Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CW: Discussions of Bucky's past, discussions of rape (human trafficking, pedophilia), discussions of violence and assault, discussions of murder, oral sex, degradation kink, Bucky's sergeant kink, breeding kink, spit kink.
Please remember to comment on fic chapters! It means the world to fanfic authors who do this for free.
SLOANE
Jack's dead.
Dead.
The word keeps ringing in my head like an alarm I can't turn off.
Can't find the source of.
The only thing I can think is that someone's been watching me, waiting to strike.
I hated that motherfucker, but dead?
He has a wife and a child. What are they going to do?
"Sloane," Bucky murmurs, still holding my face with both hands. "You haven't breathed for about thirty seconds."
I suck in a deep breath, eyes widening as I come back down to earth. Bucky presses his lips against mine, the action calming me instantly.
"I'll make some coffee," he murmurs.
"I do that."
"You sit."
"The machine's finicky," I whisper.
It doesn't, I just need a distraction. Bucky flashes me a gentle smile.
"Then teach me, doll."
Where did this man come from? One minute, he's barely saying two words to me, the next he's fucking me like an animal, and then he wants to take care of me? I'm not used to this. Jack would have left me on my own. Most men leave me on my own. They don't want to deal with the mess that is... well, me. I hide the baggage, the panic attacks, the constant overthinking. I hide the fact that I have a go bag stashed in this house in case shit goes down.
I have an emergency number to call for someone to take care of the horses and then once I'm safe, I'll move them to another farm.
My whole life has been an exit strategy.
I've been ready to run at the drop of a hat for years. There's no such thing as getting comfortable. It doesn't have a place here. It's why I'm a writer, I can do it from anywhere.
Bucky walks me over to the counter and watches me place the filter in the machine and wash the stained pot out in the sink. He grabs the coffee and I tell him how many scoops to put in the grinder. When he pushes the big red button on it, the sound feels like it's clearing out the chaos in my head.
I tell him when to stop and he gingerly pours the freshly ground beans into the filter before I fill it with water. I love the ritual of making coffee in the morning. There's something so meditative about it. I used to own one of those Keurigs, but it took out all the things I loved to do. So, it's sitting in the basement now.
