within the grey area
Let it be common knowledge that Bucky Barnes has seen you in every situation imaginable. Every situation.
Dressed to the nines at a charity gala – a gala which was promptly cut short when one of the main benefactors was found dead on the balcony. Half-naked and covered in blood after slitting the throat of an arms dealer in Monte Carlo. Wearing a wedding dress and a bright blue wig on the tube in London, lipstick smeared to your chin. (That was his doing, mostly.)
But this? Oh, this takes the cake in the tea party that is your love-hate relationship.
Chained to the table of interrogation room one, all diamonds and glitter and narrowed eyes. A champagne slip dress hangs off of you, one stiletto on your right foot and the other foot bare. Your hair is halfway between a ponytail and a bun, frizzy in some areas and hanging limp in others, and–
You’ve been glaring at him for the past ten minutes. Bucky can’t help it. He starts to chuckle.
You grow even more acidic, if possible. Leaning back in your chair – though not far, the handcuffs allow only a certain amount of movement. “You think you’re funny?”
“C’mon,” the centurion says, stretching out his words. He holds his hands out, shrugging. “We both know we were gonna end up like this sooner or later, doll.”
“Sooner or later,” you mock. “Would’ve come sooner if you weren’t adamant on fucking me every chance you got.”
Ah, yes. And there’s that. See, the whole every situation thing came with a little more lore than he had let on. The charity gala had been preceded by a tryst in an out of the way janitor’s closet. The murder of the arms dealer – well, there was a reason you were half-naked. The wedding dress had been rucked up around your waist, that other time.
“Do your friends know about that?” You jut your chin towards the mirror to your left, lips suddenly pulling into a taut, mocking smirk. There’s nobody behind that mirror – you don’t know that, though. “Hm? Do they know you like fucking me, Bucky? That you like pulling up my skirts and pushing my panties aside and–”
“Don’t be fucking rude,” he interrupts, slowly leaning forward. Your eyes trail over the lock of hair that sweeps forwards as a result, lips pursing in annoyance, before you find yourself staring straight at him again. And he holds your stubborn gaze like that for a few seconds, as stubborn and resolute as your are, but he’s unable to stop himself from stealing a glance at the swollen flesh of your lips. “Looks like you’re forgetting your manners.”
Your hard-set features crumble at that.
“Seriously?” You hiss, almost in disbelief, and in the back of his mind Bucky thinks that maybe he should be worried that a criminal can read him so well. Maybe. “Here, Bucky? You want to fuck here?”
What can he say. He’s always had a thing for the mean ones.