraled. The scenes they had over text. And he hadn’t run. He hadn’t judged.

He’d stayed.

Not only that, he’d kissed him. Touched him. Fed him. Held him afterward .

John had to remember to breathe. He’d been trying to choose between two people, between the man he trusted online and the one he couldn’t stop wanting in real life.

And it had been the same person the entire time.

Thank God, he thought again, dizzy with relief. Thank fucking God.

He walked back to his room in a daze.

Every step felt lighter, like some enormous weight had finally slipped off his shoulders.

He grinned to himself, alone in the hallway. Grinned like an idiot. Like someone who had just figured out they weren’t broken after all.

God.

He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it for a moment. He hadn’t felt like this in years. Maybe ever. He’d belonged to Bucky as long as he knew him. Maybe even as long as he knew of him. And now they would actually be together.

Jesus.

He was so lost in the hum of it, in the race of his thoughts, that the knock on his door startled him.

He froze.

Then pushed off the door and opened it.

It was Bucky. Looking unsure.

“Hi,” John breathed, a little too softly.

“Hey,” Bucky said. His voice was low, unreadable. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah. Sure.” John stepped aside quickly, trying not to stare.

Bucky walked in, slow, like he was still deciding if he should be there. John shut the door behind him, pulse thudding.

Would it be weird if he kissed him? Yeah, it’d probably be weird. But Jesus, he wanted to.

Bucky stood there in the middle of the room, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He looked around once—at the chair, the bed, the floor. John watched him for a beat, then cleared his throat. “Do you wanna sit down?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, almost relieved. “That’s a good idea.”

They sat—John on the edge of the bed, Bucky in the chair across from him. Close, but not touching.

Bucky exhaled slowly. “So… I need to tell you something.”

John nodded, doing his best to keep his face neutral. His heart wasn’t cooperating. It was pounding again, loud in his ears.

This was it. Bucky was going to confess. That he was the one John had been messaging.

Then they would be together. And John was ready. Or...he hoped he was.

This time, John would be sure Bucky got off first. He would use his mouth.

His hands curled slightly against his thighs, trying to ground himself, keep still. He didn’t want to come on too strong. He didn’t want to mess this up.

Bucky looked him in the eyes and said, “I need to apologize first.”

John’s thoughts stalled. That wasn’t how he thought this was going to start. “What?”

“I… did something,” Bucky said, voice low and steady. “And I never meant for it to go that far.”

John stared at him. He blinked several times, trying to catch up. “I don’t understand.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. When he finally spoke again, it sounded like he was dragging the words out of somewhere deep.

“Have you ever wanted something,” he said slowly, “wanted it strongly, even though you knew it wasn’t right?”

John’s stomach twisted.

“You mean like… a person?” he asked.

Bucky nodded once, barely. “Yeah. Like a person.”

“I… have,” John said. “But I don’t think it was wrong.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. He just pursed his lips like he was chewing something bitter. “Sometimes what you think you want… isn’t necessarily right.”

John just stared at him. No. He… didn’t want to hear the rest of this.

How had it turned so fast? He thought Bucky was going to come in and say they were going to be together, that they’d been together all along, really. But now it sounded like Bucky was about to tell him it had all been a mistake. That it had never meant what John thought it did.

His throat clenched. He just couldn’t sit there and wait for Bucky to say it.

He stood up abruptly, hands curling at his sides. Bucky looked up, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“You don’t have to say it,” John said quickly.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

Bucky stood too, slower. “Know what?”

“I know you’re User_1920. I… figured it out.” His voice cracked a little at the end, and he pushed past it, determined not to let it show.

Bucky’s mouth parted. “Oh… That’s…”

John laughed once, brittle. “Yeah. Okay. Look, it’s like you said. Things went too far, and yeah… maybe it… wasn’t right. Maybe it was just one of those things, you know? Where you’re both… curious, and it’s easy to pretend it’s more than it is.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, already sweating.

His voice was tight now, eyes refusing to meet Bucky’s. “Anyway, it’s fine. I just wanted you to know that I know. So you don’t have to worry about breaking it to me or anything. I get it.”

He nodded once, sharp and quick, like he was agreeing with himself. Like maybe if he moved fast enough, it wouldn’t hurt. He crossed the room in a few quick steps and opened the door.

Bucky looked from John to the open doorway, brows drawn tight. “If that’s what you want…”

John didn’t answer. He couldn’t look at him anymore. If he looked at Bucky’s face, if he saw hesitation or regret, he might start thinking it was something it wasn’t.

Bucky’s boots were slow against the floor. He stepped toward the door, then hesitated right in front of John, like he wanted to say something. Or do something. John didn’t see Bucky start to reach out, then hold himself back.

He just walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Out in the hall, Bucky stood still for a long moment, jaw set, eyes locked on nothing. That had gone worse than he expected, worse than any version he’d let himself imagine. He hadn’t thought it would be easy, but he didn’t expect that .

He exhaled slowly, trying to get the tension out of his shoulders. But it didn’t go.

He’d thought he was hiding it well. Clearly not. Ava had seen straight through him, called it out for what it was. Possessive. Primal. She said it wasn’t bad. That good people could be like that. He disagreed. That wasn’t who he wanted to be.

But when it came to John…

When it came to John, something in him cracked. He didn’t just want him. He’d wanted to claim him. Wrap both hands around the center and say mine.

And now? Now they weren't anything.

He needed to get out. Go. Just anywhere.

Go for a run, hit something in a gym, maybe jump off something high just because he could.

But first he pulled out his phone, pulled up the app, and hit unmatch.

Notes:

I know, I know. I'm dragging it out.

Chapter 14 Chapter Text

He and John had pretty much avoided each other until they couldn’t. There was a briefing, regarding a cult of trafficked women and children. The team split roles: Ava and Yelena were posing as potential wives, new “prospects” brought in to be vetted by the cult’s leadership. Alexei was posing as their patriarch, full of charm and faux-misogyny, pretending to negotiate terms to “sell” one of them off for land access or supplies.

The rest of the team needed to be off-site for that charade to work, which meant Bucky and John were assigned to a surveillance post further north. They were tasked with watching a critical smuggling route that went through the edge of the compound’s claimed territory.

The drop site was a forgotten cabin halfway up a slope, more a shack really, patched together with rotting wood and rusted nails. It had no insulation, minimal power, and a woodstove that practically filled the whole place with smoke. And they were stuck there for at least a week. Just the two of them.

There was a single couch that had seen better days, Bucky had told John to take it the second they walked in. No discussion.

“Why?” John had asked.

Bucky didn’t answer, just unrolled his bedroll near the wall and started checking the perimeter. He didn’t want to explain that he couldn’t stand the thought of John sleeping on the floor beneath him. Couldn’t trust himself not to look or imagine.

They talked only when they had to.

Sometimes it looked like John wanted to say something. Bucky would make some excuse to go somewhere, do something, find something else to do. He didn’t want to talk.

Now it was Day Three.

He showered in their makeshift shower. Which was just a pipe outside that was either freezing or scalding hot. He lucked out this time and got the hot water.

Now he stood in just his pants and belt in front of a cracked mirror nailed to the wall. His breath fogged faintly in front of him as he held the knife steady in one hand.

It was a short blade, his old combat knife. It was well-worn, and extremely sharp. He dragged the blade slowly across his cheek, scraping away the stubble in practiced strokes. The angle had to be just right, close enough to catch the hair, not so close he’d slice the skin.

He used the dull side of his thumb to tilt his chin, then slid the blade upward, smooth and clean. He’d done this too many times in worse places to need a mirror, but he used it anyway.

His other hand gripped the edge of the old sink basin. His fingers were steady, but his jaw was tight.

Behind him, the couch creaked.

John had woken up, or at least stirred. Bucky didn’t turn around.

He scraped again. Skin then blade then breath. Again. And again. Until his cheeks were smooth and cold, and he finally exhaled.

He glanced behind him, just a flick of his eyes in the mirror. John was watching him. Hair tousled, blanket slipping down one shoulder, a slight pink to his cheeks like he’d been caught looking. Or like he was trying not to.

Their eyes didn’t meet. Bucky looked away.

He dried the knife on the edge of a towel.

It was going to be another test of endurance. Trying to ignore the man he thought, maybe, might actually be his.

He’d tried not to think about it.

When that didn’t work, he figured his best bet was to not let it show.

He didn’t know when John had figured it out. It must have been when he said the lines from their messages.

He had thought when he pulled John to him and placed him on his lap that they both wanted the same thing.

It felt like it.

The way John sucked his fingers and grinded on him until he came.

He shook his head quick. He wasn’t going to think about that.

John was outside taking his own shower now. He likely got the cold water.

That was confirmed a few minutes later when the cabin door banged open and John power-walked in, barefoot and dripping, wrapped in a too thin towel that looked like it might betray him at any second. He made a beeline for his pack, muttering something that might’ve been profanity through chattering teeth.

Bucky didn’t look directly at him.

But he saw the goosebumps on his flushed skin. John shivered as he yanked on dry clothes, still damp and annoyed.

He stomped a foot into his sweatpants, muttering something about frostbite and medieval plumbing. He tugged his shirt on hard enough that his arm went through the head hole, then gave Bucky a look like it was somehow his fault.

Bucky couldn’t help it. He smiled. He tried to hide it as he moved over to the small table and chair in the corner.

After John was finally dressed he pulled out his own razor and walked to the mirror and began to shave. Not successfully.

Bucky watched from the corner of his eye and John worked.

“You missed a spot,” he said, quiet but even.

John blinked. “What?”

Bucky gestured vaguely at his own jaw, then flicked his gaze over. “Your stubble. It’s uneven.”

John dragged a hand across his face, palm rasping against days-old growth. “Yeah, well. Razor’s shit.”

There was a pause. Just long enough for tension to build up again.

John had a look. A look Bucky recognized. A look he didn’t like. It was tight around the mouth, shoulders squared like he was gearing up to be brave . Like he was about to say something he knew he shouldn’t.

He was unfortunately proven right a moment later.

“I just want to know why?”

God. There were too many whys. Bucky didn’t even know which one John was referring to.

“Why did you unmatch?”

Crap. That why .

Bucky looked over at him, face carefully blank. “Why not? It’s over.”

John opened his mouth like he had something he wanted to say. Like the words were right there. But he hesitated. His throat worked once, like he swallowed them back down. Maybe he knew how close he was to begging.

Bucky couldn’t do this right now. Couldn’t let him spiral. Couldn’t spiral himself. He needed a distraction. Something simple. Something he could touch and control and fix .

He grabbed his knife and walked over, “Let me do it.”

John’s brow furrowed. “What? Do what?”

He held up the knife, “I’ll shave you.”

John froze.

John looked from the knife to Bucky’s face. Knife, face, knife, face. He closed his mouth. There was a short pause.

He gave a tight nod.

He didn’t move at first.

Bucky still held the knife, loose in his grip now, blade angled harmlessly down.

“Come closer,” he said, quieter now.

John blinked again, like he was still trying to catch up. But he stepped forward anyway.

“Lean against the sink,” Bucky said.

John obeyed. He braced his hands on the chipped porcelain, trying not to shiver. His breath was audible now. He wasn’t looking at Bucky, he was looking down, or at his own reflection. Anywhere but at Bucky.

Bucky moved slow. He brought the blade up. His free hand came to rest gently under John’s jaw, tilting it up with just enough pressure to hold him still.

It helped. Gave him something sharp to focus on. Something that demanded precision. He could lose himself in this, just for a minute.

“This won’t hurt,” he said, low. “Unless you move.”

John gave a short breath, half a laugh, half a nervous exhale. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. It’s supposed to make you listen.”

That shut him up.

Bucky reached for the towel and dabbed at John’s jaw, clearing off the last bits of water. Then he pressed his thumb against John’s cheekbone to steady him and brought the knife in close.

The first stroke was slow and careful. The blade scraped down in a clean arc, catching the stubble just beneath John’s jaw. John went still, perfectly still, eyes fixed on a crack as Bucky worked. His breath was shallow and his lips slightly parted.

Bucky’s heart thudded hard once, sharp in his chest.

He focused.

Another stroke. Another breath.

He forced his mind to catalog details, angle, grain, pressure. Not the scent of John’s skin. Not the fact that he could feel the warmth of him through the blade. Not the way John surrendered so quickly to his hands.

That wasn’t what this was.

Except… maybe it was. A little.

“Good,” Bucky murmured at one point, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. “Just like that.”

John exhaled, barely a sound. His grip on the sink tightened.

Bucky shifted the blade lower, working his way down to the stubble along John’s neck, angling his wrist just slightly, his thumb brushing lightly beneath John’s jaw to stretch the skin.

He could feel John’s heartbeat now. Right there, under his touch.

He knew the silence wouldn’t last. Knew John still wanted to talk. The air was heavy between them. Bucky could end it now. Could walk away. But if John was going to break the quiet, he wanted to be the one to set the terms.

“Look, Walker,” Bucky said quietly, his eyes still on the curve of John’s neck, “I know you still want to talk about this.”

John’s eyes flicked to his face for a brief moment..

“I—” John started, then stopped. Swallowed.

Bucky wiped the blade clean again, the motion slow, careful. Still close enough to feel John’s breath hitch. He didn’t look at him. Just focused on the last patch of jawline, buying himself a few more seconds.

“I really don’t know what else to say,” he said, finally. “Like I said, I’m not proud of how I feel.”

John’s expression shifted. Something hurt behind his eyes.

Bucky continued, the knife now gliding beneath the edge of his jaw. “I think you noticed it that morning in my room.”

John lips parted slightly and his breathing sped up. They were both picturing it. Remembering it.

“My feelings for you... they’re strong.”

That made John look up at him fully. Almost shocked. But he didn’t move.

“I’m trying to fight it. I really am.” Bucky’s voice was flat, resigned. He brought the knife gently to John’s pulse. “But no matter what I do, I can’t stop wanting to make you mine.”

John jerked—turned. Eyes wide. “What?!”

The blade caught skin.

“Shit!” Bucky yanked back, but not fast enough. The knife sliced clean through the thin skin of John’s throat—high, just across the pulse. It was deep.

Blood began to spray.

Bucky reacted instantly. The knife clattered to the floor as he lunged forward, grabbing a nearby towel and clamping it tight to John’s neck with his metal hand.

“Stay still. Stay still—fuck—

“I…”

“Don’t talk!” His voice was fierce, but steady. The towel was already soaked. It became red in seconds, spreading under his palm.

John still looked like his world had tilted, gripping the sink with both hands. He didn’t seem to be in pain, or last least he wasn’t showing it. He wasn’t breathing right. Bucky could feel it. His pulse jumped under his palm. It wasn’t slowing.

Shit. Fuck. He’d heal. Eventually. Definitely quicker with the serum in his system. But until then—

Bucky scanned the room, then spotted the towel John had used when he came back in from the cold. Still draped over the chair by the fire.

“I’m gonna switch this out,” Bucky muttered, more to himself than John, who was still staring at him like he didn’t understand what had happened. “Okay? Just...stay with me.”

John didn’t respond. Just stared.

Bucky guided him with one arm around his waist, towel still pressed hard to his throat, as they staggered the few steps toward the chair. John followed compliantly.

“Good,” Bucky said under his breath. “Just like that.”

He made the switch fast. Pulled the clean towel off the chair, ripped it in three jagged pieces, then pressed the thickest one tight against John’s throat. The soaked towel hit the corner in a wet heap. His metal hand stayed clamped on the wound, while his other hand went to his belt. He pulled it off with one sharp yank.

“Don’t move,” he muttered.

John didn’t. Just stood there, lips parted. His eyes flicked like he was about to speak.

Bucky brought the belt up and wrapped it around John’s neck, over the towel. Not choking-tight but just enough to keep it pinned and sealed. He threaded the buckle, cinched it until he felt resistance, then kept hold of the loose end to make sure it wouldn’t slip.

“There.”

John’s eyes darted to his. Wide. Unsteady.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked, scanning his face.

John didn’t nod, just stared at him.

“I’m—” he started.

“No. Don’t talk.”

“But I—”

“I said don’t talk.” His tone sharpened, and he pulled the belt just a fraction tighter to make the point land.

He moved them toward the couch, steering John like he weighed nothing. Bucky dropped down onto the cushions and pushed John to the floor so he could keep the belt high and tight from above.

“Stay still,” he said again, low and final.

John kept giving him that look—like he desperately wanted to say something. Bucky’s glared. He’d pull the belt tighter without hesitation if John tried it.

John noticed.

And must have decided to disregard him.

“I already am.”

Bucky pulled immediately. Then he froze, because the words didn’t make sense.

“What?”

John’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yours.”

Bucky stared at him, every muscle locked.

“Always have been.”

Chapter 15 Notes:

Guys, your comments on the last chapter were amazing. Loved em. Yeah, I just wanted an excuse for Bucky to belt his neck.
Be mindful of new tags

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

John’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yours.”

Bucky stared at him, every muscle locked.

“Always have been.”

For a beat, neither of them moved. Bucky just kept holding him there. John looked like he was debating whether to do something reckless and just needing to be brave enough first.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Bucky breathed, voice low.

“You said you wanted me to be yours.”

Bucky’s grip on the belt tightened. His jaw ticked once. He gave a slow nod, like it cost him.

“What did you mean by that?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, like something like a flinch. His eyes stayed on John’s, steady and unblinking, even as his tone roughened.

Sure, he’d be honest—honest enough to make John regret asking.
Bucky gave the belt a solid tug, feeling the resistance in John’s body. “It means I’d keep you. Like property. Like I could lock my hand on the back of your neck and never let go. It means I’d take responsibility for you in ways you probably wouldn’t like once you understood. I’d decide what you needed before you even knew to ask. I’d set the rules and expect you to follow them, because you’d know I was right. I’d make it so you couldn’t just walk away without feeling it. In your body. In your head. And I can’t seem to make myself not want that. Not even when I know I should.”

John’s breath, which had picked up at first, stalled completely. His pupils had blown wide, no trace of color left. His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know whether to reach for Bucky or keep still.

“Yes.” His voice cracked. “I—”

He shifted awkwardly, trying to arrange himself into what he must’ve thought a proper submissive looked like, shoulders hunched, chin dipping, but the uncertainty in the movement made it clumsy. He seemed to be feeling a shape without knowing the steps.

“Yes. Please… sir.”

Bucky felt it like a pull deep in his chest.

Without meaning to, he gave the belt another deliberate twist, tightening the pressure at John’s throat just enough to make him inhale sharply. He leaned in, crowding the space between them until John had nowhere to look but up at him.

John’s mouth was already parted, his breath quick and shallow. Bucky stayed there for a moment, holding his gaze, letting the silence stretch until it was almost unbearable. Then he opened his own mouth, slow and deliberate, and let the saliva gather before letting it fall in a single, heavy drop.

It landed warm on John’s tongue. He startled, but didn’t pull back. Instead, his lips closed around it, his throat working as he swallowed. His pupils still wide, the flush along his neck darkening under the pressure of the belt.

Bucky let another strand fall, thinner this time, breaking against John’s bottom lip so it smeared wet before disappearing into his mouth. John’s eyes fluttered closed for a beat, then opened again, locked on Bucky’s like he was waiting for more.

“Good,” Bucky murmured, his tone low and approving. He could feel John’s shoulders ease.

Bucky stayed exactly where he was, holding the belt steady. “Don’t swallow yet,” he murmured, his voice low and certain, watching the way John’s breath hitched. A thin line of spit clung between their mouths, trembling until it finally broke, slipping into John’s mouth.

“Open again,” Bucky said, eyes fixed on him. John obeyed instantly, lips parting without hesitation. Bucky let another drop fall, slower this time, savoring the way John’s throat flexed as he fought not to close his mouth. “Good. Don’t close it until I say.”

The moment Bucky gave the smallest nod, John swallowed.

He yanked the belt forward, dragging John toward him. Their mouths collided, the jolt sending them crashing into the back of the couch hard enough to make it rock on its frame.

There was no finesse now. Their mouths were locked together, refusing to separate. John’s breath was hot and damp against him. Their lips were sealed tight, tongues pressing and twisting in a way that made Bucky’s pulse kick harder.

He could feel the shudder in John’s chest where it pressed flush to his own, could taste the iron where the towel’s edge grazed his jaw. The belt never left his hand.

Still holding the end tight, his other hand clamped heavily on John’s shoulder, he yanked him back just enough to break their mouths apart only to slam him down against the head of the couch. The dull thud of impact was unmistakable. John let out a small, breathless grunt.

Bucky didn’t give him time to recover. He caught the hem of John’s shirt with his free hand and yanked it upward in one rough motion. The fabric bunched, sliding up over John’s chest, then his collarbone, then his face. Bucky kept going until it cleared the top of his head, trapping his arms inside the sleeves, shoulders already forced back by the pull.

The belt shifted easily in his hand, the leather loop still snug around the back of John’s neck, end being threaded through the top. Bucky fed the shirt through, pulling the sleeves tight so John’s elbows drew together behind his head, the fabric twisting between them. A quick, efficient knot and John’s arms were pinned.

The whole move left John’s torso exposed, chest rising and falling hard, arms straining just slightly in the makeshift restraint.

Bucky’s eyes traced his broad chest bare, arms forced back, body open. He licked his lips and gave the belt a short pull.

“Better,” Bucky muttered, low and almost to himself.

He scrapped his free hand over John’s chest, nails scraping a deliberate path from collarbone to sternum. The faint lines pulled a sharp inhale from John, his back arching into the contact. Bucky noticed the response and did it again, harder this time, until thin red lines appeared on his skin. John’s jaw tensed, but the sound he made was halfway between a gasp and a low groan.

Bucky leaned in, close enough for his breath to stir the fine hairs on John’s skin, and lowered his mouth to his left nipple. He let his tongue trace a slow circle, teasing once, twice, before his teeth closed around it in a sharp bite. John flinched, a startled sound catching in his throat, his restrained arms flexing against the shirt. His head tipping back against the couch in an attempt to surrender more.

He didn’t let up. He stayed there just long enough to feel the subtle tremor in John’s chest before he pulled back, watching the way John’s nipple peak from the cool air mixed with saliva.

He loosened the belt into a large circle and moved the scrap of towel aside. The bleeding had stopped, but an angry red gash cut over an inch across. Blood smeared thick down his throat, glistening in the soft light.

Mine, he thought.

Without hesitating, he leaned down and dragged his tongue in a messy stripe from the dip of John’s neck, following his throat, and ending back at John’s mouth. The taste of blood was still there mingling with John’s breath when their lips crashed together again.

He tightened the belt back up.

John’s hips gave a few sharp, involuntary thrusts, and Bucky swallowed the sound he made as they locked mouths again, hungrier this time. And Bucky knew that if he told him to stay, John would. If he told him to kneel, John would. If he told him to stop breathing entirely, John would try.

He reached down, into John’s sweats, fingers finding him already hard and pulsing.

Bucky stroked him once, slow from base to tip, and felt John’s breath stutter against his mouth. Another stroke, just as slow. Then his hand stilled entirely, thumb resting at the head, the barest pressure.

Every time John’s hips twitched forward, Bucky pulled back. Every time John’s breath caught like he might finally break, Bucky’s pace faltered just enough. He kept him trapped.

The belt stayed tight in his other hand, keeping John’s head exactly where Bucky wanted it. He could feel every little shiver through the leather

“That’s it,” Bucky murmured, not loosening his grip. “You’re doing so good.”

John made a sound that was almost a whimper.

Bucky’s hand resumed its slow rhythm, every stroke deliberate, wrapped around John’s cock like he owned it. He could feel the heat, the slick gathering at the tip, he wiped it away, more gathered. He ignored it.

He could feel John straining in his grip, the way the tension coiled in his thighs and abdomen, ready to snap, only for Bucky to pull him back from it at the last possible second. He kept him there.

John’s chest heaved. His cock twitched in Bucky’s hand, flushed and actively leaking now. The frustration in his body was palpable. Muscles pulled tight and desperate for release. Bucky could end it whenever he wanted. He just… didn’t.

Bucky finally shifted his grip. His palm wrapped around him fully now, stroking deliberately from root to tip. Every stroke smooth and tight, his thumb dragging just enough across the head to draw out a sharp breath.

John’s hips jerked forward.The pace built.

Every squeeze at the top was just shy of too much.

“Now,” Bucky murmured, giving permission.

John’s breath hitched hard, then broke apart in a sound that was half a gasp, half a choked-off groan. His body went taut under Bucky’s hand, every muscle straining as the first pulse spilled over Bucky’s fingers.

Bucky didn’t look away.He watched John’s face, the way he clenched and shuddered through his release. He kept stroking, slower now, coaxing every drop, watching the aftershocks. His other hand never loosened, keeping that steady pressure at John’s throat.

When the last tremor left John shivering under him, Bucky finally withdrew his hand, sticky with his come. He shifted back to John’s neck, moving the belt and towel aside again. The cut still red, the skin around it rough from friction. He smeared the come against the blood, watching the mixture blur together in messy streaks across John’s skin. Then he bent down and dragged his tongue over it.

Bucky gave several more licks, unhurried, savoring the metallic and salty taste. John’s breath came fast now, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls. There was a glassy, dazed quality to his gaze when their eyes met.

That was when sanity began to return. Bucky pulled back, his mouth wet.
He sat up on top of John, eyes fixed somewhere past the far wall, like his focus had shifted to a point only he could see. One hand stayed braced on the back of the couch, while the other finally let the end of the belt slip free.

Everything was buzzing. His skin, blood, the air itself. Like a low hum running under his ribs. He hadn’t even come, but the tension in him had drained out. What replaced it was a clean, cold certainty that sat in his chest.

He felt like he’d taken the reins back, like the world had steadied under his hands for the first time in, God, he couldn’t even remember. Not just over John, but over himself. The edge of want that had been gnawing at him all night was gone.

He wasn’t even sure how long he just sat there. Could’ve been a minute. Could’ve been five. The buzz in his head made it hard to tell.

It wasn’t until he felt a faint twitch under him, John’s thigh shifting, a small spasm in his breathing, that he looked down. John was still out of it, head tipped back against the couch. Arms still bound. But seeing him like that cut straight through whatever haze was left.

Shit. His neck.

Bucky slid off him and freed his arms, tossing the shirt on the floor. John’s expression barely changed, the smallest pull at his mouth, like he missed the weight pinning him in place.

Without the belt in his hand, the strip of towel had already fallen loose, slipping down to the cushion. It needed changing anyway.

Bucky grabbed it on the way to the sink, tossing the bloody cloth in without ceremony. He took two of the remaining strips, wetting one under the tap.

Coming back, he crouched in front of John. He worked slow this time, wiping the blood away, properly this time until the skin was clean. The cut was still too red, but at least it wasn’t smeared anymore. He took another moment to wipe his own mouth, catching the last traces of blood he hadn’t realized were there.

He pressed the dry piece of towel to John’s neck, holding it there as he eased down to the floor. Bucky took a few deep breaths, feeling the hum in his chest start to even out.

John looked like he was starting to come back to himself, eyes focusing, breathing steadying. They stared at each other for a long moment.

Bucky wasn’t sure what to say.

When John began to sit up, Bucky grabbed John hand to press against the towel to keep it in place. Their positions were reversed now—Bucky on the floor, John above him. It didn’t feel wrong. Not after what they’d done.

John glanced down at him. He had that look like he wanted to say something.

Bucky waited.

John just took a few steading breaths and looked around the room.

He looked down at Bucky with a question in his eyes.

“I just—," He started "What—,” He tried again. He paused to gather his thoughts and took a deep breath “So… does this mean we’re together now? Officially?”

Bucky felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He found himself smiling. “If that doesn’t solidify things, I don’t know what would.”

John let out a short breath that was half laugh, half relief, his shoulders dropping. “That’s— I really…” He shook his head like words weren’t going to cut it, then leaned down to press a quick kiss to Bucky’s mouth. “God, finally.”

Sliding off the couch, John settled next to him on the floor, shoulders pressing together. He tugged the cloth from his neck and glanced at it. Seeing no blood, he set it aside. “Does it look bad?”

Bucky’s gaze lingered a beat before answering. “A little, but only because it just happened. It won’t scar.”

“Oh.” John sounded almost disappointed.

Bucky huffed a slow sigh, tipping his head back against the couch. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught John watching him—first his face, then his throat, gaze trailing lower and lower until it landed on the still-hard bulge in Bucky’s jeans.

John’s eyes widened. “Shit, I didn’t—” He cut himself off. He shifted, then placed his hand on Bucky through the denim, cupping him. The squeeze made Bucky sigh again, low and content.

John moved, turning to face him, fingers brushing the zipper like he was already set on taking this further.

And that was when Ava’s voice cut through the air. “You’re supposed to be working.”

Notes:

For inheavenlygrass who wanted spit swapping

Chapter 16 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

John jumped back and Bucky grabbed his fly, zipping it up the small amount John had tugged down and both scrambling up off the floor.

“What the hell happened here?”

Ava looked around the room. There was a bloody towel in the corner, a slightly less bloody one in the sink. Blood splattered across the floor like someone was almost murdered.

John opened his mouth like he was going to explain, but Ava’s eyes zeroed in on him.
“And what the fuck happened to your throat?” she stepped forward.

Before he could move, she put two fingers under his chin, trying to tilt his head to the side. John jerked back instantly and covered it with his palm, like the cut wasn’t for her eyes. His jaw set tight.

She raised a brow at him, and that’s when she caught Barnes’s expression, flat and sharp, like don’t touch what’s mine.

Ah. So they finally figured their shit out.

Well, thank god. She’d been tired of Walker whining. But still, there was knife play, and then… this.

“Seriously, Bucky, what the hell, I thought you knew how to use a knife—”

Bucky’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing, like she’d just accused him of basic incompetency . He looked offended. But Walker looked even worse, his jaw was tight and shoulders squaring as if she’d insulted him personally. Before she could say anything else, Walker was already speaking, jumping to his defense.

“It’s not his fault. I moved. He told me not to, but I jerked.” His hand was still clamped against his throat, palm covering the cut like he fully intended to keep the mark shielded. He glared at her, daring her to push it.

Ava shook her head. “Great. Fantastic. Two geniuses with blades and no common sense.” She rolled her eyes and stepped back, tone flat and impatient. “Fine. I don’t have time to argue with you. Finish putting on your damn clothes. I’ll wait outside.”

Bucky was already moving toward his pack, expression shuttered, offense turning into focus as he dug for gear. John followed suit, pulling a black turtleneck from his own bag and dragging it over his head, the fabric scraping against the raw skin of his neck. He winced but didn’t complain.

Just as she was about to phase through the wall she yelled, “And clean up the blood.”

After she was gone John’s shoulders loosened and he also looked around the room. Bucky didn’t say anything at first.

They just cleaned up the best they could.

Then Bucky crossed the room with purpose. John looked up.

Bucky caught his jaw in one hand, not dissimilar to how Ava did. Only this time John leaned into it. The kiss was quick, sharp. Just enough to stake a claim. When he pulled back, his mouth hovered close to John’s ear.

“When this is over,” he murmured, low and certain, “wait for me in my room. We’ll finish what we started.”

John’s breath hitched. His lips curved into the faintest smile, “Yes, Sir.”

Bucky’s mouth also turned up and eyes held him for a beat longer before he let go.

They met Ava outside.

“We’ve got people to collect,” Ava said.

John paused, crossing his arms. “What people? What statues?”

Her mouth tightened. “It’s more complicated than we thought.”

Bucky looked over, frowning, but Ava didn’t wait for questions. “This isn’t just a trafficking ring. The women here, most of them come from isolated, undereducated areas. No sex ed, no resources. They don’t have words… or rather, the correct words, for what they are feeling. They were raised to believe their bodies exist to serve men.”

Bucky and John both looked at her. She confirmed with a head tilt, yeah, it was exactly what they were thinking. She continued.

“They’ve been raised to be completely submissive. Handed over like property, told their submission makes them good, holy, worthy. And once they’re given to men …” She gestured. “They don’t even see themselves as captives. They think this is what they’re supposed to be. And they are refusing to leave.”

The words landed. Barnes’s jaw clenched, eyes flicking toward John, whose face was unreadable. John just tugged the turtleneck higher over his throat.

There was silence for a beat.

“We pull them out anyway,” Barnes said finally. “Wanting or not. That’s the job.”

Ava’s eyes lifted, sharp. “And when they bolt back into the arms of the men demanding them back? When they sabotage the rest of the extraction because they think we’re the devils? This isn’t just smash-and-grab. This is ideology. It’s—” She broke off, dragging a hand through her hair. “It’s brainwashing dressed up as faith.”

John’s mouth parted like he might argue, then snapped shut again. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Bucky watched him for a second too long. He shifted, expression smoothing back to mission-neutral, but his voice carried an edge when he spoke. “So what’s the plan?”

Ava hesitated, gaze cutting between them. “We need to separate the ones who are wavering, the ones who question how they are being told to act. If we can break that chain of obedience, others might follow. But we can’t take them all at once.”

John finally looked up, eyes shadowed. “And the rest?”

Her answer was quiet, but it landed like a stone: “The rest will fight us to stay.”

Barnes’s fingers flexed against the strap of his pack. John’s jaw tightened further, but he gave a short nod, like he’d already known the answer before she said it.

It hadn’t been an easy mission. Not in the sense of terrain or gunfire, that part had been almost boring. It was everything else that got under John’s skin.

The looks in the women’s eyes when they were told to leave stuck with him. Some went quietly, almost relieved to be given direction that wasn’t harmful. Others, just like Ava had warned, refused outright.

And John understood that, too. That was the part that pissed him off most. Because he knew what it meant to want something so badly you’d give up a part of yourself just to feel relief, and then to believe the relief you felt made the pain worth it. But these men twisted that need. They weren’t partners and they sure as hell weren’t protectors. They were weak men who needed to stand on someone else’s neck just to feel tall.

That’s what made John furious. Because he also knew what it looked like when it wasn’t abuse. Bucky didn’t have to puff his chest or bark to prove he was in charge. He walked into a room and it shifted around him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was no insecurity there. No cruelty. And John trusted, he knew , that Bucky would never ask anything of him just to watch him break.

Ava had her work cut out for her. She could see what was happening here, but she also knew she wasn’t going to talk them out of it. These women believed their submission, and the pleasure they got from it, was some kind of divine blessing. That God himself was rewarding their obedience.

John couldn’t stand it.

It was four days later when they got back to the tower. The first thing he did was shower. He turned the dial until the water came out scalding. It stung against his skin, aggravating the cut at his throat. Good. Maybe if he pushed it hard enough, it would scar and make it permanent.

When he stepped out, room covered in steam, he caught himself in the mirror. The mark looked smaller now. Fading. Not even deep anymore, just a thin scab with edges darkened. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in. He pressed his thumb at the side until the skin around it pulled tight and reddened. There was a slight ache. Not enough.

His mind spiraled through possibilities. He could drag the corner of a razor against it, just enough to reopen, but the thought didn’t sit well with him. That would make it his. Not Bucky’s.

He thought about salt. Rubbing it in until it grinded in the wound raw. Or keeping it soaked under hot water until the skin tore. Even considered pressing the flat of his lighter close enough to blister it. Anything to stop it from closing. He didn’t want it to disappear. Wanted to make is last.

But all of them were wrong. They would all turn it into something he’d done, not something left there by Bucky’s.

He touched the scab once more, lighter this time, almost like he could make it stay. Then he sighed, shoulders sagging, and stepped away from the mirror. The mark would continue to heal, and there was nothing he could do but pull on his clothes and try not to feel hollow about it.

But he did have a task. He was meant to wait for Bucky in his room. Where they would ‘finish what they started’.

He didn’t let himself think too much about what that could mean, because he couldn't let himself be distracted. But now, it was all he could think about.

He pictured Bucky dragging him down onto the bed, the weight of his body pressing into his back while he was pinned on his front.

MaybeBucky’s hand would grab the back of his hair, forcing his head to the side so his mouth was right at John’s ear. He imagined his teeth grazing over the healing cut, and the deliberate sting as Bucky bit down hard, reopening it just enough.

He thought of Bucky’s voice, right at his ear, telling him he was his, that he’d marked him once and would do it again if he had to. He’d beg for more.

Or maybe Bucky would use the knife again. Slow, like he wanted John to feel every second of it. He’d tell him to strip, and John would obey.

Bucky would start with dragging the cool blade along his chest. Then a shallow nick, just enough for a drop to form. He’d watch it swell and smear with the pad of his thumb, his grin tugging sharp at the corner of his mouth.

“Hold still,” he’d mutter, and John would.

The blade might move lower, over his ribs, leaving tiny, deliberate cuts that would sting every time he twisted. Or along the inside of his thigh, so close to his cock it would make his pulse kick. He’d bleed, just a little, and Bucky would lick it away, tongue hot and slow, leaving spit and blood tangled on his skin.

Maybe he’d mark his hipbone, right where a waistband would rub, so he’d feel it every time he dressed. Maybe over his heart, deep enough to feel when he breathed. He’d have little claims carved into him and they’d be chosen and placed exactly where Bucky wanted.

He shook his head to clear it.

He stepped out of his room, tugging his shirt into place. The fabric was a bit tight, more than he'd usually wear. It stretched slightly across his chest and shoulders. It was intentional. If he was going to show up at Bucky’s door, he wanted to look good, even if he’d spent too many minutes debating which shirt made him look more like someone worth keeping around.

He considered making something, maybe finger food, maybe, something simple. But Bucky hadn’t asked for that. He’d only said, “ Wait for me in my room .”

He made his way down the hall. His hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before he finally turned it and stepped inside. The room was quiet, dimly lit by the evening light spilling through the blinds. Bucky was probably still in the gym, working out the stress of their mission. They hadn't spoke very much during it but John could tell it disturbed him.

Then he moved to one of the chairs and sat down, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs. It felt wrong. It was too casual.

After a minute, he stood again, pacing once before stopping near the bed. If they were going to 'finish what they started', it probably wasn’t going to happen in a chair.

His eyes drifted to the bed. Then to the floor beside it.

Should he kneel?

Bucky hadn’t told him to. But maybe it was implied now that they were together, officially together.

John let himself reflect on that.

Together.

He still couldn’t believe it had happened. That Bucky had looked at him like that. Touched him like that. And now, standing in Bucky’s room, he felt it again. That quiet hum and itch beneath his skin. That need to be claimed.

He sat on the bed. That was probably his best bet.

But just in case.

He pulled out his phone and pulled up the app. As it opened, it once again showed ‘No Matches’. That still stung. He didn’t even want to think back to when he first saw it.

He scrolled past the empty notifications and tapped into the chat section.

There were several open threads. He found one labeled “Beginners: First Steps & First Submissions” and hovered over it. His thumb was ready to hit it and ask what someone else might do in his place. Would they kneel? Sit? Speak first? Wait?

But then the door handle turned.

His breath caught. He shoved the phone back into his pocket.

Bucky stepped into the room, fresh from the gym. His hair was dry, but his skin had that clean, post-shower look. He looked indecisive. Like he was about to make a big decision but wasn’t sure if he could take the next step.

His eyes flicked over John, unreadable. He had a bag in one hand, and his fingers kept clenching and unclenching around the handle like he was working through something.

John looked up, heart thudding. He debated standing, but stayed seated. If Bucky wanted him on his feet, he’d say so. If he wanted him on his knees, he’d say that too. John didn’t move, he just waited.

Bucky lingered by the door, the silence stretching between them stretched. Then finally, his voice broke through.

“John, I think we need to talk.”

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by this post on 'what do anti-kink people do when they have a kink' worth a read (and check the comments) https://www.tumblr.com/unpretty/789829614958772224?source=share

Chapter 17 Chapter Text

Bucky had been one of the first pulled off the mission. It wasn’t a job that needed his kind of work, not much muscle anyway. It was mostly negotiation, coaxing and convincing, the kind of thing he’d never had the patience for. A brief stint playing politician hadn’t changed that. Probably for the best.

But the moment he opened his mouth to try, some of the so-called unattached women had zeroed in on him. He remembered the “house mother” in particular, the way she practically tripped over her own shoes to get to him.

John had seen it too. The woman had hooked her fingers around Bucky’s arm like she’d already laid claim, chirping something about wanting to introduce him to the girls. Girls who were far too young.

“So tell me, young man,” she’d purred, leaning closer than anyone had asked her to, “are you attached?”

Neither of them had noticed the look John shot her.. But they both heard Bucky’s answer.

“I am,” he said simply. And if she missed the flat finality in his voice, John didn’t. He caught it. He also caught himself smirking as he turned away, smug and satisfied.

“Oh, of course you are,” the woman had laughed, brushing his arm again like she hadn’t heard the rejection at all. “But let me introduce you to some of our girls anyway. You might just have a change of perspective.”

That was when John stepped in. He grabbed the woman by the arms and lifted her, like she weighed nothing, and carried her across the room and out the door. She let out a startled yelp that turned into a sputter as he deposited her firmly in the back of the truck. For a second, his jaw was tight, his grip white-knuckled, and it looked like he might twist a steel rail in around her just to make sure she stayed put. But then he exhaled through his nose, chose against it, and slapped the truck and twisted the handle. Let someone else figure out how to get her out.

He walked back toward Bucky with that same dangerous set to his shoulders. “Hope you’re not planning on telling me to let her out, cause I’m not.”

“Why’d you stop?” he asked with amusement as he drew closer.

John’s glare cut back to the woman in the truck. “She might enjoy that too much.”
He sent her one last, withering look before turning away.

Bucky snorted, sharp and low, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.

“God, I can’t wait for this to be over,” John muttered, already moving toward the next house, the one that held the men. Those he had no hesitation about.

Bucky stayed back and watched as John went to work. The efficiency was almost casual, a sharp twist, a takedown, hog-tied before the bastard even finished cursing, then tossed into the separate truck like trash. John’s shoulders were set hard, his movements quick and controlled, and for once, he looked completely in his element.

He watched it, and yeah, it made Bucky feel better.

When he’d first heard about this op, about what was happening in this compound, he’d felt an awful something he hadn’t wanted to name. It sounded too familiar. It reminded him too much of something he didn’t want to examine too closely. For a horrible moment he’d wondered if he was walking into a mirror. That maybe he’d look these men in the eyes and see himself staring back.

But then he met them.

Ava had been right. He wasn’t that.

He could see the signs now. The way the women clung to the men, defended them with frantic loyalty. The way they thought love was whatever twisted scraps of cruelty were flung their way. That wasn’t what he was. That wasn’t what John was.

And as he stood there, watching John throw another man into the truck without a flicker of hesitation, Bucky let himself breathe a little easier.

Now he was back in New York, the mission already fading into the city noise, about to head toward the Tower when he heard footsteps quickening behind him. Ava jogged up, in street clothes, with determination written all over her face.

“Bucky, I need to speak with you.”

He shrugged, casual on the outside even if his chest tightened. “Okay. Sure.”

They fell into step, moving down the street. Ava’s jaw was set, her eyes sharp like she’d been rehearsing what she wanted to say.

“Look,” she began, breath steady but her voice clipped, “I know that looked really bad. And I know you’ve said you didn’t want to be—”

He cut her off before she could finish. “You worried I’m gonna back out of my thing with John.”

She blinked, then slowed just a fraction, studying him. “So… you’re saying you aren’t?”

“No.” His tone was flat, certain. He looked ahead, not at her. “You’re right, I’m not that. ”

Relief washed over her face, almost comical in its suddenness. “Oh, thank God! Jesus, I was worried I’d have to go through months more of him moping and you brooding in denial.”

He didn’t comment. Just kept walking, hands tucked in his pockets, jaw tight.

Ava blew out a long breath, tension leaving her shoulders. “Well, that’s a load off. So…what are you planning on doing now?”

Bucky frowned. “What do you mean? We’re together now. That’s that.”

Ava gave him a look, skeptical, but not unkind. “Okay… that’s fine and well. But I’m guessing you two didn’t exactly have time to sit down and talk about what you’re each looking for.”

He glanced at her then, eyes narrowing slightly. “I think we’re on the same page.”

Her expression said she wasn’t convinced.

Ava didn’t look away. “I’m not disagreeing. But I’ve seen dynamics that should’ve worked, fall apart because, while both people wanted almost the same thing, there were just enough gaps that it didn’t.”

Now he looked at her fully, sharp. “You think one of us is gonna back out of this?”

The words came quick, defensive, but beneath them was a flicker of something else. A twinge of worry. He’d assumed John wanted what he had to give. Assumed that was enough.

Ava lifted a shoulder. “Look, it’ll probably work out between you two. Whether you’re looking for something mostly casual or a full 24/7 thing. But I think you should at least know which it is.” She let that hang for a moment, then added, “Do you even know which you want?”

He opened his mouth, ready to snap back, then realized, no. He didn’t. Not in words. John was his. That was the only part he was certain of. But he wasn’t going to drag it all out in front of other people.

“I—” he began.

“I can send you some links,” Ava offered, dry as ever.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “God, why. We’re not acting. It's who we are.”

“Good,” she said, almost satisfied with his irritation. “I’m glad you’ve got that level of awareness. Too many people just want to ‘spice up their sex life’ with a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.”

Bucky snorted. “That wouldn’t hold him.”

“Oh, it’s worse than that. They shouldn’t even be used on people with average strength. They cut into the wrists.”

She glanced at him again, a spark in her eye. “You know what? Let’s go shopping.”

He almost stopped walking. “What.”

“Shopping. You two are new, and I doubt you’ve got any supplies. And I need to restock.”

He hesitated, glaring. “No offense, but I’m not going to a sex shop with you.”

“God, no,” Ava said immediately, wrinkling her nose. “Sex shops, well the normal ones, are where you get the fuzzy handcuffs.”

She reached out, smacked the crosswalk button, then pointed across the street. “We’re going there.”

Bucky followed her finger. A catch all general store.

He tilted his head. “Huh.”

“Believe me,” Ava said, stepping off the curb, “if you want rope, chain, or clothespins? That’s your best bet.”

Well, she definitely wasn’t wrong.

They both grabbed a cart and made their way through the aisles.

It wasn’t exactly erotic, fluorescent lighting, a fly overhead, some guy up front arguing with the cashier about propane, but Ava moved through it like a professional.

First stop: the rope section.

She grabbed a coil of soft nylon clothesline. “Avoid paracord. Too thin. Burns the skin.”

Bucky looked at it. “Again, that won’t hold him.”

“So tell him not to move. Tell him what will happen if he breaks out.”

Bucky paused for just a moment, imagining it. Then nodded slowly and added a bundle. “Black,” he muttered. “Just looks better.”

Then it was over to hardware. She picked up a handful of sturdy, nickel-plated carabiners.

“Multi-purpose,” she said. “Suspension rigging, belt loops, leash points. And I use one to hang my keys, so it’s not suspicious.”

Bucky grabbed that and a pack of thick zip ties.

Ava arched a brow. “Getting bold?”

“For the bag,” he said evenly. “And emergencies.”

They made their way to the kitchen isle:

Wooden spoons. Ava picked one up and gave it a casual flick against her palm. “Classic.” She threw one in Bucky’s cart.

Bucky added a pack of wooden cloth pins.

“Make sure you sand those down.”

She picked them up a pare of metal tongs and gave them a slow click. “For sensation play,” she said, tossing it in her cart. “Or keeping someone in line at a distance.”

He raised a brow. “You really used those?”

“I’ve had worse things clamped on me in training,” she said mildly.

“Like what?”

“Like these.” She grabbed a pair of metal chopsticks.

Yeah. He could see the appeal of that. He grabbed a pair as well.

They stopped at a shelf of timers and thermometers. Ava picked up a kitchen timer shaped like a chicken.

“For control,” she said, winding it once. “Also psychological warfare.”

He gave her a look, then picked up a regular red one instead. “I’m not threatening anyone with a chicken.”

They passed rolling pins, too obvious. Cheese graters, absolutely not. And measuring spoons, Ava took a set.

She didn’t say why.

A drawer organizer went into Bucky’s cart next. Not for kink, just because he hated clutter.

Then a bulk pack of dish towels.

He was already thinking about what John might look like, hands wrapped, mouth gagged, chest damp with sweat, those towels underneath to catch the mess. Or maybe just as the gag.

Ava threw in a turkey baster just to mess with him.

“No,” Bucky said flatly.

“Just checking,” she replied, unrepentant.

They moved on.

They turned into the fastener aisle.

Bucky grabbed a roll of black electrical tape and added it without comment.

“Better than duct tape for skin,” Ava said, approving. “Stretches just enough not to be dangerous. Still looks intimidating.”

Next came bungee cords. Ava tested the tension on one and smirked. “Elastic restraint. Limited give. Great for beginners. Or control freaks.”

Bucky added a pack of small spring clamps. “Quick-release.”

They passed the chain section. Ava picked up a length of smooth galvanized chain and ran it through her hand. “Audible.”

She dropped it in her cart.

She then followed with a set of soft rubber-coated hooks. “Ceiling mounts. Or back-of-door improvisation.”

He paused at the sandpaper display.

She blinked. “That’s aggressive.”

“For the clothespins,” he said. “You said to sand the edges.”

She grinned. “Atta boy.”

She added a rubber mallet, just to be mischievous.

He gave her a flat look.

“I like the weight,” she said innocently.

She then wandered off to look at screws and nails.

Bucky took a left into the laundry aisle. He threw more clothespins in.

Then his eyes landed on a shelf of plain white pillar candles, unscented, no glass jars.. He tested one with his fingers, rolled it between his palms. He added three.

He almost reached for the red ones but stopped himself. Too cliche. White would do. Grabbed a pack of black tea candles for variety. He could mix the temperatures.

On the bottom shelf, tucked next to laundry baskets, was a row of soft fleece throw blankets on clearance. He grabbed a gray one. Neutral and machine washable. Easy to fold over the arm of a chair like it wasn’t meant for kneeling.

Back by the endcap, he spotted a lint roller and threw it in without thinking. Not sexy. Just practical. Especially with how John’s shirts attracted everything.

Then came the pet aisle.

He came to a full stop in front of the collars, gaze zeroing in on the one he already knew he wanted, black nylon, wide band, no frills. A matte D-ring at the center.

His fingers hovered over it, and his mind slipped again.

He imagined John kneeling, stripped completely, the collar tight around his throat. His skin slick with sweat and streaked with slow-dripped wax. White first. Then black.

The wax would harden in cooling paths over his shoulders and chest, catching in the curves of muscle.

His nipples would already be clamped, two wooden clothespins, sanded. But Bucky wouldn’t stop there. He wanted more.

So he pictured it. A metal chain, thin but strong, hooked from each clamp directly to the ring of the collar. Just enough slack that they rested when John was still.

But when he moved, even a little, the chain would rise, pull and tug the clamps tighter.

And he would move. Bucky would make sure of that.

He’d whisper “good boy” with a cruel undertone. Enough to make him lean forward just an inch, enough to draw the chain tight and pull the clamps until his breath hitched and his eyes watered, desperate and still trying so hard to please.

If he did it right, and he would, there’d be tears.

He didn’t hear her approach.

“Hi there! Do you need help finding a size?”

Bucky nearly jumped, nearly .
His shoulders went rigid, hand still hovering near the black collar. He turned slowly.

A teenage salesgirl stood beside him, cheerful and oblivious, clipboard clutched to her chest. Her smile faltered slightly at the flatness of his expression.

“Uh...” he said, eloquently. His voice was low and rough. “No, I—”

And then Ava appeared like a perfectly-timed devil on his shoulder, a gleam unmistakable in her eye.

“Oh, he just got a new dog,” she said smoothly, voice syrup-sweet with just enough condescension to make it bite. “Excitable thing.”

The girl lit up. “Oh! A puppy?”

Ava smiled, full of teeth. “No. Full-grown. Just needs a little training.”

“Oh,” the girl said, curious. “What kind of dog?”

Bucky made a low sound like he was about to speak, but Ava cut in again, not missing a beat.

“Big. Strong. A little high-strung. He’s got a lot of energy but he’s sweet. Just needs someone who knows how to handle him.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh wow. What breed?”

Ava tilted her head, faux thoughtful. “Hard to say. Some kind of mix. Loyal, though. Smart. Ish. Very responsive.”

“Has he had obedience classes?”

Bucky's eyes rolled to the ceiling.

Ava, absolutely unfazed, said, “He’s learning. He does best with consistency. Routine. Clear expectations.”

The salesgirl nodded earnestly, warming back up. “Oh, yeah! Structure is so important for dogs like that. If you’re doing leash training, we also carry body harnesses that can really help with resistance—”

“A body harness sounds good, doesn’t it?,” Ava asked Bucky lightly.

The girl blinked again.

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re good.”

Ava gave her a pleasant smile. “But thank you for your help.”

“Sure! Um, let me know if you need anything else.” The girl walked away a little too quickly, glancing back once like she wasn’t sure what exactly just happened.

Bucky finally turned to Ava, jaw clenched. “Enjoy that?”

She smirked and tossed a keychain chain into the cart. “Immensely.”

Then, with zero shame, “You do want a collar with leash compatibility, right?”

Bucky didn’t dignify that with an answer. He just glared at her, grabbed the black collar off the hook, and tossed it into the cart with a little too much force.

Ava didn’t flinch. “But seriously, just make sure you clarify that this is a play collar and not a commitment collar.”

He paused, fingers still resting on the edge of the cart.
“You don’t think he’d be into that?” he asked, voice low, tighter than he intended. A sudden burst of nerves had crept up from nowhere.

Ava snorted. “He’d be so thrilled he’d faint.”

She paused, her expression shifting like she was picturing it, amusement curling at the edges of her mouth as she quietly laughed to herself.

“Unless…” she said, her voice trailing as she nodded toward the cart, “…that’s what you’re planning with that.”

He felt his shoulders twitch, something defensive sparking behind his ribs.

“I—”

The humor faded from Ava’s face. She exhaled, tone softening without losing its edge.

“And this is why you need to talk, ” she said. No teasing now.

His hands tightened around the cart handle, knuckles whitening.

“Bucky,” Ava said, more gently now. “Seriously. He’s into it. I know. He asked a ton of questions after he saw a pair getting ready for their collaring ceremony.”

She hesitated. “It’s just… kind of early for you to be doing that.”

Bucky barely registered the last sentence. His head snapped toward her, a sharp edge in his eyes. Possessiveness flared so hot it nearly blanked everything else out.

“What do you mean, ‘he saw a pair getting ready’?”

Ava winced the second it left his mouth. Her face said shit before her words did.

She exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not what you think.”

Bucky didn’t blink.

“I invited him to a club,” she continued, carefully. “Just a social night. He came with me a few times. Watched. Asked questions. Talked to people. But he didn’t do anything with anyone.”

He just kept staring.

Ava held his gaze for another beat before gesturing toward the end of the aisle.

“Come on,” she said, voice low. “Let’s go pay.”

Bucky didn’t move right away. Not until his grip eased just enough for the cart to roll forward.

“You have some explaining to do.”

They made their way back to the tower. Ava kicking herself for saying what she did around someone clearly possessive. Honestly, it was amazing it took them as long as it did to get together.

“Before you disappear and I don’t see you again, let me print out a checklist for you,” Ava said heading toward her room.

“Why?”

“It’ll help you talk.”

He was done asking questions at this point, so he just followed her. They walked to her room, Ava pulling out her laptop the moment they stepped inside. She began setting up the printer, fingers tapping quickly.

Bucky drifted into her bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and rubbed it over his jaw until his skin stung. When he came back out, towel still in hand, a neat stack of pages was already sliding out of the printer.

He picked up the first sheet, brow furrowing. It was a long list of kinks, each one with checkboxes beside it:

Giving.

Receiving.

Need.
Want.
Not interested.
Soft limit.
Hard limit.

He’d seen something like this before, back when he first signed up for the site. At the time, he hadn’t paid much attention. It had seemed unnecessary. But now, with a certain person in mind, his opinions shifted.

“I don’t even know what some of these are,” he admitted, flipping through.

“Don’t worry,” Ava said without looking up. “After the checklist, there’s a glossary with definitions.”

Bucky lifted a brow. “Hmm” He flipped to the back.

“Oh, I know,” she said dryly. “It’s the biggest complaint I’ve heard aside from it not being gender specific.”

He continued flipping through the pages. “Maybe for women, seems all pretty doable for men.”

Ava snorted, “If you can make him squit, congratulations to both of you.”

He paused to glare at her.

The printer kept spitting out page after page.

“How many is this?” Bucky asked.

“Just for the initial checklist? Nine. And I’m printing two copies, one for each of you.”

But he wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was already decided how he wanted to answer certain questions .

When the printer stopped, Ava stacked the papers, stapled them neatly into two packets, and held them out.

He took them without a word and slid it into his bag.

As he walked toward the door, she called after him, “Remember, you need to talk first. This is on you, not him.”

He stopped, just briefly, and cast a sharp look over his shoulder.

He didn’t answer.

He stepped out into the hall and made his way to his door. Opened it.

John was there, on his bed, waiting. His posture alert. Hopeful. Expectant.

Bucky hesitated, just for a second.

Dammit , Ava was right.

He took a deep breath, braced a hand on the doorframe, exhaled slowly, and said, “John, I think we need to talk.”

Chapter 18 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“John, I think we need to talk.”

John somehow managed to sit up even straighter which was impressive, considering he’d already straightened the moment Bucky entered the room.

His eyes went wide with alarm. “Why?” A beat. “I mean, is something wrong?”

Yeah. That probably wasn’t the best way to start.

Bucky sighed and closed the door behind him, turning the lock with a quiet click that felt louder than it should’ve. He stood there for a moment, trying to find the right place to start.

“This isn’t— Sorry, that wasn’t…” He trailed off, then crossed the room toward the corner.

He grabbed a chair and dragged it forward, placing it directly in front of where John sat on the bed tense and unmoving.

Bucky sat down and set his bag beside him on the floor.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, more carefully this time. “I’m not breaking up with you.”

John exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a week. Shoulders dropped. Jaw unclenched. “Oh thank god. ”

He let out a shaky laugh and ran a hand over his face. “I thought I messed this up already.”

That made Bucky pause.

His brows drew together. “Why would you think that?”

John didn’t even hesitate. “Oh come on,” he said, rolling his eyes at himself, “if one of us is gonna mess it up, I think we both know it’s gonna be me.” He sounded certain. Like it was just a fact he’d learned to accept.

Bucky just looked at him.

Yeah. Ava was right.

Without thinking, Bucky reached out and rested a hand on John’s knee.

John smiled at the touch, a little hopeful spark lighting behind his eyes. He started to lean in…

But Bucky pulled back and sat fully into the chair again, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He knew if he started they wouldn't stop. And that wasn't what they needed to do.

“I was talking with Ava,” he said.

John blinked and moved back again. “Okay?” He squinted slightly, trying to figure out where this was going.

“She said…” Bucky trailed off, dragging a hand through his hair. “She said we needed to talk about what we want from each other.”

John squinted again. Processing.

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly. “I thought we were—wait, is there something else you want? That I not—” The sentence went unfinished.

His posture had shifted again, shoulders rising, knee bouncing like his nerves were trying to leak out through movement. His fingers twitched once, then again.

"No, nothing like that." John relaxed again.

Bucky gave a half-shrug. “But I think that’s what she thinks we need to talk about.”

He looked down at the bag by his feet.

The wax. The rope. The clamps. The metal chopsticks.

Yeah.

Maybe they should’ve talked before he bought the metal chopsticks.

John followed Bucky’s gaze down to the bag, curiosity flickering across his face.

Bucky leaned down and reached inside, pulling out the two stapled packets.

“She printed these out for us,” he said, offering one to John. “Said we should fill them out. Figure out what we actually want.”

John took it, his brow already furrowing as he flipped through the pages, first page, the second, the third.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Huh, this is… really long.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, settling back into his seat. “I think it’s meant to be thorough.”

Bucky moved to his desk, grabbed two pens, and handed one over as John started reading.

“What is…” John squinted at the page, mouthing the word. “Aba—abasiophilia?”

They both paused.

Bucky was pretty sure that wasn’t how it was pronounced. Instead, he said, “Definitions are at the back.” He gestured loosely toward the packet. “But apparently it’s a medical kink. Like… neck braces. Crutches. That kind of thing.”

John made a face, more confused than disgusted, but then glanced back at the sheet, as if making sure he hadn’t missed something and began to check ‘not interested’.

Then he looked back up at Bucky. Carefully. “Unless you’re…?”

He shook his head and snorted. “No.”

John’s shoulders relaxed again.

“Cool,” he said. Then quieter, “I just didn’t want to… you know. Judge. If you were into… orthopedic stuff.”

Bucky shook his head again.

John quickly marked Not Interested on the packet with a little extra pressure, muttering under his breath, “Yeah, I don’t think I’d want anything around my neck—”

He stopped. Froze mid-sentence like he realized what he said.

John’s mouth opened slightly. “I mean, not neck braces. ” He gestured vaguely at the form. “That stuff, no. But, uh…anything else. From you. That’d be—yeah. I’d be okay with that. More then.”

Bucky nearly lost it. Again.

The urge to open the bag, unpack every item inside, and finish what they’d started was strong . He could already see it. John spread out, marked again, silenced with nothing but his own need… and maybe a dish cloth.

But instead, Bucky gave his head a sharp shake like he could rattle the impulse loose. He grabbed his own packet, crossed one leg over the other, and started reading.

Discipline. Focus. That’s what this was about.

He didn’t go in any particular order. Just let his eyes land where they wanted.

The C’s were right there, cock warming, cock worship, collaring, caning, clothespins, chastity, chains, CBT, choking—.

So he started with the easiest one. Collaring.

His pen didn’t even pause for a second before he marked the first box:

Giving: check

Then the next.

Play collar: Yes.
Commitment collar: Yes.

Then, just beside them in the same row, he checked:

24/7: Yes.

He paused for a breath, then glanced up.

John was still hunched over his own form, brow furrowed, reading carefully. Bucky watched him for a beat, then looked back down at the line of options.

He added two more checkmarks:

Temporary: Yes.
Interested: Yes.

He figured it would give John time and space to choose. Just in case.

But Bucky had already decided who John belonged to. That wasn’t a question anymore. It was just a matter of giving him the chance to say yes back.

Across from him, John kept reading. But his eyes kept flicking up at Bucky, then down at the packet, then back again. Like he was trying to line his answers up the same. Trying to figure out where Bucky had started, where he’d said yes . Like he wanted to match his answers because he wanted to get it right .

Bucky made a few more checks on his own sheet. Caning: yes. Clothespins: yes. Chasity: yes. Corsetry. He paused. Maybe. Cat play: No

John shifted slightly. Then again.

After another glance at Bucky’s page and a furrowed brow that didn’t seem to be helping, he finally gave up and opened his mouth.

“So…” he started, hesitant. “Can we just… I don’t know, assume I’m into whatever you’re into?”

Bucky looked up.

John rushed ahead, waving the packet slightly. “I mean… I trust you. If you're into it, I’m probably fine with it.” He gave a small shrug. “I’m okay with whatever you put.”

Bucky opened his mouth. That was tempting. So tempting.

But then he closed it again. No. That wasn’t how this worked. Not with him.

“Remember what I told you?” he said instead, voice low and deliberate. John blinked, thrown for a second.

Bucky let the pause stretch just long enough for the tension to return.

“I said I’d set the rules. And expect you to follow.”

John opened his mouth to reply, maybe to agree, maybe to joke, but Bucky wasn’t finished.

“And you said you wanted that,” he said, his tone sharper now. “Did you mean it?”

John straightened. Then he nodded without hesitation.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

Bucky held his gaze a second longer.

“Then fill out your packet.”

John’s mouth shut with a quiet click.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t sulk. But his posture dipped just slightly, like he’d been hoping Bucky would make the choices for him, and was trying not to look disappointed that he wouldn’t.

Bucky watched him carefully as he turned back to the form.

John stared at it for a full minute, pen hovering in midair. Thinking. Overthinking. His brow furrowed, lips pressed into a line. He tapped the pen once against the margin, stole a glance at Bucky, then finally made a single, cautious checkmark.

Bucky sighed softly.

At this rate…

If John took a full minute per box, they’d still be on the B’s by sunrise.

As John continued flipping pages, clearly trying to figure out how Bucky had answered so he could match him without screwing it up, Bucky leaned down and reached into his bag.

“Maybe this’ll motivate you to answer quicker,” he said, both casual but also with intent.

John looked up immediately, eyebrows lifting.

Bucky straightened, holding the black collar between his hands.

John’s eyes went wide. His entire body stilled.

Without a word, Bucky set the collar down on the nightstand, deliberately, like he was planting a flag.

He was about to turn back, planning to watch John’s reaction. But John moved first.

In one sudden motion, John launched himself off the bed and straight into Bucky’s lap. Bucky tipped back in the chair as legs bracketed his thighs, hands grabbed his face like he couldn’t get close fast enough. He kissed him, firm and open-mouthed, breath hitched like something had just broken loose inside him.

Bucky froze for half a second, caught completely off guard. The packet slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor.

Then instinct kicked in.

His left hand gripped John’s hip like he was anchoring him to the chair— mine . His other hand slid up to John’s throat, fingers wrapping easily, possessive, thumb brushing over the still-healing cut he’d left there. His mouth opened under John’s.

John tilted his head. Bucky pressed his thumb in harder.

John groaned again, low and guttural, grinding down against Bucky’s lap with more force now. It was needy and desperate.

Bucky was already halfway hard, but that second grind, John shifting deliberately, rolling his hips with purpose, nearly undid him. He growled deep in his throat, gripping tighter.

Too tempting. Too easy to let this spiral.

But he didn’t.

Bucky forced restraint, moving his hand up to John’s hair instead. He fisted it tight and pulled John’s head back just enough that they were breathing into each other’s mouths, eyes half-lidded and desperate.

“If you react like this now,” Bucky rasped, “imagine what it’ll be like if—” when he corrected to himself, “if we get a permanent collar on you.”

He wanted John to understand. To know where this was heading. Where he intended to take it.

John stilled. Pulled back just slightly.

Bucky traced a slow, deliberate line along his cheekbone with his thumb, gentler now, but not any less possessive. “We’re just getting started. But one day”, his voice lower with intent “it won’t just be for play.”

John stared at him. And for a moment, after the enthusiastic response from before, the silence hit heavier than it should have.

After how eagerly he’d thrown himself into Bucky’s lap, the sudden hesitation caught Bucky off guard. That annoying knot started tightening in his stomach, fuck, had he misread this? Had he gone too far?

He swallowed, jaw clenching slightly. “But if you’d rather this just stay a play collar…”

“Oh—no!” John interrupted quickly, breathless. “I mean—yes, eventually .” He gave a nervous laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “ Yeah. But…like you said”, his shoulders hitched up. “this is very new. It hasn’t even been a week.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

He just stared at him. John wasn’t backing off or pulling away. He looked more embarrassed than anything. Kept glancing behind Bucky, like he didn’t know where to look.

Well, he seemed to be replying honestly. Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Okay.”

Then, without another word, he wrapped his arms around John’s waist and lifted him off his lap. He set him down between his legs, facing forward, and locked his thighs to either side of him, caging him in.

John froze for a second, but didn’t resist. In fact, it seemed to calm him down.

Bucky leaned forward, grabbed his own packet from the floor, then reached over John’s shoulder and took his as well off the bed and handed it to him.

“Now finish filling out your packet.”

John settled into Bucky and picked up the pen again.

Bucky let him work.

He flipped through the packet in his own hands, not bothering to go in order. He already had a pretty good idea of what he wanted, what he could give, what he needed, and when something made him pause, he turned to the back for the definitions just to be sure. There were a few surprises. A few things he hadn’t thought about. A few he hadn’t realized he wanted until now.

Every so often, he glanced down to check on John.

He was still going slow. But it wasn’t hesitation, exactly. He seemed to be answering honestly, starting with the yeses that came easy. There were quite a few of those. And now, Bucky could see his pen hovering over the harder ones.

Bucky unlocked his legs. Figured this was the part where they actually talked.

John felt the shift immediately and looked up at him.

Bucky stood without a word and dragged his chair back to the desk, giving them both a little space. Then he lowered himself down across from John, back against the bed, knees bent.

They probably should be on even footing while discussing this but—

He opened his legs again, “Come here.” John turned and leaned in, back again his chest. He locked his legs again and put his head on his.

“I haven’t finished mine,” John said simply.

“I know.” Bucky responded. “We can talk through the ones you haven’t answered.”

John looked hesitant, but after a moment, he flipped back to the front page and started to turn his form around, like he was going to hand it over.

Bucky saw the flicker of nerves behind it. He didn’t like seeing that look on him. So instead, he offered his own.

“Here. Read mine first.”

John froze, eyes snapping up. Then he took the packet quickly, almost too quickly. Like he was ready to burn Bucky’s answers into his brain.

But before he could disappear into it, Bucky said quietly, “Just…one thing.”

John looked up again, attentive.

“You have to be honest. If there’s something that doesn’t work for you, you’ll tell me.”

John nodded, serious now. “Yeah. I will.”

“And just so you know—” Bucky gave an amused look, eyebrows raising just slightly in humor. “There’s one or two things on there I didn’t answer honestly. So don’t pretend you’re into everything. Got it?”

A beat passed.

Then John gave a crooked little smile. “Got it.”

But damn, did Bucky know him. Knew exactly how he operated. He could already feel himself swinging between two impulses. Wanting to match Bucky’s preferences down the line, prove he could be everything he wanted… and wanting to follow instructions and not assume anything without permission. It made his brain short-circuit a little.

So he focused hard on Bucky’s packet. He was convinced he’d be able to spot Bucky’s ‘lies’.

Which meant he didn’t notice when Bucky casually picked up John’s half-finished form and started flipping through it. Probably for the best.

The first thing John noticed was the amount of yeses. Thank god. He didn’t know what he would do if Bucky wasn’t interested in half this stuff. He was already going through each line of the B’s. Then he paused.

“You made the fake one too easy,” he said, tone dry.

Bucky didn’t even glance up from John’s sheet. “Did I?”

John snorted. “Yeah. I mean, breeding?” His voice pitched a little. “I assumed we’d just skip the ones that weren’t possible.”

At that, Bucky turned his head slowly. One eyebrow raised. His eyes were cool, unreadable. “Who said anything about it needing to be possible?”

John opened his mouth. Felt the heat crawl up his neck. And promptly shut it again.

He turned back to the list, trying to focus, but his hand twitched slightly around the pen.

Okay, he thought, maybe spotting the lie was going to be harder than he thought.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through again. “What does 24/7 mean to you?”

John stiffened, only glancing back partway.

“I noticed you sometimes checked it and sometimes you didn’t.” Bucky added.

“I don’t know,” John said finally. “I just want something… ongoing.”

He almost said permanent. The word hovered, but he swallowed it back. He still felt stupid about the collar. Misreading what it meant. Wanting it too much.

His eyes drifted toward it again, sitting right there on the nightstand like a taunt. He wished they’d just get to it already. Put it on him. Take the choice away.

“I want that,” Bucky said, voice final. Certain. “Even if we’re not alone. Even if it’s subtle. I want you to remember who you are. I want you to know what you are.”

His eyes flicked to the collar.

Then back to John.

“Mine.”

John turned with his whole body this time, now facing him, slow and deliberate, and looked right at him.

God, why were they still talking.

“Yes,” he said. The word was wrecked. Barely formed. “That. Please.” And then, quieter, “Are we done? Can we—” He looked back at the night stand.

Bucky looked at the sheets in his hand and back at John then followed John’s gaze.

“Well….I tried.” And he lunged.

Notes:

I considered making a full list and explaining how each answers but I don't want to box myself in like I did before.
Also, I nearly had a line where Bucky asked John point blank what he wants and John responded with the title of this story. Thought it was cringy so I took it out but figured some people might be amused by that.

Chapter 19 Chapter Text

Bucky didn’t think. He moved.

One sharp lunge forward and he had John by the front of his shirt, right at the collarbone, fist tight, dragging him in close before he even blinked. His body buzzed with purpose.

“Undress. Now.”

The command came out low. But there was no room for negotiation in it.

John reacted instantly. Good. He bolted upright like something had snapped loose, hands scrambling at the hem of his shirt, breath quick.

Bucky stood, slow and deliberate. Letting John feel the difference in how they moved. Like a predator getting ready to move. He bent to grab the collar from the nightstand and then sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loose around the leather.

And then he just watched. Didn’t speak or blink. Just watched.

John stripped under his gaze like he knew what this was. An evaluation. A test. And he wanted to pass.

Perfect. Bucky needed him to want that. Needed him to need that. That shaky, deep-in-the-gut desire to be known and chosen and claimed.

When John was finally bare, Bucky rose again, just as slow. Just as intentional. He held up the collar between them.

John didn’t move. Didn’t dare to. Like even breathing wrong might make Bucky change his mind.

Bucky stepped close. Brought the collar to John’s throat and slowly put it around his neck. He buckled it just at the cut, tight enough to continue irritating it.

He didn’t look at the collar. He watched John's eyes instead.

They were glassy now. Blown-wide pupils. Lips parted like he’d forgotten how to keep them closed. Every inch of him was locked in this moment.

Bucky reached into the bag and pulled out the folded blanket. He flicked it open with one hand and dropped it onto the floor, spreading it out roughly. A gesture of care, even if it looked like nothing more than preparation.

Then he hooked one finger through the front loop of the collar. And lowered John down. Like this was where John belonged. On his knees. On the blanket. Under Bucky’s hand.

He gave him a beat to settle, then crouched beside the bag again, reaching in. His fingers found the coil of clothesline and the spring clamps tucked beneath it.

When he stood back up, the rope looped in one hand and clamps in the other, John’s eyes tracked them, chest rising faster now.

Bucky bent forward, down to John’s level, close enough that their faces were inches apart. He didn’t raise his voice.

“I’m going to tie your arms back,” he said, quiet and firm. “You don’t break it. Understand?”

John nodded so fast it bordered on frantic, his breath catching with it. “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”

John’s expression flickered, panic, guilt, like he’d already fucked up. His mouth opened, probably to apologize or explain, but he caught himself just in time. Swallowed hard. Reset.

“Yes, Sir.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened with approval. “Good boy,” he said, voice low and sure.

John exhaled like the words had unlocked something in him. His shoulders eased. The tension melted from his spine.

“Because if you do, we’re stopping. I mean it.”

He stepped around behind him. John didn’t move, didn’t even crane his neck to follow. He just stayed still, obedient in the silence.

Bucky ran a hand down the line of John’s spine. A claiming touch. Pressure firm enough to remind, palm dragging slow like he was marking territory. He felt the heat of John’s skin, the slight tremble beneath it, and something in him bared its teeth.

With his other hand, he grabbed the rope, fingers quick and sure. He hauled John’s arms back behind him, rough enough to make his breath catch. Crossed his wrists and gripped them like he was locking them into place. He didn’t want pretty ropework or decorative knots. He wanted ownership.

The rope wound around John’s forearms in tight, possessive loops, each pass biting into skin. The fibers rasped against muscle as Bucky pulled them snug. Drawing him in. Holding him right where Bucky wanted him.

John exhaled hard as the final knot was tied low at his back. The sound was wrecked, half surrender, half arousal. His body sagged just slightly into the hold, like the rope was a relief. Relief that he didn’t have to hold himself together anymore. That Bucky would do it for him.

Bucky reached for the clamps, metal cold against his palm. He knelt, close enough that John could feel the brush of his breath. Without a word, Bucky slid one finger into his mouth, coating it with saliva. He leaned in and rubbed it slow across John’s nipple, watching the skin pebble under the touch, wet gleam catching the light. Then he pressed the first clamp into place.

John jerked with a hiss, chest bowing forward, and Bucky’s mouth curved at the reaction. Good.

For the other, Bucky didn’t bother with his hand. He lowered his head, dragged his tongue in one deliberate sweep over John’s chest, tasting sweat and heat. He closed his mouth over the nipple, tongue circling once, and then withdrew, leaving the skin wet, slick, sensitized.

The clamp snapped on in a way that made John groan, head tipping back against the rope.

Bucky stared at him, bound, collared, and his, and felt something hungry and low curl tighter in his gut.

This was what it looked like when a man got claimed. And John? John looked like he’d beg to be claimed again.

Bucky stayed close, voice low against his chest. “Now you look like mine.”

He straightened, peeled his shirt off without hurry, and sat on the edge of the bed. He spread his legs wide, He wanted John to see. To kneel there bound and clamped and look up at the man who owned him. His cock was already thick and straining against the denim, the outline obvious through the fly. He leaned back on his palms, gaze fixed sharp on John.

“Suck me off.”

The order came out low and sharp.

John looked at him for a second, lips parted. Then he shuffled forward on his knees, rope pulling at his arms, clamps tugging tight and bobbing with every movement. Bucky would have to get weights for next time.

Bucky didn’t move to help. Didn’t touch him. Just watched as John got close enough that the heat of his breath ghosted through the denim.

John glanced up, silent question in his eyes. Did Bucky want to guide him? Force him? Or was he meant to earn it?

Bucky didn’t so much as twitch. Just raised an eyebrow. Figure it out.

And John did. He dipped his head, teeth catching the button of Bucky’s jeans, tugging until it gave. Then he mouthed at the zipper and gently pulled it down. When John finally dragged it down just enough to bare the head of his cock through the open fly, Bucky exhaled rough, a growl curling out with it.

Bucky’s cock strained. John mouthed over it, hot breath soaking through, lips dragging against the hard line of him. The friction made Bucky’s jaw lock, heat coiling low in his stomach.

Awkward, messy, desperate. Exactly what Bucky wanted to see.

“Good boy,” he muttered. “That’s it. Work for it.”

John leaned in without hesitation now, lips parting, breath hot as it ghosted over the flushed tip. Then his mouth closed around him, wet and tight and immediate. The first suction made Bucky’s head snap back, a sharp curse tearing out of his throat.

Christ.

John was clumsy with his arms tied, unable to use his hands, but that only made it better. He was forced to take Bucky with his mouth alone, awkward angles, lips stretching, spit slicking fast as he worked to swallow him down. Every movement made the clamps on his chest jerk and bite.

Bucky watched from above, gaze heavy, one hand curling into a fist against the bedsheets to keep from grabbing the back of his head too soon. John’s throat worked around him, jaw straining as he pressed deeper, gag reflex catching but never pulling back. He just breathed through it, desperate to keep going, to prove himself.

Mess dribbled out at the corners of his mouth, slicking his chin, and Bucky’s cock twitched hard at the sight.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Drool all over yourself just to take me.”

John moaned around him, and the vibration nearly undid Bucky right there. He shifted his hips forward, just enough to feel the resistance of John’s throat, and held him there until his eyes watered.

Possession sang through him. Every choke, every tremor, every swallow was his.

Finally, Bucky tangled his flesh hand in John’s hair, gripping tight at the roots. “That’s it. Nice and deep. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He tightened his hold, voice rougher now. “And you’re not going to swallow.”

John’s eyes flicked up at him at that, wide, almost regretful. His mouth slipped off Bucky’s cock, wet strands of spit connecting them, and he tried to work him with his lips and tongue along the shaft instead, like maybe that was a compromise.

Bucky’s grip snapped tight again, jerking John’s head back. “No.” His voice was a growl, iron and final. “I’m coming in your mouth. But you don’t swallow a drop.”

He released his hair only to let John sink back down, forcing him to take the length again. John obeyed, lips sealing back around him, throat opening clumsily as he took him deep.

Bucky was close now, so close his thighs tensed hard. Every other bob of John’s head he pressed just a little deeper, just enough to choke him, make him gag around it, make him feel the weight of it. Make him remember.

His balls pulled up tight, heat flashing through his core, and then he was there, groaning, guttural, hips jerking as his cock pulsed thick in John’s mouth. Release tore through him, spilling over John’s tongue in thick ropes.

He held him down for every second of it, watching tears prick at the corners of John’s eyes, watching his throat work on reflex even as he fought not to swallow. Come coated his tongue, filled his mouth, slicked his lips as it leaked out around the seal.

Bucky dragged in a ragged breath, chest heaving, and loosened his grip in John’s hair only when the last pulse shuddered free. He looked down, hungry, satisfied, at the sight of John, bound, clamped, collared, and on his knees with Bucky’s come dripping from his mouth. Bucky dragged a finger across John's chin and pushed it back in.

“Keep it there,” Bucky ordered, voice still rough.

Then he stood in one sharp movement, yanking John up by the collar. John stumbled with his arms bound, clamps jerking on his chest, but Bucky dragged him forward and planted him on the edge of the bed. He sat him down hard, knees spread, cock flushed and straining up against his stomach.

Bucky reached into the bag again, pulling out the timer. He held it up, let John see it.

“I’m going to set this for two minutes,” Bucky said, voice low and flat. He leaned in close, eyes cutting sharp into him. “You don’t come until then. Got it?”

John’s lips were still sealed, cheeks stuffed full. He just nodded quickly.

Bucky set the timer on the nightstand. They could both hear the soft ticking. Then he stepped in, and lowered himself.

Without preamble, Bucky took him into his mouth. Deep. Messy. Hungry. His lips sealed around the swollen head, tongue dragging hard over the slit, then down the length of the shaft in one slow pull.

John shuddered instantly, knees jerking wide, rope biting at his arms as he fought not to thrust. A broken noise rattled in his chest, muffled by the load still sitting heavy on his tongue.

Bucky braced a hand against John’s thigh, pressing him down, keeping him from bucking. He sucked harder, mouth working relentless, spit sliding slick down his cock as he swallowed him deeper. He pulled back just enough to drag his tongue under the head, then surged forward again until the tip nudged the back of his throat.

John gasped, body trembling, nipples now numb from the clamps. His chest heaved, breath coming ragged through his nose, and Bucky could feel the way his cock twitched, the way his whole body screamed on the edge of breaking.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Bucky growled around him, voice rumbling through his chest before he went back down, swallowing him whole again.

John’s eyes rolled back, mouth clamped tight, drool streaking his chin where he tried to hold everything in. His thighs trembled under Bucky’s grip, muscles burning, bound arms flexing uselessly behind his back.

Bucky worked him harder, faster, each pull deliberate, each swallow meant to wreck him. Every other stroke he went too deep, choking himself on the length just to make John suffer with him. He wanted him squirming, wrecked, desperate to spill but denied.

The timer ticked on, second by agonizing second.

Bucky could taste the salt of him already, feel the way his cock pulsed heavy against his tongue. John was holding on by threads, shaking apart, clinging to the command like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking.

Bucky smirked against his skin, lips wet and glistening as he pulled back just long enough to look up at him.

“Two minutes,” he said, voice rough. “And not a second before.”

Then he swallowed him down again, merciless.

The timer ticked, each second dragging. John was shaking apart, chest heaving, eyes glassy. Bucky could feel every tremor of him, every desperate twitch of his cock, pulsing hard against his tongue. He knew John was clinging to the edge by sheer will, bound and clamped and stuffed full of orders he hadn’t been released from.

And then—ding.

The timer went off.

Bucky didn’t even give him a second to think. He grabbed the clamps and yanked them off, the blood returning to the area would be painful. Then drove down hard, taking him whole, lips sealing tight as he worked the shaft with punishing suction. John broke instantly, body bowing forward, muffled groan spilling past the mess still in his mouth. His cock jerked and spilled in Bucky’s mouth, pulsing over his tongue in heavy waves.

Bucky held him through it, tongue working, taking every last drop until John sagged against the ropes, wrecked and trembling, nipples stinging.

Only then did Bucky pull back, letting John’s cock slip wet from his mouth. John own come sitting heavy in Bucky's mouth. He rose to his feet, towering over him, and grabbed John’s jaw in one hand, forcing his head back. Bucky leaned down and opened his mouth, then spat John’s come back into him, thick and messy, mixing with what was already on his tongue.

“Now you can swallow.”

John obeyed in one large gulp, throat working, eyes locked on Bucky’s the whole time.

Chapter 20 Chapter Text

Bucky yanked John in by the collar and crashed their mouths together. The kiss was filthy, wet, unsteady, all teeth and spit. He didn’t care. He wanted to taste them both. He wanted him ruined and breathless, too far gone to tell pain from pleasure. John groaned into him, lips parting wide.

He shifted his grip, sliding one hand down to John’s chest. The clamps were gone now, but the blood was rushing back in. The nerves raw and oversensitized. Bucky’s fingers closed over the swollen peaks, digging in, and he pinched hard. The reaction was instant. John jolted like he’d been shocked, a strangled sound tearing loose from his throat, half-groan, half-plea.

Bucky twisted cruelly, dragging the flesh between his fingers until John’s whole body shook. His bound arms flexed behind him, muscles trembling as he fought not to strain against the rope, not to disobey. His forehead pressed into Bucky’s shoulder, teeth clenched.

Bucky pulled back just slightly, letting the tension hang in the air. He slipped a finger under John’s chin and forced his head up. “Eyes on me,” he murmured. And John obeyed, glassy and desperate, lips parted for air. Bucky held the stare as his hand drifted lower, down over ribs slick with sweat, stomach jumping under his touch. He didn’t rush. Finally, he wrapped his fingers around John’s cock, a loose hold, barely there, just enough to tease. The response was immediate: John’s hips twitched helplessly, cock jerking in Bucky’s grip at the slightest attention.

Bucky's pulled away. “You feel that now, don’t you? That’s mine too.”

He yanked him by the collar again and pulled him off the bed and spun him around. One hard shove bent him down and forward, forcing on his knees, forehead sinking into the mattress edge for balance.

Perfect. Brought low again. Exactly how he wanted him.

He reached for the bag again and pulled out the candles. He set them out, first the thick white candle, then the smaller black tea candles in a neat row along the nightstand. From the drawer he pulled a lighter, flicking it open, and one by one lit them.

Then Bucky pulled out the thick wooden spoon. He twirled it once between his fingers, testing the balance, then smacked it against his palm. The sharp crack was loud. John breath caught instantly, shoulders tensing under the ropes, head snapping up before he caught himself and forced it back down.

Bucky smirked. He knows what’s coming.

He stepped behind him, looming close. Bucky let the spoon trail across him first, the smooth wood dragging over the curve of his ass, down the line of his thigh. Teasing. He wanted John to feel it, to wait for it.

Then he swung.

The crack of wood against skin was loud and sharp. John jolted with a muffled sound, cock twitching in the air between his spread thighs.

Bucky didn’t give him time to recover. The spoon came down again, harder, snapping across the other cheek. John shuddered, a strangled noise caught in his throat, rope straining.

Again.

Each strike deliberate. Not rushed, Bucky wanted every sting to sink in before the next. He wanted John to feel it bloom, nerves screaming. The pale skin turning red.

John sagged forward, forehead still pressed to the mattress, body jerking with each impact. His ass lifted instinctively, trying to take the hits even as his thighs trembled. His cock leaked steadily, twitching with every hit.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, breath rough as he swung again, spoon biting across already tender skin. He didn’t stop until John’s ass was red.

Finally, he stilled. John was panting, sweat beading down his back, muscles shaking from the strain of holding still.

Bucky pressed the flat of the spoon against one cheek, grinding it in just enough to make him flinch.

He let the spoon drop onto the bed and reached for the candles. The tall white one first, already pooling with molten wax. He lifted it, tilted it just enough, and watched the liquid bead at the edge.

The first drop fell.

Wax splattered hot against the flesh. John jerked hard, a strangled sound tearing out of him. His ass clenched reflexively, every nerve lit up.

Perfect.

He let another drop fall, then another, dragging the tilt of the candle so the wax trailed a jagged line across both cheeks.

Bucky switched to one of the smaller black tea candles, closer, hotter. He held it higher so the wax landed in smaller bursts, peppering John’s ass and thighs. Each flinch and gasp made something curl deep in his gut.

He set the candle down only when the flesh was painted in red white and black, streaked with wax like a brand.

Bucky dragged his hand over the mess, spreading it, pressing his palm into the heat. When he pulled back, his eyes dropped lower.

John was leaking.

Thick drops slid from the flushed head of his cock, trailing down his shaft and dripping onto the blanket. He hadn’t been touched in minutes, his body was betraying him, still needy and desperate.

Bucky once again reached over to the bag and grabbed the folded dish cloth and snapped it open with one hand. Soft cotton. Just what he needed.

He wrapped it tight around John’s cock and started jerking him off. The friction dragged over oversensitized flesh, pulling gasps and curses out of John’s chest as he bucked into it, bound arms straining behind him.

“Messy fucker,” Bucky muttered, grip unrelenting. “Dripping all over like you can’t help yourself.”

John’s head lifted, then dropped again against the mattress, muffled sounds spilling from his throat. His cock jerked in Bucky’s fist, hips rolling helplessly, every movement more desperate than the last.

Bucky worked him harder, cloth catching each leak, dragging it over the swollen head until John’s thighs trembled and his breath came ragged. He didn’t slow or stop, just milked him until his whole body went taut and he spilled into the cloth, shuddering hard under Bucky’s hand.

Bucky squeezed tight through the last pulsing spasm, holding him there, forcing every drop out, until John finally sagged forward, boneless and wrecked. His cock softened against Bucky’s palm, still twitching.

Bucky pulled the rag away, twisted it in his hand, warm and damp from what he’d wrung out of him. He looked at John.

“Open.”

John turned his face just enough to see him, dazed, lips parted but too wrecked to question. Bucky grabbed his jaw, pried him wider, and shoved the balled cloth between his teeth. The taste of salt and cotton hit him at once, muffling the groan that tried to break free.

Bucky pressed it deeper with two fingers, watching John’s eyes flutter. He gagged once, then stilled, breathing through his nose, shoulders heaving with the effort of staying calm.

Bucky’s hand stayed firm, moved John away from the edge of the bed and forced him down until he was bent low, chest against the floor, ass tipped high. Rope bit into his arms as he struggled for balance, knees wide, hole exposed, twitching with each ragged breath through the gag.

Bucky picked the spoon back up, twirling it again before lining it up. He let the flat edge tease, then down into the crease until the rounded tip pressed over John’s hole. John shuddered, thighs trembling, muffled noises seeping out around the gag.

Then Bucky swung.

The first smack landed sharp. John lurched forward with a strangled sound, forehead grinding into the floor, cock spent.

Bucky didn’t stop. The second blow fell harder, right across the center, the sting snapping deep enough to make John’s hips jerk back into the strike. His hole clenched, red and aching, and Bucky’s chest rumbled with approval.

The third swing came down with all his weight behind it. The spoon connected, smacked flat, then splintered with a sharp crack. The handle split in half snapping off clean.

John flinched at the sound, shoulders jerking. His head twisted, trying to look back, wondering what went wrong.

Bucky stared at the jagged edge of the spoon in his fist and he sighed, then tossed it aside without hesitation. Oh well.

He bent low behind John, hand sliding over the inside of John’s thigh, then across his soft cock. His palm dragged slow, heavy, letting the touch linger.

“Do you think you can come again?” Bucky asked, voice low.

John groaned, muffled by the rag in his mouth, and shook his head.

Bucky smiled and leaned closer, his breath hot against the back of John’s neck. “But you will… right? For me.”

John shuddered, then nodded.

“Good boy.”

Bucky straightened, pulling John’s cheeks apart with both hands. He scraped away what wax still clung to his skin, peeling it off in rough flakes. Then he spread him wider, exposing him fully, and pressed two fingers inside in one steady push.

John groaned into the gag, whole body shivering, forehead pressed to the floor.

Bucky didn’t pause. He curled his fingers upward, searching until he found what he wanted, the swollen gland buried deep inside. He pressed against it firmly, rubbing in slow, relentless circles. John jolted like a live wire, thighs trembling, bound arms flexing behind him.

Bucky worked the spot with cruel precision and short, insistent strokes, milking the prostate again and again. His other hand pressed flat to John’s lower back, pinning him down, holding him in place.

Fluid leaked from John’s cock, slick and clear, dripping uselessly onto the blanket. His hips gave soft bucks.

“See that?” Bucky rasped, voice thick with possession. “You’re already giving it to me. Don’t even need to be hard for me to take it out of you.”

John whimpered low behind the gag, his body jerking with each forced spasm as Bucky kept the rhythm steady, milking him until the mess pooled beneath him.

Bucky finally drew his fingers out, and gave John’s raw ass a hard smack with his palm.

“Good,” Bucky muttered, satisfied. “That’s mine too.”

He stood, leaving John wrung out on the floor, blew out the candles, and moved into the bathroom. The sound of the shower filled the air as he turned the water on. He poured a glass of water, then came back to John, setting it on the nightstand before crouching down.

“Let’s get you up,”

John struggled, knees unsteady, but Bucky hauled him back upright until he was sitting back on them. He reached forward, pulled the gagged cloth from his mouth, and tossed it aside. Then he went to work on the ropes, fingers deft as he loosened knot after knot until John’s arms were free.

The moment they dropped forward, John swayed. Completely rung out. Muscles shaking, eyes glassy, he could barely stay upright.

“That’s it,” Bucky murmured, steadying him with both hands. “You’re doing good. We’re almost done.”

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed and pulled John to him, setting him next to him. He grabbed the glass of water, pressing it to John’s lips until he drank. John gulped it down, every last drop.

When the glass was empty, they just sat there for a moment, breathing the same air, staring at each other.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, voice low.

John blinked at him, eyes unfocused, and then, so soft it almost caught Bucky off guard, he said, “We’re really good at this.”

That tugged a laugh out of Bucky. He leaned in and kissed him, messy and slow, and John responded immediately, wrapping his arms weakly around Bucky’s shoulders, clinging despite the exhaustion in every line of him.

Then he stood, pulling John up with him. “Come on. Up.”

John groaned, body protesting, but he followed.

“You, well.. we, need to shower.”

They walked to the bathroom, John leaning heavily into Bucky’s side. At the threshold, John moved to step inside, but Bucky caught him by the arm. His eyes flicked to the leather still snug around John’s throat.

“Hold on.”

He reached up, fingers working at the buckle. The collar was warm from John’s skin, faintly damp where sweat had gathered beneath it. Bucky slid it free, slow, careful, and set it on the counter with deliberate weight. For a moment, he just looked at John, red, trembling, and bare without it.

John just leaned into him, eyes heavy-lidded, letting himself be washed clean. His body sagged into every touch, boneless now that the rope and the collar were gone.

Bucky took his time. He soaped every line of him, his shoulders, arms, and chest, and moved with the same precision he’d used tying knots earlier, only softer. He knelt to scrub the wax from John’s thighs, rinsed away the sticky mess on his cock and stomach, and smoothed his palms over sore skin until the sting began to ebb.

When he was done, he turned John under the spray, warm water running over his face, washing away the last of the sweat and spit. Bucky reached up and brushed his wet hair back from his forehead, thumb dragging across his temple.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You did good tonight.”

John hummed low in his throat, the sound muffled and thick with exhaustion. He didn’t bother answering. He just leaned heavier into Bucky’s chest, trusting him to hold it all.

Bucky wrapped an arm around him and let him stay there, the water beating down on both of them.

When the water began to cool, Bucky turned it off and reached for a towel. He dried John carefully, blotting more than rubbing, not wanting to aggravate the fresh marks. He wrapped the towel around his shoulders and guided him back toward the bed.

John collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, too tired to do more than roll onto his side. Bucky pulled the blanket over him, then slid in behind, curling his body around John’s.

“Drink more water in the morning,” he muttered against damp skin. “And you’re eating something as soon as you wake up.”

John gave a sleepy laugh, too soft to argue. He turned his head just enough to press his lips against Bucky’s wrist before his eyes fluttered shut.

Bucky watched him until his breathing evened out, then pressed his own mouth to the back of John’s neck.

“Good boy,” he whispered one last time.

Only then did he let himself rest.

Chapter 21 Chapter Text

John woke only a few hours later, still wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

The room was silent, outside dark and would be for a few more hours, it sounded like the beginning of a storm. He gave the smallest stretch, testing his muscles. He didn’t want to disturb Bucky or risk breaking free of his hold.

From what he could tell, the soreness was already gone, his body healing too fast. He sighed quietly into the pillow. Well—there had to be a downside to the serum, and apparently this was it.

Last night had been perfect. Well…perfect once they’d stopped talking.

He didn’t want to make a list or rank his feelings.

He wanted to follow what Bucky wanted of him.

The list ruined that.

Okay, Bucky had said he wanted him to fill it out, and technically that meant following instructions. But John didn’t want to serve by jotting down answers on paper. He wanted to serve by kneeling, by taking Bucky’s cock down his throat, by bending over when Bucky told him to. Not by doing paperwork.

He let himself remember, his throat stretched, choking around Bucky’s cock, eyes watering as he looked up just to make sure he was doing it right. The way Bucky’s head had been thrown back with pleasure.

He remembered the sting of the clamps, the perfect line between sharp and unbearable, the exact right amount of too much.

And then, his forehead pressed into the floor, ass in the air, the sharp, humiliating crack of wood against his hole. His whole body jolting at every strike, every reminder that he was open, exposed, and Bucky was the one putting him there.

God.

It had been exactly how he always pictured it, or maybe how he always wished for it, long before he knew Bucky wanted the same.

That thought made him pause. What would he have done if Bucky and User_1920 weren’t the same person?

Okay… he knew the answer. He would have stayed with User, tried to build something there, and just prayed his feelings for Bucky faded eventually. Maybe they would have?

…Eh. He didn’t want to think about that. Or about how, if Bucky had never been on that site, he probably wouldn’t have wanted him at all.

Somehow, against all odds, he’d been the one Bucky had messaged and he’d do whatever it took to earn that permanent collar.

Next time he saw Ava, he’d have to ask more questions. When he’d brought it up before, she’d said it was individualized and tailored to each dynamic, but there had to be some consistencies. Something he could work toward.

He glanced toward the floor at the mess they’d left behind. The discarded cloth, wax drips, and the scattered papers.

He squinted, eyes narrowing as he tried to make out some of Bucky’s answers. The packet was half-open, somewhere around the F’s.

Fingering and Face Fucking were both checked off Duh. Even John had been able to mark yes on those.

Then his eyes landed on fisting. Bucky had marked “interested” and “giving.” John tilted his head, lips pressing together. Hmm. Maybe he needed to stock up on supplies of his own, stretching kits, lube, all of that, just to be ready. No. No, knowing Bucky, he’d want to handle that himself. Stretch him himself. Still… it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

Then his eyes caught on another line: Feminization and Fishnets. Both boxes checked. That gave him pause. Huh. His brows furrowed as he considered it, filing it away in the back of his head. Maybe that was the lie?

Further down, Fish Hooks had “need” and “giving” checked, and John frowned, trying to remember the definition correctly. He wasn’t sure he had it right. He’d have to look that up again.

Now figging, that definition he definitely remembered. Being fucked by a skinned ginger root. It was supposed to burn. Unfortunately, that was where the paper folded so he didn’t see how Bucky answered.

John shifted slightly, pressing his forehead into the pillow. He was half-hard.

He wasn’t sure which surprised him more. That he was still able to get hard after coming three times in a row, or that it had taken him this long. His body should have been wrung out and finished. But apparently not.

And apparently, he wasn’t the only one. He could feel Bucky, still asleep and breathing slow in his ear, starting to stiffen against the curve of his ass.

John exhaled. Of course.

Even in sleep, Bucky’s body wanted.

And he wanted to be what Bucky wanted.

He shifted again, slow and deliberate this time, rolling his hips back until the curve of his ass pressed against the thick line of Bucky’s cock. A small thrust, just enough to slide along his length.

He stilled, listening. Bucky’s breathing remained steady, deep and even.

So John did it again. Another grind, slower, dragging his ass from root to tip. By the time he slid back down, Bucky was harder.

John bit his lip, concentrating. He’d been counting and so far he’d come five times while Bucky had come once. He wanted to change that. He rocked back again, this time tilting his hips so the head of Bucky’s cock caught between his cheeks. The pressure made his thighs tremble.

He kept at it with lazy, unhurried strokes, back and forth, up and down, grinding against him. Until he was fully hard.

Bucky groaned low in his sleep, hips giving the faintest answering twitch.

John froze, about to push back again when the arms around him tightened. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Bucky blinking awake.

For a moment they just looked at each other.

John gave a small, sheepish smile.

Bucky’s mouth curved, lazy but warm, and he pulled him closer. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long,” John lied.

“Mmh.”

Bucky’s gaze drifted down, catching on John’s half-stiff cock tenting upward. He ignored it completely. Instead, he braced himself with one hand, dragging John flat until he was stretched on his stomach. He pulled one of John’s knees out to the side, opening him, and crawled over him.

John sighed, body loosening, cheek pressed into the pillow as he relaxed into the mattress. Bucky’s metal hand slid down, spreading his ass apart, exposing him completely.

A flesh finger circled his hole once. A pause, then the blunt push of pressure against him. That wasn’t a finger.

He opened for Bucky, breath stuttering as the stretch forced its way past any resistance. Inch by inch, Bucky sank deeper until John felt the weight of him bottom out, pubic hair brushing against his ass.

John gave a slight squeeze around him and earned a soft smack between his shoulder blades in response.

“No,” Bucky growled, voice rough against his ear. “You’re not going to do anything. Just lay there.”

Ah. So that was what this was. Bucky wanted a hole to fuck.

Got it.

John could be a hole.

He exhaled into the pillow, body going slack beneath the weight pinning him down. His role was simple, letting Bucky use him however he wanted.

Bucky shifted behind him, withdrawing just a little, then pushing back in. Again. And again. And again. Each thrust was a bit longer, pulling back a fraction more before sinking all the way home.

It wasn’t a fast fuck. But the type of lazy morning fuck that starts the day.

John’s own cock was forgotten, pinned against the sheets. Each rock of Bucky’s hips ground him into the mattress, but never enough to give any sort of relief. That was fine. A hole doesn’t have needs. A hole gets filled and used.

Bucky’s breathing grew heavier above him. The metal hand locked on his hip kept him steady and still. Every so often, the rhythm faltered, one thrust catching just right, dragging a sound from Bucky’s chest, a reminder that John’s body was hitting the marks Bucky wanted.

Then the pace turned messy, jerky, and urgent. John knew the signs.

A few more rough strokes, then one brutal drive all the way in, and Bucky groaned as he came, cock pulsing, spilling deep inside.

John sighed contently into the mattress and he felt the heavy spurts filling him.

Above him, Bucky’s breathing came rough and uneven. Then, finally, he dragged in a steadier breath, bracing himself as he pulled back out. John felt the cold air sting his used asshole.

Bucky collapsed onto the bed with a heavy exhale, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “You were right,” he murmured, voice still ragged. “We are good at this.”

John snorted into the pillow, too spent to argue.

Bucky turned his head toward him. “Do you want to get breakfast, or wait here and have me grab it?”

John started to push himself upright. “I’ll do it.” He clenched as he began to feel himself leaking.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on him for a beat, his dripping ass and untouched cock. Then he gave a small nod. “Okay. I’ll clean this mess up.”

“And grab a pair of my sweats,” Bucky said, nodding toward the dresser. “The clothes you were wearing were too tight.”

John nodded and opened a drawer, pulling out a pair of worn running sweats.

After he was dressed enough, John headed toward the kitchen.

Which, apparently, already had people in it at five in morning.

Ava was perched on one of the bar stools, holding—was that a pair of tongs? Across from her, a redhead John half-recognized moved around the stove, flipping a pancake.

Ashley, he thought her name was. One of the girls they’d freed a few days ago. She’d been one of the more willing to leave. The scars across her arms and back said plenty. Mid-twenties, maybe.

Well. That killed the mood. He definitely wasn’t hard anymore.

Ava turned to him and didn’t even acknowledge how he must have looked.

Ashley also turned and looked at him. She must have had thoughts but didn’t express them.

“John,” Ava said, breaking the silence with her usual flat calm. “You remember Ashley?”

He gave a small nod in greeting.

“Ashley, this is John—Walker.” Ava’s mouth quirked, a razor-thin smile. “I’d say he cleans up better, but not by much.”

That earned the faintest twitch of Ashley’s lips before she turned back to the stove.

“Would you like a pancake too, sir?” she asked politely.

“Ah!” Ava snapped the tongs in Ashley’s direction, just to get her attention, not scare her. “No. You can call me ma’am. He’s just Walker.”

Ashley blinked, then nodded quickly. "Sorry, Ma'am."

“Finish up that pancake and eat in my room,” Ava continued, tone brooking no argument. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Ashley switched off the burner, slid the last pancake onto a plate, and carried the stack out without another word.

The room fell quiet again, save for the faint scrape of Ava setting the tongs on the counter.

John turned to her. “You aren’t really about to get into a relationship with someone who just got out of what she did?”

Ava shot him a look, insulted. “No. I’m not. Like you, she needs education. And unlike you, she needs it even more before going off on her own. I’m not touching her. But I’m not going to let anyone else touch her either. Not until she learns self-worth and how to say no.”

John frowned, still leaning on the counter. “And ‘ma’am’? Why the honorific?”

“She’s used to it,” Ava said with a small shrug. “She’s under my wing, and only my wing, for the foreseeable future.”

John hummed and turned his attention to the kitchen. He sliced up some fruit; an apple, orange, and a handful of berries. And he double checked, they didn’t have ginger root. Ah well. He grabbed a pan and cracked a few eggs.

Ava was getting ready to head back to Ahsley when her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket.

Bucky.

An image filled the screen. The spoon he’d bought yesterday, snapped in half.

Bucky: I need something stronger.

Instead of replying, Ava shifted in her seat, angled the phone discreetly, and snapped a picture of John’s backside as he moved around the kitchen.

She hit send.

Ava: Your boy is dripping.

A pause. Then the three dots appeared, blinking.

Bucky: Maybe I wanted him that way.

Ava smirked but didn’t respond. Instead, she sent him a link to a page full of plugs. He’d find the crops eventually.

John made his way back to Bucky’s room, balancing the plate in one hand.

The mess was gone. The sheets changed and the bed made. Then he noticed it. The low hum of the TV along with the rain outside.

The screen showed the opening of Raiders of the Lost Ark. His chest tightened.

It was their perfect day. The one they’d joked about months ago, in texts. Only it was morning, not night, and breakfast, not takeout. But there was rain outside and movie inside. Just the two of them.

He looked up and caught Bucky’s eye. His eyes held steady. Then the corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched, just slightly, like he’d been waiting for John to notice.

John swallowed, smiled, and joined Bucky's side as the movie began to play.

Chapter 22 Chapter Text

I want to give an update for the people still following this. First: There IS a new chapter, it's just in part 2!

OK, I hope you're less mad at me now.

I know I hate it when I think there is a new chapter and it's just a note. I've made chapter 21 the end of this story. It morphed from plot with kink into just pure smut. Which I still like but that is a different story. Part 2 this is more 'I want you to want me' adjacent where they are just matching each others freak.

Thank you everyone who left comments and encouragement. I screen shot all the comments I lost by deleted those two chapters. I cherish every one!

Series this work belongs to:

Part 1 of I want you to want me

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Crossover_Critter on Chapter 1 Fri 20 Jun 2025 11:50PM UTC

There has to be more to this…right? 😊

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Fri 20 Jun 2025 11:56PM UTC
  
  Oof, thanks! I forgot to hit the multi-chapter box. Not the first time I did that. Thanks!
  
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2. 1. Crossover_Critter on Chapter 1 Sat 21 Jun 2025 12:01AM UTC
    
    Yay -- glad to hear it! You're welcome!
    
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edsketchbook on Chapter 1 Sat 21 Jun 2025 12:06AM UTC

IM SO HYPE I VOTED FOR THISSS
For some reason I love relentlessly friendly John as much as I love really withdrawn John. My awkward king desperate for human connection and love 🫂
Can't wait to see their interactions. I'm a sucker for this particular trope I'm so excited and ur such an awesome writer to pick up this tropeee!! Wonderful

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Sun 22 Jun 2025 06:57PM UTC
  
  Thank you! One thing I realized about writing John is his personality changes so much from the beginning of FATWS to the middle of that show to the end. And when we get to Thunderbolts, same thing. He's different in the beginning of the movie than in the post credit scene. The post credit John is the one I'm trying to capture here. Honestly the hardest part is when I'm writing the messages from John, it very much sounds like him. I'm telling myself that if John isn't in the room then Bucky just doesn't think about him 😭which is why he doesn't figure it out.
  
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Gae_of_many_fandoms on Chapter 1 Sat 21 Jun 2025 12:12AM UTC

I’ve literally been thinking about John calling Bucky “sarge” all week, its like you read my mind! Speaking of reading minds, i love how Sam knows exactly what Bucky needs, its so sweet :) excited to see what happens next

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Sun 22 Jun 2025 06:59PM UTC
  
  haha, great minds! I'm debating on letting it stay a thing between them or have bucky tell John off that 'Sargent' was what hydra called him. Probably not tho because then John might start using Congressman and that doesn't have the same fun ring to it.
  Yeah, therapist Sam was coming out in this.
  
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kawusia25 on Chapter 1 Sat 21 Jun 2025 05:27AM UTC

I like that Sam isn't allowing Bucky to stew in his bullshit and the banter between John and Bucky. Very good start, I'm quite intrigued by the concept. Can't wait for more 💜

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:02PM UTC
  
  Sam was using his full therapist knowledge in this! Yeah, John is like an annoying a middle aged dog that doesn't realize it's rude to stick their nose in someone's crotch in get a head pat.
  
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The_Mad_Fangirl on Chapter 1 Sat 21 Jun 2025 09:49AM UTC

Holy crap the way you write banter! I'm all in, that's it.

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:04PM UTC
  
  Thank you!
  
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thoseyesthatmouth on Chapter 1 Sat 21 Jun 2025 10:07AM UTC

absolutely love the way you write anf characterise sam! and overly friend john is so freshing, cant wait to read more! :>

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:16PM UTC
  
  Thank you! Sam's always a good friend. And John had so many different sides to him that someone can focus on any of them and still have him be in character.
  
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inheavenlygrass on Chapter 1 Sun 22 Jun 2025 05:38AM UTC

Ooh! I am intrigued! I can't wait to see what happens!

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:17PM UTC
  
  Thanks!
  
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galafanxy on Chapter 1 Mon 23 Jun 2025 07:28AM UTC

The tags!!! I'm so excited.
lol John following Bucky like a puppy so excited to see him back. He even asked to tag along next time? Gosh, get him a leash already. No wonder Bucky is so annoyed by him :)

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Mon 23 Jun 2025 11:31PM UTC
  
  That could be hot ;)
  
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monarchgirl on Chapter 1 Tue 24 Jun 2025 01:58AM UTC

This is so good!! 💚
The dialog between sam and bucky made me giggle out loud! You got their dynamic so right!

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heyMissyYouSoFine on Chapter 1 Sun 06 Jul 2025 06:58AM UTC

Omg John wants to be liked so badly, it hurts my soul he's just so babygirl 😫.

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Tue 29 Jul 2025 10:47PM UTC
  
  Yep, and he's so cringy at it. 😫
  
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pucklucky on Chapter 1 Tue 08 Jul 2025 03:10AM UTC

just starting this, LOVING how you write dialogue. soo good 🫶

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EiriTheBear on Chapter 1 Sat 18 Oct 2025 05:40AM UTC

Hello! I just wanted to drop by and say I love this so much and it makes me feel giddy. John's trying so so so hard that it's heartbreaking to watch. I'm already ahead a few chapters, I downloaded the fic onto my phone because my internet's down. I would leave more comments in eaxh chapter if that weren't the case, so sorry in advance. Love your writing. Excited to see where this goes.

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Sun 19 Oct 2025 04:21AM UTC
  
  Thank you! I hope you liked the rest of it! It's very smut heavy at the end. ;)
  
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bangchansrose on Chapter 1 Wed 22 Oct 2025 08:50PM UTC

This is beautifully written! Can’t wait to read more!!

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 1 Wed 05 Nov 2025 11:44PM UTC
  
  I hope you liked it!
  
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AgentDogCops on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 04:41PM UTC

I am hooked on this 200%

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:17PM UTC
  
  Yay! Thanks!
  
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kawusia25 on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 05:38PM UTC

Wow, that was quite detailed. You probably did an extensive research on the topic (much appreciated). Im curious what Bucky will get in the response and how will it affect him in his daily life. Greate chapter, can't wait for more 💜

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 06:49PM UTC
  
  "You probably did an extensive research " Um, ........ well................................ Let's just say my 'research' was done years prior. And yeah, I fully acknowledge that that was a very long survey (I nearly made a note at the end saying I realized that) If fact in one of my drafts I wrote Bucky's actual profile. I might do a John POV but I realized that a lot of my stories are heavy on that and I wanted to do a Bucky POV. If I can get the tone right I might even do a Bucky's therapist POV. I HC both him and John have the same therapist and I'm sure John spends his time going on about Bucky.
  Thanks for the comments, I always appreciate hearing your thoughts!
  
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slappythedummy on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 06:42PM UTC

I am so excited to see where this goes!! I can tell you put a lot of thought into writing this!!

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:21PM UTC
  
  Thank you! My initial plans for this story were very different. In one version I had them meeting in person for the big reveal in the first chapter. One thing I've notice about myself in You got Mail AUs is after they discover each other and are ok with it I lose interest in the story. I wanted to find a way to keep it interesting and have an actual reason they would be anonymous (because that is not how dating websites work).
  
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depresseddipshit on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 11:40PM UTC

God I really love this. I’m so excited for this dynamic I really love these two.

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 11:29PM UTC
  
  Thank you!
  
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BetaArtemis on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 10:13AM UTC

“It didn’t read like fantasy. It read like someone who’d been going without it for too long.”
Oh Bucky if only you knew the man is right with you everyday and you’re just not seeing him yet through all his pretending 🥲 I eagerly await the lightbulb moment haha 😆

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 11:30PM UTC
  
  I have a few ideas for the lightbulb moment :)
  
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QueenFroggy on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 11:23AM UTC

I'm so invested!! Can't wait for the next chapter!! Love it!

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 11:31PM UTC
  
  Thank you!
  
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Jess_Oh_My on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 12:01PM UTC

I rarely comment on fics but oh my god this is so good already. I love this prompt/trope style, I love the gravity and complexity building up - if even so subtly. I love your take on what both Bucky and John want and more so need in a dynamic. I love the formatting as well. I cannot wait to read more of this absolute masterpiece!<3

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1. gingerdoe on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 11:35PM UTC
  
  I'm glad you think so! I always loved the you got mail AUs. Yeah, I was't sure how to decribe into their dynamic at first. Originally Bucky was the confident Dom and John was a sub who was flighting it and it just wasn't working. Thank you for much for commenting!
  
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